Poem: Ry Cooder Making Music In His Own World

A poem of appreciation for Ry Cooder.

I was probably 9 or 10, which is wild really, but I just loved Ry Cooder.
Hard to know how I found out about him, or what I knew, but I seem

to recall it being that beaut instrumental, I Think It’s Going To Work
Out Fine. It seemed to always be on the radio. My mum and dad didn’t

play his music, but they liked it when they heard it. A few years on and
the movie Crossroads is my world, so I buy the soundtrack to just keep

the film alive in my mind. And it’s a Ry Cooder score. So that opens a
whole can of worms, and I buy more of his soundtracks, and start finding

the albums he made in the 70s. He’s always near the top of the list of
greatest guitarists. (And he should probably always be higher on the lists).

I keep listening to him, all through high school, uni too. I get to see him
in concert, and sure, it’s pretty good. But a bigger thrill is speaking

to him on the phone. It’s a formal interview situation, and I’m just
super nervous. But it goes well. Really fucking well. It’s as good as it gets

with that sort of thing. I listen to his music now and then these days,
I guess I carry a lot of it in my head and in my heart. So a quick reminder

is all that’s needed. But when I play the albums I’m nine and ten all over
again. How did it find that authenticity every single time? It’s a magic trick.

A studied, perfect magic trick. Not quite smoke and mirrors though, it’s
so very close to the actual thing. Which is always what makes the best magic.