I was sitting near the back of the packed auditorium, when a young man in an aisle seat just a few rows in front of me was handed a guitar. He stood up and started to sing and play this song:
Work away today, work away tomorrow.
Never comes the day for my love and me.
I feel her gently sighing as the evening slips away.
If only you knew what’s inside of me now
You wouldn’t want to know me somehow,
But you will love me tonight,
We alone will be alright,
In the end.
Give just a little bit more
Take a little bit less
From each other tonight
Admit what you’re feeling
And see what’s in front of you,
It’s never out of your sight.
You know it’s true,
We all know that it’s true.
He was one of The Moody Blues — I couldn’t recall his name but his voice was as beautiful and stirring as ever. During the chorus, the audience (and I) swayed in our seats to its distinctive joyous canter — the feeling was magic and mesmerizing.
When the song ended, the singer walked back to me and said that I was sitting in his seat! I was surprised, but I thought quickly, and told him he could have his seat back if he sang another song. He said all right, and he turned back to the audience and began playing and singing again.
It was soon evident that the second song didn’t have the same magic as the first, and the thought entered my mind that maybe I should have given him back his seat.
• • • •
That’s when I woke up. It was about 2:30 am. I felt wonderful, and I immediately wanted to hear the song again, conscious this time. This is the first link I saw when I opened my laptop and searched for moody blues you know it’s true… (I’ll wait while you watch.)
I had never seen The Moody Blues in concert (or in videos for that matter), but this October 2008 performance of Never Comes the Day, by Justin Hayward at the Royal Albert Hall in London, was incredibly similar in sight, sound and feel to what I had just “witnessed” in my dream.
So now I have two questions. First, why did my brain play that song last night? I bet I haven’t heard the song in 10 years, if not 20, and it has been many months since I recall thinking anything at all about The Moody Blues.
That said, I did hear Lucky Man by Emerson, Lake and Palmer (1970) in a sports bar on Monday, and then Conquistador by Procol Harum (1972) in a waiting room on Tuesday. Maybe these songs served as synaptic triggers for Never Comes the Day (1969).
But my second and more pressing question is — why can’t all dreams be like this?
For my money, dreams process recent brain input and long-time concerns floating close to the surface. I think brain connections have a lot to do with it. Sometimes when I’m walking I’ll see something on the road in the distance and my brain will say, “Dead squirrel,” when it turns out to be a leafy stick. Or if I hear a song, my brain may go somewhere else by the feel of the music or by a key word–as an exercise, pick a word like “blue” or “crazy” and try to think of all the songs you’ve ever heard with that word in it and try to figure out how your brain has it all filed. And I too wish all dreams could be good ones.
Hey buddy – I got to see him in Nov. 2014 at The Concert Hall on W 64th St in NYC when I went to visit my sis – we took the train down there and she’d treated me to the tix in that intimate venue. His voice and playing were superb, and also transported me back to “those days” long ago . . . I’m thinkin’ that tunes from that era simply have deep resonance and long-term imprints on all of us as we were “growing up”?