I like blue jeans and October. I am attracted to sudden movement. I make music because
the truth from a fan
I'll never forget the first time I heard Preston's music... he was playing in a smoky bar off a dark wet street. The streetlamps attracted no insects. Bright yellow taxis went by, wooshing softly across the puddles but never once honking. The small, wood-paneled room was full; passersby would stop and watch through the low windows. The men would feign disinterest; the women would tug their arms and vie for a position at the crowded panes.
I myself was seated at a round table off to the side. As Preston played, I was lifted into a sort of ethereal plane of existence. I managed to retain just enough of a grounding in reality to notice the reactions throughout the room: women swooned; men clutched at their chests, softly clearing their throats in vain attempts to remove the lump therein. Bartenders filled drinks to overflowing, lost in the same transcendental haze that had fallen over their customers. Light from the street became entirely obscured by the latecomers huddled in the windows. I stared at the wall clock for minutes and didn't see the second hand move once.
The next thing any of us knew, the spotlit stool was empty. A low murmur rose in the small bar, as couples filtered out and the more dedicated patrons ordered another round. After a fruitless search for a merchandise table or perhaps Preston himself, I made my way home, where I found this website. To show my appreciation for him, I purchased each song several times, and would encourage you all to do the same. I have heard that he also accepts anonymous cash donations; I am e-mailing him for more information.
In our modern era of war, epidemic, nuclear proliferation, and increasingly harsh weather, I believe Preston is exactly what the world needs: another songwriter.