J. Bloom - Musician
All at once, I gave up music.
I have idolized my dad’s Bon Jovi-esque, rockstar look for as long as I can remember. I wept like a whelp when I was six, and the spotlit singing part in the church play went to my older brother instead of me. When I was nine, my favorite pastime was picking up the Fender bass my dad had given me, putting The Beatles on the boombox, and singing along, trying to imitate Paul and John, while my fingers pretended they knew what they were doing on the strings.
I sang in choirs for over ten years, competed in several solo and ensemble singing events, starred in a few stage musicals, did so many open mics and paid singer-songwriter gigs, had a couple bands, made an original record with one of those bands, made a couple original solo records, and just as I was beginning to really hone in on what kind of artist I wanted to be…
…I gave up music. I gave it all up when someone who had said they loved me, also said that I had to give it all up or else lose them. I chose them, and I wish I hadn’t.
In the terrifying times, alone in county jail, when my hallucinations were constantly angered and louder than anything you could imagine, I would sing. When I’d sing, it was like my halloos temporarily set aside their grief and rage, and just listened to me. If I talked to them to try to find reason, they would berate me, and eventually drown me out. But when I would sing, they would still, at least for awhile. I’d sing anything I could remember. Christian songs. The Beatles. Brandon Flowers. But in the intensity of those moments, my mind had a great deal of difficulty recalling lyrics and melodies. Often, I was forced to aimlessly hum notes in an arbitrary key. But it didn’t matter, just as long as I produced music, I had some peace.
And it was during those months that I discovered my sound. Truly unraveled what kind of musical artist I am. And it is nothing like how I had originally imagined.
While in county, I composed four songs. Having never bothered in my life to learn how to properly score music, memorization had to be employed. It’s like I could actually hear every instrument, each harmony, and I would play them over and over in my mind, all the while dreaming of a life where I had never harmed anyone, and where I could perform my music for everyone.
Back then, I had no idea how things would unfold.
Back then, I wholly believed that my songs would forever remain only in my head.
Back then, I never envisioned I would be sent to the only prison in the nation that has an incentivized music program that not only allows me to play instruments in my cell, but that also gives me the means to record and mix together truly remarkable, full-band demos, where I, myself, get to play each instrument, and sing each part, exactly as I had been hearing them in my mind for years. (And IF the facility’s administration will ever follow through on their word to approve a policy granting us the ability to send our recording projects home to our peoples, then these are even tracks I am proud to show to a producer.)
As of this post, I have written more than 40 original songs, and have recorded and mixed 16 of them. While I maintain the habit of composing them in my head, I am no longer resigning myself to keeping them there. Now, I am even allowing myself to hope for a future where these very songs bring the same peace to folks around the whole world that they bring to my fucked-up brain each day, and, where the truths I have learned, translated into music, inspire and encourage others toward healing of their souls and growth of their selves.
(Of course, before that future can come to pass, y’all need to be able to actually HEAR the damn tunes.)
All at once, I gave up music.
I have idolized my dad’s Bon Jovi-esque, rockstar look for as long as I can remember. I wept like a whelp when I was six, and the spotlit singing part in the church play went to my older brother instead of me. When I was nine, my favorite pastime was picking up the Fender bass my dad had given me, putting The Beatles on the boombox, and singing along, trying to imitate Paul and John, while my fingers pretended they knew what they were doing on the strings.
I sang in choirs for over ten years, competed in several solo and ensemble singing events, starred in a few stage musicals, did so many open mics and paid singer-songwriter gigs, had a couple bands, made an original record with one of those bands, made a couple original solo records, and just as I was beginning to really hone in on what kind of artist I wanted to be…
…I gave up music. I gave it all up when someone who had said they loved me, also said that I had to give it all up or else lose them. I chose them, and I wish I hadn’t.
In the terrifying times, alone in county jail, when my hallucinations were constantly angered and louder than anything you could imagine, I would sing. When I’d sing, it was like my halloos temporarily set aside their grief and rage, and just listened to me. If I talked to them to try to find reason, they would berate me, and eventually drown me out. But when I would sing, they would still, at least for awhile. I’d sing anything I could remember. Christian songs. The Beatles. Brandon Flowers. But in the intensity of those moments, my mind had a great deal of difficulty recalling lyrics and melodies. Often, I was forced to aimlessly hum notes in an arbitrary key. But it didn’t matter, just as long as I produced music, I had some peace.
And it was during those months that I discovered my sound. Truly unraveled what kind of musical artist I am. And it is nothing like how I had originally imagined.
While in county, I composed four songs. Having never bothered in my life to learn how to properly score music, memorization had to be employed. It’s like I could actually hear every instrument, each harmony, and I would play them over and over in my mind, all the while dreaming of a life where I had never harmed anyone, and where I could perform my music for everyone.
Back then, I had no idea how things would unfold.
Back then, I wholly believed that my songs would forever remain only in my head.
Back then, I never envisioned I would be sent to the only prison in the nation that has an incentivized music program that not only allows me to play instruments in my cell, but that also gives me the means to record and mix together truly remarkable, full-band demos, where I, myself, get to play each instrument, and sing each part, exactly as I had been hearing them in my mind for years. (And IF the facility’s administration will ever follow through on their word to approve a policy granting us the ability to send our recording projects home to our peoples, then these are even tracks I am proud to show to a producer.)
As of this post, I have written more than 40 original songs, and have recorded and mixed 16 of them. While I maintain the habit of composing them in my head, I am no longer resigning myself to keeping them there. Now, I am even allowing myself to hope for a future where these very songs bring the same peace to folks around the whole world that they bring to my fucked-up brain each day, and, where the truths I have learned, translated into music, inspire and encourage others toward healing of their souls and growth of their selves.
(Of course, before that future can come to pass, y’all need to be able to actually HEAR the damn tunes.)
coming soon.
poetry by j. bloom
being a friend posts by sabrina justison
...and maybe more!
for J, on his 27th birthday
by Sabrina Justison
March 25, 2021
When I look at you,
I see a man
in sneakers, mask, and greens,
the eyes still twinkle, laughing,
the smile is hidden.
When I look at you,
I see a man
whose name is on his cheek,
a name that he has chosen,
identity claimed.
When I talk to you,
I hear a man
well-spoken, funny, smart,
a slight delay on phone lines
slows conversation.
When I talk to you,
I hear a man
with questions unanswered,
about the things that matter,
hard, profound, and true.
When I visit you,
I find a man
in an institution,
nonetheless fully unique,
offering himself.
When I visit you,
I find a man
who has what no one can,
limitless within restraint,
oozing potential.
When my view is blocked,
my call cut off,
my visit cancelled,
still I am with you,
my soul inspired,
my love expanded.
by Sabrina Justison
March 25, 2021
When I look at you,
I see a man
in sneakers, mask, and greens,
the eyes still twinkle, laughing,
the smile is hidden.
When I look at you,
I see a man
whose name is on his cheek,
a name that he has chosen,
identity claimed.
When I talk to you,
I hear a man
well-spoken, funny, smart,
a slight delay on phone lines
slows conversation.
When I talk to you,
I hear a man
with questions unanswered,
about the things that matter,
hard, profound, and true.
When I visit you,
I find a man
in an institution,
nonetheless fully unique,
offering himself.
When I visit you,
I find a man
who has what no one can,
limitless within restraint,
oozing potential.
When my view is blocked,
my call cut off,
my visit cancelled,
still I am with you,
my soul inspired,
my love expanded.
Self portrait - J. Bloom March 2021
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