“Tiger got to hunt, bird got to fly;
Man got to sit and wonder 'why, why, why?'
Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land;
Man got to tell himself he understand.”
And we do. Continuously. Aimlessly. Directionlessly. Resilient but chapped from the winds
of time that blow almost everything into the silence that is yesterday. But we do try. When it
comes to battling windmills, sound is pretty well armed, indeed. It’s got two ears for points of
entry and it seldom finds them locked. Ears. The only unarmed and mute sense, so to speak,
often used and abused by vicious tongues and cacophonous minds. Acquiesces its chambers
to almost all that come-a-knocking. So why willingly abandon something so stripped and
helpless to the jabs and caresses of notes and accords and melodic whims? What can I say,
in the words of one of the most prodigious of warhorses (Mr. Freddy Mercury), “I’m just a
musical prostitute, my dear”.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=73Fbp3_DjH81 With the hipster milieu try to (often unsuccessfully) imitate and or emulate whimsical and faint hearted apostasies of yesteryear’s forgotten heroes, music emitting and …