Wednesday, 23 January 2013

A Word about Music

There is a New Age religion is which called the religion of the Light and Sound of God. If such description satisfies their believers, than the noise which is substituted for music in just about all TV and movie productions must be the sound of Satan, assuming of course, that it was impersonated, as always, by a pretentious note-juggler in a human form.
Yet not only the Eckists, as I believe they call themselves, but the admirers of Shakespeare, must shudder, and the bard himself must be turning repeatedly in his grave for the same reason. “If music be the noise of hatred”, rather than “the food of love”, as he suggests in his Twelfth Night, then the present day ‘musicians’ are fully vindicated.
Some say there is progress, other, particularly most of the Eastern Philosophies, assure us that we are regressing. From the original Eden, the Golden Age, we are sinking and have reached the Age of Kali, the last and lowest state of consciousness, also known there as the Iron Age.
But we mustn’t worry. It all goes in cycles.
So it is with music. Having started with jungle drums in the darkest Africa, we grew in cycles until Mozart and his contemporaries reach the acme of melody, harmony, and, in my opinion the absolute peak of beauty in his Requiem, matched only by J-S. Bach in some of his unaccompanied sonatas.
And then came the American Idol. The only good part, again in my ears, is the fact that the cacophony which the jungle drums make drown, at least in part, the ejaculations which the “artists” spew into the microphones, partially, but regrettably not wholly, inserted into their gaping orifices.

I know. I’m old. I’m of the last vestiges of the age of melody, harmony and beauty—of the short spell of the Renaissance. I don’t belong in this world. I still dream as Anne did in my Avatar Syndrome of recreating the essence of the inspiration, which guided the past masters of composition. Alas, they are gone. And don’t worry—I, too, will pass, soon enough. The masses will be free to enjoy the jungle drums of old, of the primitive sounds which led humanity to the masters that are now long gone. In the meantime, I offer you a little poem I once wrote as a tribute to the Idol. I was jealous of the Americans, so I created a Canadian Idol of the North!

My grunts vibrate over the North Pole,
travelling right thro’ the growing ozone hole,
then bounce and rise to the silvery moon…
I can scream, and howl, and sometimes even croon!

Then I overdo acting, like some misbegotten hams,
And I roar louder, to drown the deafening drums.
I throw my weight around, jerk for all I’m worth!
‘Cause I’m the First, the Only, Idol of the North!

My webpage is
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