This is Not a Photograph

[janradder]

Whenever I hear Mission of Burma I see black and white photographs.  The blacks are dark, rich, almost overpowering as they fill most of the image.  Shadows abound over everything, in corners, in foregrounds, in backgrounds.  And as powerful and all encompassing as the blacks are, the whites come blazing through in brilliant white bursts of noise, making the photographs appear as if parts are overexposed, they bleed through into those deep rich hues of darkness, blotting it out, shining through.  Rarely, probably never do I see colors. If I do, they are cold icy blues, barely visible to the eye.  A Burma song is an image of a cold, dark basement, where a small group of individuals cram together, guitars, drums and amps, fighting off the New England chill around them, dust motes in the air captured in the light of each note and cord, the drums and bass providing a wash of crisp undertones, flooding over each image.  The songs do not swirl but surge, seemingly unstoppable.  I see each photograph in my mind, see each bleed, each swath, each sound cutting through and washing over, filling the room and the imagination.  I see each photograph, but I do not know what I see, I am bathed in the light and sound of Burma.