There must be a secret hiding place in Ramona Cordova’s torso. A space where his voice finds life and gathers force; a small springboard on which it launches itself. How else could it project so strongly, so easily from this puny body? Ramona had a T-Shirt that must have been meant for an eight-year-old, it was so tight. Ramona had a straw hat and a delicate handshake. But in the tunnel of an abandoned railway, his guitar in hand, Ramona roared like thirty-five gypsies. Prepubescent gypsies, little-nephew gypsies, maybe. But little-nephew gypsies who are every bit as fiery as their uncles. Good God, he tapped his feet on the stones, spread out, yelled—and all around us there was nothing but an endless, black tunnel. [via]
Its been a minute since I flooded the site with Ramona Cordova posts…thought it was time again.
0 Responses to ““screaming like a possessed gypsy””