This post is about a piece of music that swam through my soul this morning and has yet to emerge for air. I’ve played Bill Withers’ masterpiece, “I Can’t Write Left-Handed” hundreds of times, but this is the first time I’ve discussed it publicly.

Over the course of the last eight months, y’all have become like family to me. As such, when I’m annoyed about something like apple stickers or smoke detectors (standby for that post), I feel like I can come vent to you. On that note (see what I did there?), I know I can also gush randomly in your direction. Because music is as much of a part of my lifestyle as weightlifting or nutrition, I’ll occasionally bring it to our (my and your) dinner table.

Allow me to lay down the linens and fine china.

This is the version of the track that we’ll be discussing. It’s from a live performance at Carnegie Hall in 1973. Of course it is.

If you’re unfamiliar with this song, it’s about a man shot in the shoulder while at war and how his life subsequently changes forever. The man is rendered unable to write down his thoughts and begs for help.

When the haunting piano arrives, I can feel it on my skin. Withers begin to muse about the Vietnam War and the men and women who fought against their will, and I see my pacifist parents in my mind’s eye.

Let me be clear, I fall somewhere on the spectrum between Gandhi and Malcolm X. There is a breaking point for all when it comes to political beliefs and fighting oppression.

Bill Withers’ stance, however, was articulated in a way only an artist can express. He used this track to move us. I’m still in motion.

The hymn of the background singers is soul scraping. How could the mood of the music vibrate with the energy of torn flesh and a sunny warm Saturday morning simultaneously?

This is but one reason why music is so powerful. The lyrics can rip your guts out, and the voices and instruments can be so angelic, so celestial, that we feel two opposite emotions at once.

My pianist (remember the first few notes of the track?) father proudly displayed a “War is not the Answer” bumper sticker on his Japanese beater when I was a boy. Withers’ lyrics represent dad’s moral positioning on the topic.

I can’t write left handed. Would you please write a letter, write a letter to my mother?

I’ll remind you that this isn’t a lyrical breakdown. It’s about a moment today, during my drive to the studio, where I was hit with wave of “wow”. All of us experience these periods from time to time. If we are with a loved one, we grab that person’s hand (or at the very least their ear), and we share our moment with them. We tell them what the moment makes us fantasize about and where we are transported. We begin philosophical discussions. “What does Bill mean by that? What would you do if your son or your daughter was drafted and had to get on an airplane to head to Southeast Asia next week?”

When we are alone and touched, we find a more theoretical ear. You are my outlet today. Bill Withers struck a powerful chord, and I was compelled to ooze about it. Thank you.

Kap