I’ve watched this video so many times after I felt like it was done. I’ve shown it to a couple of friends who were bored enough, family members who were curious enough. I watched them watch this Session. They all crane their heads left and right, scratch their chins, echo their yawns at the dark and empty rooms I set up for them before the video starts. But then, it’s usually quiet. Their eyes turn still and serene as they watch the image of Colin Caufield bob his black head up and down to the sound of his guitar.
There was nothing to this moment. Even though this Session has been in negotiation between Colin and I for months. He loaned me an hour of his time away from traveling and final exams after a long string of emails stretching back to the summer when I was last in town to see Anna Vogelzang. But I’m glad it did.
I could not have picked a better set of circumstances to fit the music that is Young Man than that day. It was in the middle of a Chicago snowstorm. I passed Lake Michigan on the way to Colin’s apartment. The waves were tall and swallowed up much of the shore. They made new shores. Like Young Man’s songs that were tall and heavy with emotion. They danced and swam in the air of Colin’s room and swallowed me up along with everything. The storm was pecking on his windows. He played along.
I have never felt like I made a more complete image of someone’s music than this little shard of Colin Caufield. His room was filled with pictures of art. Crumpled newspapers and and photographs and a long board with a picture of the Little Miss Sunshine movie on it. He was the only soul stirring. Like a real boy living in a photograph. And so his audience is like so. Even the audience of this video. We all stare and listen so peacefully at his raging, cresting voice and the loud twangs of his guitar like would we would watch waves on Lake Michigan so calmly, so placidly even though we were in the midst of a storm.