It was 1984. When Doves Cry poured out of the radio.
I was ten years young. A distorted guitar tore straight through my spine; my ears woke up instantly. A hypnotizing drum sound dropped and knocked on my heart, while the guitar kept shredding, then it cut to a hard halt and went on in the background. An eerie voice let out strange, otherworldly sounds. A synthesizer played an East-Asian sounding melody, and then his low voice slid in: “Dig if you will the picture... of you and I engaged in a kiss.” I became a fan on the intro alone, but his voice sealed it. It was my first eargasm.

She wasn’t just singing lyrics. She was speaking in frequency. She was talking about concepts I had never heard before, but somehow, I recognized them. Not with my mind, with my spirit. I wanted to know more. Who was this wise woman who overstood dimensions? Who moved like she had lived many lives?

I have always believed that music must have a purpose — to heal, to shift consciousness, to awaken something in us. Vibrations and words are not just sound — they are magic, and that is something sacred.

Artists who honor that truth are more than performers. They are earth angels, healers, and messengers. They understand their assignment: to guide us, to remind us, to call us back to ourselves.