“Where’s that confounded bridge?” Led Zeppelin’s The Crunge’s final lyrics ask. What is a song’s bridge? A musical change of pace, intended to provide contrast to the rest of the composition. Here in the Northwest we’re the bridge. We’re not the fancy metropolitan city of Seattle, we’re not a densely wooded small town or coastal hamlet, and we aren’t rolling fields of agricultural land. We’re something different. Something gritty and creative. We’ve got a little bit of funk to us, and I’m not just talking about the aroma. We strut to the beat of our own rhythm. Blue collar, grunge, and art all steeped together under the watchful eye of our namesake peak.

And then there’s the bridge, or should I say bridges. We’re perched on our peninsula jutting out into the Puget sound, anchored on west and east by bridges— Tacoma Narrows, Murray Morgan, and the E 21st St bridge.

In this piece I wanted to share a poem about the music of Tacoma, it’s people, it’s land, the interweaving of everything we hear when we close our eyes in the middle of the city. Tacoma has birthed many amazing artists, some nationally known, like Neko Case, some with cult Tacoma followings, like Girl Trouble— but I like to think we are all a part of the song of Tacoma, being sung throughout the ages as we build our lives between bridges in this little gritty city, “a dusty old jewel on the south Puget Sound.”