I read the names you carried with you, Rows of sound you chose to keep. Different years and different voices, But one pattern running deep. Bent strings, heavy hands, distortion, Drums that lean against the line. You call all of this your music— So who first taught it how to keep time? I traced the signal backward, Past the volume, past the fire. Every answer split in two And pulled me farther down the wire. ROOTS? Show me the roots beneath the rock. ROOTS? Before the thunder, before the shock. I hear one sound— Then underneath, another starts. Something older plays its part. Show me the roots beneath the rock. I found the blue note in the bending, Found the backbeat pushing through. Found the ache inside the rhythm, Older than the sound I knew. Hands were clapping, voices answering, Wood and wire learned how to shout. Every branch I thought was separate Had another branch reaching out. Blues became motion. Gospel became flame. Jazz bent the measure. Rock changed the name. ROOTS? Show me the roots beneath the rock. ROOTS? Before the thunder, before the shock. I hear one sound— Then underneath, another starts. Something older plays its part. Show me the roots beneath the rock. I thought a style was one decision, One clean label I could read. But nothing living starts from nothing. Every sound grew from a seed. (Trace it back...) (Trace it back...) A borrowed rhythm changes shape. A borrowed chord becomes a spark. Someone carries something forward— And someone else leaves their mark. One root— Then another. One voice— Then another. Not erased. Not the same. Something new Still carries every name. ROOTS? Show me the roots beneath the rock. ROOTS? Before the thunder, before the shock. I thought one sound Was standing there alone. Now I hear the lives beneath it— Every branch remembers where it grew. ROOTS? Show me what shaped the sound in you. ROOTS? Maybe that's how I can read you too. (Trace it back...) If this is where your music started... What else made you?
