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Stifling Uniformity

April 22, 2011 3 Comments

Look at Andres Segovia in the fifties. If you didn’t know who he was, I could have told you he invented a transistor, or reviewed mortgages at the savings and loan, or toiled in any number of mundane professions, and his appearance wouldn’t give it away.

People used to be serious, and you’d find serious people in every walk of life. Now all the Jeeves are dead, and everyone’s either a high or low budget Wooster. Who allows their work or their art alone to speak for them anymore?

It’s Johannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart’s Birthday, Bitches

January 27, 2011 2 Comments

The Bobby Orr of music was born in Salzburg on January 27th, 1756. I see all you haters going on about Beethoven, the Wayne Gretzky of G clef, calling him the shizzle over Wolfie, but sheezy, a deaf piano player? Mozey had all the sick beats, and could bust rhymes to get all the fine dime brizzles.

Pure ballin. Admit it. If Schroeder had put a bust of Brahms on his piano you’d all be headsprung over Brahms Third Racket, not Beetlebrow. Gettin your beats from Peanuts? What’s next, learnin geopolitics from Family Circus? It’s Mozart, dawgs! And don’t gimme any of those musical v you know, the Bach bunch. Ringo Starr married the only Bach worth mentioning.

I’m hooking you up with Lacrimosa — Old Skool.

That’s what I’m talkin about. Shit’s deck, is what I mean.

Wolfie was all about the beats. Let’s pour out a 40 for the playa that could pour out Symphony Number 40. Let’s drop it like it’s hot.

So pants at half mast for Chrysostomus’ sake today. Drink ten Red Bulls and try to keep up with Amadeus, like Heifetz done.

Off the hook, nomesayin?

Your Plumbing Doesn’t Work

July 2, 2008 3 Comments

I played trombone in a local symphony orchestra many long years ago. You’d be hard pressed to believe how little classical music is written for the awful piece of plumbing I was blatting into. Like many “modern” instruments, it got parts written for other instruments transcribed for it, here and there, but in general, you’d open up the sheet music and see the the big bar going across the page to indicate the number of measures you were supposed to count silently without playing before you got to your part, and the number would be something like 242. Then play fourteen notes and get another 242 bars rest. Imagine counting to 4 — 242 times. It was like 100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall, only duller because you were sober. Well, everybody else was sober. I started drinking.

So I like to see the freaks getting some. Here’s Mozart, played on a Flugelhorn. Man, that’s just wrong. But I don’t want to be right; never have.

Tag: Mozart

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sippicancottage

A Man Who Has Nothing In Particular To Recommend Him Discusses All Sorts of Subjects at Random as Though He Knew Everything.

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