02/29/2016 02:56 pm ET Updated Feb 28, 2017

Music Medicine

Just as with life itself sometimes town doesn't deliver what you're looking for. Sometimes it delivers what you need. A bat to the gut, something hard enough to shatter your soul cowering in the solar plexus. Down in the recesses where the butterflies flit and inflame the inner lining of your feelings.

Have you ever been in a cloud of joy, in the thrall, deep in the moment and while you flexed in the comforts of love, tears might have tumbled down your face, for no discernible reason?

Take a step back, pan out and see the good fortune to be alive at all.

At a bar last night a man danced leaning on the arms of his lady companion over whom he towered. They held each other by the wrists. It was a while before I noticed from his knees to his sneakers he was operating on prosthetics. He boogied for several dances. It was impossible not to be impressed by his determination and indomitability. He smiled while he danced.

In the very late of nights I've been dragging up and back along nutty Duval Street pausing by the open bars listening, prowling. I've heard a lot of magic. As much mediocrity. But so many moments of blissful inspiration. Where musicians have hit their grooves, meshing with each other after enough shots have relaxed their inhibitions. This freedom of their talents is seldom if ever captured in recording sessions, so to buy the CD is often a let down. If you want to get drunk on that energy you have to do your part, you have to contribute to the extent that you have to show up and plug into that visceral tangible live wire of passion. It's simple, if you want the reward you must get off the sofa.

The trick is to give in. To go with it. Let the power of electricity overwhelm you, cleanse you, ground you. Let go and play.