Edwin Cohen is not supposed to be writing “Alexander’s Messiah.” He’s supposed to be sitting by a window, sipping tea, and recounting stories about the heyday of crooners like Frank and Tom. But instead, this 90-year-old Texan songwriter has somehow managed to compose a song that feels both ancient and sparkly, touching upon the existential dread that lingers just behind your morning coffee and before you scroll through your emails.
The orchestral majesty swells, sure—plenty of strings and that piano like stars twinkling in a far-off sky—but it’s Chris Ray’s voice that catches you off guard. It doesn’t just glide over the melody; it wrestles with it, pulling those grandiose emotions out of nowhere, like a preacher on the verge of an epiphany. There’s something in the way he sings about this man trying to feel chosen, something almost Shakespearean, as if Hamlet himself traded Denmark for a dusty road somewhere in West Texas. Maybe existential questions taste different in a wide-open space, where horizons stretch, and answers feel miles away.
And the message? Could it be simpler? Could it be any more universal? We all want to feel like we’re the one, don’t we? The whole song smells like longing and a sort of restless escape: a man stuck in a conversation with a friend whose realization feels bigger, better, more enlightened. You never said it out loud, but you know the feeling.
Somewhere between a sprawling pop anthem and something you’d hear during the climactic scene of a film never made, “Alexander’s Messiah” is not about conclusions; it’s about wandering—a symphonic struggle with destiny. That’s what makes it stick. Does the man find clarity? Who knows? Maybe that’s the point.
