TLDR: What is the medicine of music?
In his live performance of "Breeze" at Forest National in Brussels (November 2025), Xavier Rudd articulates a vision of music as medicine—a vehicle for accessing the spirit world in ways that language alone cannot. Rather than simply performing songs, Rudd positions himself as a host for spiritual connection, a conduit through which audiences can encounter the presence of those they have lost and commune with realms beyond the ordinary. The song "Breeze" becomes a moment of respect and remembrance, embodying Rudd's belief that music carries ancient human knowledge embedded in melody, rhythm, and collective voice.
How does music function as a gateway to the spirit world?
Rudd describes music as possessing an intrinsic "medicine"—a curative and transformative power that operates outside rational language. When he says "there's something about the medicine of music that seems to be able to give us glimpses of being able to access the spirit world in various ways," he is pointing to music's capacity to bypass the thinking mind and reach something deeper: intuition, memory, ancestral knowing. This is not metaphorical for Rudd; it is a lived practice. The spirit world, in his articulation, is not distant or inaccessible but available through sound, vibration, and the act of singing together.
The performance reveals this through structure and invitation. When Rudd brings his son Finojet on stage—"my second son, Fino Jet, opened the show with his beautiful music"—he is not merely showcasing family talent. He is demonstrating continuity: the medicine of music passes from generation to generation, and the spirit world recognizes and honors these lineages. The act of singing together—the collective voice—amplifies the medicine, making it more potent.
What is the meaning of "Breeze" as a ritual act?
"Breeze is a moment to pay respects and call in the ones we've lost," Rudd explains in the video description. The song functions as a ritual, not in a formulaic sense, but as a deliberate invocation. The lyrics paint a series of imagined states—floating, flying, dreaming on green leaves, waking to the sun—that serve as portals. These imaginative journeys are not escapism; they are methods of entering states of consciousness where the boundaries between living and ancestral presence become permeable.
The imagery in the song reinforces this: "Imagine yourself floating away. Imagine the tiniest little pixie people of the ocean into your face. Imagine your feet have never touched the earth. Imagine you were flying above the whole human race. Just gliding above it all." This language mirrors shamanic journeying, a practice across many cultures where practitioners intentionally shift consciousness to access knowledge and presence from other realms. By asking the audience to imagine these states, Rudd invites them into a collective ritual space where the medicine of music can do its work.
What role does imagination play in spiritual connection?
Imagination, in Rudd's vision, is not fantasy or mere thought. It is a faculty of consciousness that allows access to truth unavailable to the rational mind. The repeated invocation—"Imagine that"—is an instruction to use imagination as a tool for spiritual perception. When the audience imagines themselves flying above the whole human race, gliding without effort, they are rehearsing a state of being that transcends limitation. When they imagine "the good people of the world were free," they are calling that future into being through the power of collective intention.
This practice aligns with indigenous and contemplative traditions worldwide that understand imagination as a spiritual sense organ, as real and functional as sight or hearing. Rudd's lyrics do not ask people to believe something; they ask them to feel it through the body and the imagination together: "And you will breathe in the fresh air that you are, and they will inhale you deep into their lungs, and they will exhale you as far as you will go, and you will touch their souls."
How does being a "host" differ from being a performer?
Rudd explicitly states that "being a host for this kind of activity or being part of people's connection to spirit is the most special part of what I do." This reframing—from performer to host—is crucial. A performer seeks to showcase skill or entertain. A host creates space for something larger to move through. The host is a vessel, not the source. This distinction aligns with many shamanic and meditative traditions where the practitioner understands themselves as a channel rather than an originator.
In practice, this means Rudd's role is to prepare the ground, to gather people into resonance, to invoke the presence of ancestors and spirit, and then to allow that presence to move through the music. The applause and cheering recorded in the performance are not primarily responses to technical mastery; they are acknowledgments of presence, felt experiences of connection. The "Woo!" at the end of the performance is the sound of people who have traveled somewhere and returned, transformed by the journey.
What is the relationship between family, music, and ancestral presence?
The prominence of Finojet in the performance is not incidental. Rudd expresses pride—"I'm I guess probably the proudest person in here tonight because my second son, Fino Jet, opened the show with his beautiful music"—and then notes the passage of time: "When I first started coming over here, this boy was tiny. Now he's huge." This observation of growth carries spiritual weight. The medicine of music is not a personal possession; it lives in the lineage. Children inherit not just genetic material but spiritual capacity, the ability to serve as hosts and conduits.
When Rudd sings with his son, he is doing more than performing together. He is enacting the transmission of sacred knowledge, the passing of responsibility for maintaining connection between worlds. The song itself addresses this theme: "And now you're leaving home. You got your business to do. Although as no longer I'm thinking of you. So many times and years while they seem so much less. And we were truly blessed. And time goes on and on." These lyrics acknowledge separation, loss, and the passage of time—themes that come alive when sung between father and son, with the knowledge that one day the son will sing for the next generation.
What is "Yemaya" and why does it anchor the song?
The repeated invocation of "Yemaya, yo"—which appears more than fifteen times in the early sections of the song—anchors the piece in a specific spiritual lineage. Yemaya is an orisha in Yoruba, Santería, and Candomblé traditions: a mother figure, a guardian of the ocean, a protector of women and children, and a connection to ancestral memory. By centering Yemaya, Rudd is not adopting a foreign religion but accessing an archetypal presence recognized across African diaspora spirituality.
The repetition of "Yemaya, yo" serves multiple functions: it is a mantra, a summons, a prayer, and a grounding frequency. Mantras work through repetition and sound vibration, and the "yo" sound is visceral, embodied, earthy. As the audience joins in singing "Yemaya, yo," they are literally vibrating in unison, creating a resonant field. This field becomes the container in which the medicine of music operates, the space where ancestral presence and contemporary gathering meet.
Where to go from here
Rudd's vision of music as spirit medicine invites several avenues for deeper exploration. Those interested in the shamanic dimensions of music might investigate traditions of rhythmic drumming, toning, and call-and-response practices across cultures—from African griots to Siberian shamans to Andean healers. The role of imagination as a spiritual faculty can be explored through visualization practices, guided imagery work, and contemplative traditions that use internal landscape as a method of knowledge.
For musicians and hosts, Rudd's reframing of the performer's role as a host opens questions about intention, preparation, and responsibility. What does it mean to prepare oneself as a vessel? How do ensembles create resonance together? What practices support the conductor or leader in stepping out of ego and into service?
For anyone interested in ancestral connection and grief work, "Breeze" offers a model: music as a legitimate method of staying close to those we have lost, of calling them in, of keeping them present in the living community. This is neither denial nor fixation but a mature relationship with death and continuity, one that many industrial cultures have lost and that Rudd's work helps to restore.
