David Bromberg
My Own House

THE REVIEW

Because I don't know about you, maybe you're lucky enough not to be my age, not to have wasted your life listening to a bit of everything, and trying (often in vain) to understand. But everything, absolutely everything, even Latin rap, which I can't stand, and which haunts me, and which I can't avoid listening to.

A few days ago, I was thinking of writing a piece about agnitio. You know, those things from a saga novel, those things like the medallion you wear around your neck reminds me of the one my mom gave me years ago, before I was sent to an orphanage, those kinds of things. A simple piece, maybe talking a bit about Season of the Witch, Susy's Piano Bar, things like that.

But not today. Today there's something else. There's a memory, my personal agnitio. Of myself, many years ago.

Many years ago, around 1977, an exceptional and unrecognized blues guitarist, named David Bromberg, came out with an album, an album that marked my adolescence. That album is called My Own House.

Now, you don't need a degree to understand it. My Own House means Casa Mia. Casa Mia, which doesn't mean Non Casa Tua. But which means This Is Me. If it's enough for you, if you like it. If you care. No tricks, no deceptions, nothing. Casa Mia. That's all.

And I know - I always have - that there are things that are planted in your head, especially if you've wasted your life listening to things, listening to a bit of everything, and trying (often in vain) to understand. Things you don't even remember, you couldn't even name a note, you don't even remember the name.

And yet, as soon as they pop up, by chance, they greet you, and they say: 'Hi, we're here. It's you. Where the hell else did you imagine yourself to be all this time?'

So, David Bromberg, To Know Her Is To Love Her.

My Own House.