Every genre sucks by definition. About 99% of all music sucks across the board. So no matter what kind of music you think you like, 99% of it is garbage.
(more) It's artists that matter. Individual artists that produce the music that moves you. It's tempting to look at universal or statistical appeal across broad swaths of the music-listening public for indicators of an artist's quality. But that's a specious argument. The experience of listening is entirely unique to you. Everything you find yourself drawn to is the result of the cumulative effect of a million minute actions and circumstances that make up our lives. The groundwork for today's favorite song was laid decades ago.
Genres are an afterthought. They grow up around good artists, they try to accommodate their shape to them in a pathetic effort to be relevant. Genres are like damage control, blast analysis, CSI. They try to tell you what happened once all the major players are gone.
For my money, the musical experience should be entirely between you and the artist. To pollute that conversation with any kind of metaphysical apotheosis is to strip it of the intimacy that ought to make it significant. (less)
Just keep walking till the music stops playing. Walk till the world changes. Walk pass the place where we once live and loved. Walk pass the crooked streets and strange people.
I stood in my living room, been there for hours now. Nothing has happen, nothing wil(more)l happen. How can it? I'm frozen like a rock the only way rocks move is if the world changes. My world is frozen still. Still, I still stand.
Run till the music stops turning. Run till the air disappears in your lung. Run till you don't know where you are. Run till there's no one left to love.
Standing in my living room the darkness is protecting me from the pain of the world. (less)
It works in circles like gears to a clock. Each sound vibrates at a frequency that complements another and then another until a chord forms. Until a concerto is played, until a symphony is composed until a song is sung.
(more) She had just returned from spending several years in London. Born American, she hasn't spent longer than a year in the states bouncing around the world, a true cosmopolitan. I was merely a southern boy who's lived in southern cities his whole life, but she must have found my drawl enticing when I asked if she'd like to get a drink sometime.
She's an artist with a studio. I'd never known anyone with a studio. It was vast, mostly empty save for the computer and desk in the corner and the sheets of paper littering the aged wood floor. An upright piano stood in the middle of the room with the keys exposed, the finish had faded, it was dusty, and dappled with various paints.It used to be a train yard, or a factory; a relic of ancient Atlanta.
I shivered when she plucked a stray hair from beard.
"That's been bugging me all evening." She said, and blew it off her fingers. I kissed her. It was our first kiss. An awkward kiss. We pecked, trying to grip our lips together but never getting hold. I smiled when she pulled away with my eyes closed.
I went home alone that night, but not without planing for another date. Driving back to east side of town with the Atlanta skyline in front of me like an orchestra. I played Listz's "Hungarian Rhapsody" and conducted the city lights through the lifts, breaks, bridges, tempo changes, and finally the grand finale. I turned onto the highway, the moon above like a spotlight.(less)
The elderly man with the white beard and toque sitting across from me whistles his reply. The cold of his breath fogging up his semicircular glasses as it spews from his mouth. So high pitched and loud. What are you doing mister? It's a bird. Why are you whistling back? Even(more) if you didn't reply the bird will sing on. Because songbirds don't actually sing. Right? I think. They're just trying to communicate to one another like people. Are you speaking to the bird mister? Really? Music is a purely human creation. Have you heard any other animal make music before? No. Of course not. So you can stop it mister. Pick up your shopping bag of god-knows-what and get out of here. If not then just stop the whistling. I've always hated sharp sounds in the winter time. Whistling, car tires screeching, the sound of the scraper on the LandRover's windshield. Why on Earth did Simmons choose to discuss the contracts outside. You have an office Simmons, you oaf!...Stop the whistling gramps! It's a bird. It doesn't understand you. Don't make me come over there old man...Oh god he caught me staring at him. This is embarrasing
"Give it a try!" he says with an amused look.
Don't smile at me old man. "Thanks, but no thanks" I say with a polite fake smile.
"Why not?" He says, his stupid smile not even faltering.
"Because they're birds. If I make a whistle they won't do anything."
"Well" he says with a grin "I wouldn't be too sure of that"
And with a nod of his hat he gets up and leaves.
Stupid old geezer. What does he know?...There's no one around...might as well prove him wrong.