Soon I shall be sending a letter to a deceased person. I will tell this deceased person of my exploits, and I shall offer my thanks for the same individual's being dead. I hope that my gratitude is sufficiently expressed, because I should hate to upset a corpse. It would not much please me for the corpse to come and find me in the form of a zombie and devour my brain. I would not be in the form of a zombie, I mean, the corpse would, though I might find myself a zombie after the event. For this reason I have barricaded myself underground, and I shall not come out except in great secrecy and with guns and armor and rations. I have a black trenchcoat, you know. I have said so before. It is important to battle zombies in style.
There are worse troubles, however, than a zombie assault. Instead of offending the dead with inadequate letters, you might receive the dead's mail. Your union dues must be paid, they might say. Your subscription to something or other has expired. You might already be a winner! (The corpse was not.) Corpses are difficult to care for; they leave behind a terrible mess, and they never do enough to clean it up. It is for this reason the world must be consistently reminded that corpses are dead, and generally afterward it will leave the corpse alone. If, my friends, you are thinking of adopting a corpse or allowing one to use your address, please think again. Perhaps a four-legged beast or a bat will suit you better.
18 November 2007
15 November 2007
Idealism
I have this idea, my friends. It is an amazingly excellent idea, sure to bring ecstatic rejoicing. I am overwhelmed to imagine it, you see, I cannot help but ramble on about this thing of wonder. This notion lives in my mind, and it says to me, "I am a good and wise notion; you should act on me." I say to it, "Yes, O good and wise notion, I will manifest you in a form!" Only, I was not being honest with the notion, or perhaps it was not being honest with me. I let it run around, and then it fails me and I condemn it. Curse you, notion! Why did you convince me you were good and wise? Now I have an idea, which is different from a notion. It says to me, "I am a good and wise idea; you should act on me." I say to it, "Yes, O good and wise idea, I will manifest you in a form!" I fully intend to do this, and it fully intends to manifest. It will be great. I cannot wait until I figure out what my idea is!
In conclusion, it would seem that historians are more concerned in our (post?)modern (No one seems to know much about the post. We should hire a sentinel.) age with the aethereal concept of the "common man" as a force far more influential than the so-called "great man." Please note that a concept is not at all like a notion or an idea. Also, this conclusion was neither a notion nor an idea, and especially no such thing of mine. I am surprised at you. I thought you were my friends. What's that? You are! O mine excellent good friends! I knew you would never accuse me of such things! The very idea, which is nothing like a notion or a concept! It is silly talk; do forgive me. Hurrah for friendship! Hurrah for Karamazov!
In conclusion, it would seem that historians are more concerned in our (post?)modern (No one seems to know much about the post. We should hire a sentinel.) age with the aethereal concept of the "common man" as a force far more influential than the so-called "great man." Please note that a concept is not at all like a notion or an idea. Also, this conclusion was neither a notion nor an idea, and especially no such thing of mine. I am surprised at you. I thought you were my friends. What's that? You are! O mine excellent good friends! I knew you would never accuse me of such things! The very idea, which is nothing like a notion or a concept! It is silly talk; do forgive me. Hurrah for friendship! Hurrah for Karamazov!
13 November 2007
Jazz in the Academy
"Twenty minute free-form jazz odysseys are not OK."
-Guitar Hero III, referencing This is Spinal Tap
As a university student, I have learned to play Guitar Hero. It is a requirement to graduate, standard among most academies across the nation. I began with Guitar Hero II, in which I gained the necessary skills to competently pretend to play the guitar. I have a real guitar, you know. If I did not, I would still be able to feel with the tips of the fingers on my left hand. This is not to be taken to mean that I play the real guitar well; I do not. At any rate, recently Guitar Hero III came into being, and my household has made a possession of it. Like its predecessor, it gives friendly advice on the loading screens, like the bit quoted above. That bit is the matter at hand.
Have you ever sat through a twenty minute free-form jazz odyssey? How about a longer one than that? Instead of sitting, did you have to stand because the seats were all full? Have you ever had a best friend? Did you know that it is discouraged to begin a paragraph with a question? I answer, "Yes!" to all of these inquiries, but I respectfully ask myself to mind my own business. Yesterday my chosen cultural event was a "trumpet ensemble." Let me say that "trumpet ensembles" are a bad idea. These wise words, once again from Guitar Hero III, "Turn that amp up, my ears are barely even bleeding," could not apply less. It was truly a painful experience, like unto the shrieks of five banshees directly into the ear, except worse, because at least a banshee will kill you. The wretched noise was not the most unpleasant part, though. About an hour into the concert, the aforementioned half-hour free-form jazz odyssey began, consisting of solo after endlessly repeating figure after solo after endlessly repeating figure after solo after endlessly repeating figure and so on. Then the "trumpet ensemble" had the audacity to play two or three (I do not recall how many; I was disoriented at that point from the jazz odyssey) more works of jazz (usually synonymous with "evil") before at last releasing its poor audience from these cruel tortures.
Following the concert, I needed a while to recover my senses, particularly hearing. If there is one thing to be learnt from this experience (as the British might say), it is that art does sometimes imitate life, but in this case only if life is altogether unpleasant. I leave you on a happy note. It is E flat, specifically the one called Eb 5.
-Guitar Hero III, referencing This is Spinal Tap
As a university student, I have learned to play Guitar Hero. It is a requirement to graduate, standard among most academies across the nation. I began with Guitar Hero II, in which I gained the necessary skills to competently pretend to play the guitar. I have a real guitar, you know. If I did not, I would still be able to feel with the tips of the fingers on my left hand. This is not to be taken to mean that I play the real guitar well; I do not. At any rate, recently Guitar Hero III came into being, and my household has made a possession of it. Like its predecessor, it gives friendly advice on the loading screens, like the bit quoted above. That bit is the matter at hand.
Have you ever sat through a twenty minute free-form jazz odyssey? How about a longer one than that? Instead of sitting, did you have to stand because the seats were all full? Have you ever had a best friend? Did you know that it is discouraged to begin a paragraph with a question? I answer, "Yes!" to all of these inquiries, but I respectfully ask myself to mind my own business. Yesterday my chosen cultural event was a "trumpet ensemble." Let me say that "trumpet ensembles" are a bad idea. These wise words, once again from Guitar Hero III, "Turn that amp up, my ears are barely even bleeding," could not apply less. It was truly a painful experience, like unto the shrieks of five banshees directly into the ear, except worse, because at least a banshee will kill you. The wretched noise was not the most unpleasant part, though. About an hour into the concert, the aforementioned half-hour free-form jazz odyssey began, consisting of solo after endlessly repeating figure after solo after endlessly repeating figure after solo after endlessly repeating figure and so on. Then the "trumpet ensemble" had the audacity to play two or three (I do not recall how many; I was disoriented at that point from the jazz odyssey) more works of jazz (usually synonymous with "evil") before at last releasing its poor audience from these cruel tortures.
Following the concert, I needed a while to recover my senses, particularly hearing. If there is one thing to be learnt from this experience (as the British might say), it is that art does sometimes imitate life, but in this case only if life is altogether unpleasant. I leave you on a happy note. It is E flat, specifically the one called Eb 5.
10 November 2007
Groove to these righteous beats, dig it?
Like yourselves, O readers, I firmly believe that my own thoughts and opinions are the right ones. It is good that we can agree on this important point. As such, I thought that it would be a sagacious idea to specify precisely which musical albums can beat their musical album brethren in a footrace, as my present knowledge and viewpoint dictates. By exposing yourselves to such euphonies as these, you will become healthier and happier people. Without further ado, except for this: Bliggypsdingyyd trqidivvinellstwrngshth!, here is my list and commentary. It is not ordered by level of excellence. That is absurd. It is grouped by band.
Pink Floyd
The Piper at the Gates of Dawn
Pink Floyd's first album was completed under the leadership of Syd Barrett, and it is considered to be the best example of Barrett's work (except for the song Take Up Thy Stethoscope and Walk, by Roger Waters, which is not Barrett's work and makes no claim to be such). I believe these considerations, though I have never bothered to listen to anything else of Barrett's, by which I mean his solo work after Waters, Wright, and Mason replaced him with David Gilmour as a result of his LSD-induced, erratic behavior. The album itself covers a nice range between surreal darkness and outright silliness, two of my favorite things.
Meddle
This one makes it to my list by mostly grace of its second half, the twenty-three minute epic of Echoes. Echoes is one of my favorite examples of music, so it would be unacceptable to exclude the album that it dominates. The rest is altogether enjoyable, but it must live in a very large shadow.
The Dark Side of the Moon
I hereby join the convention of including Pink Floyd's most notable work on my list of excellent albums. I do this because it is an excellent album. Furthermore, it is great fun to watch The Wizard of Oz and using the album as the soundtrack. I have done so numerous times. Before you ask, I do not believe it is intentional, but the match is fascinating.
Wish You Were Here
I have said before that Wish You Were Here is likely my favorite album, and it likely is. For trivial purposes, I should like to point out that the whole thing is a tribute to Pink Floyd's former bandmate, Syd Barrett. Marked by clarity and variety (this was just before Roger Waters began to do all the writing), I would argue that Wish You Were Here crowns the peak of Pink Floyd's most glorious achievements.
The Wall
While The Wall as a fair amount of nonsense on it, it also has ample moments of brilliance. By grace of songs like Comfortably Numb, Hey You, Goodbye Blue Sky, and Another Brick in the Wall (Parts 1-3), to name a few, the album becomes difficult to ignore. For this reason it deserves a listen, at least to most of it. All that Bring the Boys Back Home and Vera Lynn rubbish would not be missed.
Jethro Tull
Songs from the Wood
This album rests dear to my heart, for it conjures within me all manner of happy thoughts and feelings. As I listened to it the first few times, I could not help but comment that I was hearing nothing but excellence, and that I was overcome with elation. I think I will play it right now, actually.
...
How nice. I feel much better than I could know now.
From the first time I was so privileged as to listen to Songs From the Wood, it has not often ceased to play in my head. Thus as it haunts my thoughts (and I welcome it to do so), I am constantly compelled to play it, and when I am so able, it is with great joy that I do.
Heavy Horses
Only very recently did this one cross my path, but it has proved to rival Songs from the Wood. The premises of some of the songs here, especially Moths, Heavy Horses, One Brown Mouse, and Weathercock are not short of genius. The opening track also has a delightful name: The Mouse Police Never Sleeps. It seems I have praised most of the album now, so I can move on. Also, I must turn Songs From the Wood over.
The Beatles
I am not terribly familiar with The Beatles in terms of albums. I have simply heard them consistently over the course of my life on the radio and what not. I will therefore mention Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and say that The Beatles are excellent. Failure to do so would be almost blasphemous.
Led Zeppelin
Mostly the same thing applies here as with The Beatles, but less so.
...
At this point it has come to my attention that the task I have appointed for myself is stupid. For this reason, I am not going to continue, and I declare my list incomplete, and it will never be completed. In conclusion, I must listen to more albums. That will show me. Now as I make my escape, I need to distract my beloved readers so that they forget my shortcoming.
Look! A strawman eating a red herring!
Pink Floyd
The Piper at the Gates of Dawn
Pink Floyd's first album was completed under the leadership of Syd Barrett, and it is considered to be the best example of Barrett's work (except for the song Take Up Thy Stethoscope and Walk, by Roger Waters, which is not Barrett's work and makes no claim to be such). I believe these considerations, though I have never bothered to listen to anything else of Barrett's, by which I mean his solo work after Waters, Wright, and Mason replaced him with David Gilmour as a result of his LSD-induced, erratic behavior. The album itself covers a nice range between surreal darkness and outright silliness, two of my favorite things.
Meddle
This one makes it to my list by mostly grace of its second half, the twenty-three minute epic of Echoes. Echoes is one of my favorite examples of music, so it would be unacceptable to exclude the album that it dominates. The rest is altogether enjoyable, but it must live in a very large shadow.
The Dark Side of the Moon
I hereby join the convention of including Pink Floyd's most notable work on my list of excellent albums. I do this because it is an excellent album. Furthermore, it is great fun to watch The Wizard of Oz and using the album as the soundtrack. I have done so numerous times. Before you ask, I do not believe it is intentional, but the match is fascinating.
Wish You Were Here
I have said before that Wish You Were Here is likely my favorite album, and it likely is. For trivial purposes, I should like to point out that the whole thing is a tribute to Pink Floyd's former bandmate, Syd Barrett. Marked by clarity and variety (this was just before Roger Waters began to do all the writing), I would argue that Wish You Were Here crowns the peak of Pink Floyd's most glorious achievements.
The Wall
While The Wall as a fair amount of nonsense on it, it also has ample moments of brilliance. By grace of songs like Comfortably Numb, Hey You, Goodbye Blue Sky, and Another Brick in the Wall (Parts 1-3), to name a few, the album becomes difficult to ignore. For this reason it deserves a listen, at least to most of it. All that Bring the Boys Back Home and Vera Lynn rubbish would not be missed.
Jethro Tull
Songs from the Wood
This album rests dear to my heart, for it conjures within me all manner of happy thoughts and feelings. As I listened to it the first few times, I could not help but comment that I was hearing nothing but excellence, and that I was overcome with elation. I think I will play it right now, actually.
...
How nice. I feel much better than I could know now.
From the first time I was so privileged as to listen to Songs From the Wood, it has not often ceased to play in my head. Thus as it haunts my thoughts (and I welcome it to do so), I am constantly compelled to play it, and when I am so able, it is with great joy that I do.
Heavy Horses
Only very recently did this one cross my path, but it has proved to rival Songs from the Wood. The premises of some of the songs here, especially Moths, Heavy Horses, One Brown Mouse, and Weathercock are not short of genius. The opening track also has a delightful name: The Mouse Police Never Sleeps. It seems I have praised most of the album now, so I can move on. Also, I must turn Songs From the Wood over.
The Beatles
I am not terribly familiar with The Beatles in terms of albums. I have simply heard them consistently over the course of my life on the radio and what not. I will therefore mention Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and say that The Beatles are excellent. Failure to do so would be almost blasphemous.
Led Zeppelin
Mostly the same thing applies here as with The Beatles, but less so.
...
At this point it has come to my attention that the task I have appointed for myself is stupid. For this reason, I am not going to continue, and I declare my list incomplete, and it will never be completed. In conclusion, I must listen to more albums. That will show me. Now as I make my escape, I need to distract my beloved readers so that they forget my shortcoming.
Look! A strawman eating a red herring!
06 November 2007
What's up, O friend?
My friends! "What's up?" What's that? You do not understand, and you are confused to hear such a colloquialism coming out of me? I do not understand either, but I am not surprised, being that I planned to surprise you! Surprise! Just wait until your birthdays, if I happen to know when they are!
Often the people will ask me, "What's up?" Never once have I had the faintest notion of how to respond. As a result, I simply say, "Hullo" with a silent "H" and wave in the style of either the queen or the pope, for waving is certainly the chief ability of both. It is not at all clear whether this satisfies my inquisitor, but usually he (or she sometimes) continues along without troubling me further. Then I wonder to myself whether my response created the thought, "How normal and unobtrusive of him! He is surely my friend now!" or perhaps, "He did not address the question; therefore, he must hate me, so I shall hate him!" Then I am driven to further concerns, such as whether or not people actually think on those terms, and whether or not answering a colloquial inquiry now bears any less weight than answering a formal inquiry, and whether or not that makes them all colloquialisms or perhaps all formalities. And does formalism even exist at all any longer, and in that case, does colloquialism even exist? Why must they ask me such difficult and confusing things?
"What's up?" you might ask (if it is even a question!). I would answer thus:
'What is up?' I tell you, I am tormented every day by great miseries and misfortunes! I have terrible visions of fires and of rivers of blood and of winged, fanged creatures which devour the flesh of children! All which I attempt fails, and all which is attempted against me succeeds! I wake in the night paralyzed by fear and dread, for my dreams plague me with all manner of horrors! In the day, the light burns my skin and eyes, and the wind claws mercilessly at my face, and every minute I am near collapse from exhaustion and pain. All which I love despises me, and all which I despise clings to my presence. What is up, you ask? The agony of each passing moment is not only up, but in every place!
Then I would ask, "What is up with you?"
Of course, none of that is even close to being true, but having recited such a response I would not be bothered with such meaningless nonsense as "What's up?" any longer. The only trouble with my idea is that it is a bad one.
Until next time, O friends, I embrace you warmly, rejoicing in your presence.
Often the people will ask me, "What's up?" Never once have I had the faintest notion of how to respond. As a result, I simply say, "Hullo" with a silent "H" and wave in the style of either the queen or the pope, for waving is certainly the chief ability of both. It is not at all clear whether this satisfies my inquisitor, but usually he (or she sometimes) continues along without troubling me further. Then I wonder to myself whether my response created the thought, "How normal and unobtrusive of him! He is surely my friend now!" or perhaps, "He did not address the question; therefore, he must hate me, so I shall hate him!" Then I am driven to further concerns, such as whether or not people actually think on those terms, and whether or not answering a colloquial inquiry now bears any less weight than answering a formal inquiry, and whether or not that makes them all colloquialisms or perhaps all formalities. And does formalism even exist at all any longer, and in that case, does colloquialism even exist? Why must they ask me such difficult and confusing things?
"What's up?" you might ask (if it is even a question!). I would answer thus:
'What is up?' I tell you, I am tormented every day by great miseries and misfortunes! I have terrible visions of fires and of rivers of blood and of winged, fanged creatures which devour the flesh of children! All which I attempt fails, and all which is attempted against me succeeds! I wake in the night paralyzed by fear and dread, for my dreams plague me with all manner of horrors! In the day, the light burns my skin and eyes, and the wind claws mercilessly at my face, and every minute I am near collapse from exhaustion and pain. All which I love despises me, and all which I despise clings to my presence. What is up, you ask? The agony of each passing moment is not only up, but in every place!
Then I would ask, "What is up with you?"
Of course, none of that is even close to being true, but having recited such a response I would not be bothered with such meaningless nonsense as "What's up?" any longer. The only trouble with my idea is that it is a bad one.
Until next time, O friends, I embrace you warmly, rejoicing in your presence.
04 November 2007
Stravinsky and Beethoven
As you, my much beloved friends, may have noticed, I have a great love of relating to you all my experiences at musical concerts and other such artistic events. This is another such relation.
On Friday 2 November 2007 I visited Maestro Paavo Järvi and the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra for a concert consisting of Stravinsky's Chorale Variations, his Symphony of Psalms, and Beethoven's Third "Eroica" Symphony. The latter I will only address briefly because my interest here chiefly lies in the Stravinsky works. Everyone knows that Beethoven's "Eroica" Symphony is brilliant.
The Chorale Variations are Stravinsky's treatment of J.S. Bach's Von Himmel Hoch Da Komm' Ich Her, or in English, From Heaven Above to You I Come. The Symphony of Psalms is a setting of various psalms in Latin in three movements. In case it is not blindingly apparent, both of these are sacred works. In addition, both hail from Stravinsky's neoclassical period, telling us that they are written with great reason and order in mind. Why the church, especially its sectors that are interested in order and reason, does not put these to use is beyond me. Both are excellent, both euphonically and technically, and they deserve more attention among the great multitudes of the people than they receive.
On a side note, Stravinsky also set the Latin Mass in this style, choosing such because his native Russian Orthodox Church forbade the use of any instruments except bells to accompany its singing.
As for the Beethoven, I am convinced that he was added for the sole purpose of selling tickets. Stravinsky, despite his great popularity among musicians, is much less popular among the public, except perhaps The Firebird and The Rite of Spring. Beethoven, however, is fairly universally beloved. Thus he was played last to send the whole crowd home happy.
On Friday 2 November 2007 I visited Maestro Paavo Järvi and the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra for a concert consisting of Stravinsky's Chorale Variations, his Symphony of Psalms, and Beethoven's Third "Eroica" Symphony. The latter I will only address briefly because my interest here chiefly lies in the Stravinsky works. Everyone knows that Beethoven's "Eroica" Symphony is brilliant.
The Chorale Variations are Stravinsky's treatment of J.S. Bach's Von Himmel Hoch Da Komm' Ich Her, or in English, From Heaven Above to You I Come. The Symphony of Psalms is a setting of various psalms in Latin in three movements. In case it is not blindingly apparent, both of these are sacred works. In addition, both hail from Stravinsky's neoclassical period, telling us that they are written with great reason and order in mind. Why the church, especially its sectors that are interested in order and reason, does not put these to use is beyond me. Both are excellent, both euphonically and technically, and they deserve more attention among the great multitudes of the people than they receive.
On a side note, Stravinsky also set the Latin Mass in this style, choosing such because his native Russian Orthodox Church forbade the use of any instruments except bells to accompany its singing.
As for the Beethoven, I am convinced that he was added for the sole purpose of selling tickets. Stravinsky, despite his great popularity among musicians, is much less popular among the public, except perhaps The Firebird and The Rite of Spring. Beethoven, however, is fairly universally beloved. Thus he was played last to send the whole crowd home happy.
01 November 2007
The avant-garde will never let us down!
You may recall yesterday that I was not looking forward to hearing the percussion ensemble perform this evening. I believe that I was right to expect irritating noise, but that does not change the fact that I was wrong. You see, they deceived us, for as it turns out, the program consisted of a number of avant-garde pieces from the past couple of decades. Furthermore, the composer of three of these works was in the audience. For interested parties, his name is Philip Parker. Thus rather than hearing sounds akin to that of primitive men beating on animal hides, I received somewhat odd, often minimalistic works, all of which saved the program from the primitive warriors and spearmen waiting with their war-drums outside the auditorium in the cold and the darkness where there is much weeping and gnashing of teeth. That is biblical. Anyway, it is a well known fact that primitives despise the avant-garde, so they were driven back to the forests where the baboons live. It is also fairly common knowledge that the avant-garde makes children cry, and this was no exception, for the poor child, brought to this concert by her foolish parents who should have known better, wept bitterly. Do not fear, though, the child was brought outside, and she was greatly amused by the primitives and their war-drums, and so peace returned to the concert once more.
But let me tell you, I was accused of wearing a costume again, and then later a rabid and raving pack of males made fun of me, but it was not fun at all. The dominant culture, which is not a culture at all, has proved its poverty once more. It is all right, though. I turn both cheeks at them all!
But let me tell you, I was accused of wearing a costume again, and then later a rabid and raving pack of males made fun of me, but it was not fun at all. The dominant culture, which is not a culture at all, has proved its poverty once more. It is all right, though. I turn both cheeks at them all!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)