Reverend Blair wrote:Factman wrote:Given all the music and falderol that's going on in the thread
Music and falderol are important though. So are champagne and reefer.
That's a given, dude.
But there's something about a time and a place, too.
For example, I have music playing throughout any web session I may endure, my kinda music, which soothes me and keeps me awake and feeling good while boosting my various equations. So I'm not going to be playing any of your kind of music, even tho some of it is my kinda music.
I got my own stream of music happening. I like it. I'm always addin' to it and taking from it.
More to the point perhaps, the subject and tenor here is at least generally scientific, not cultural. Broken Banjo does not perform at IPCC meetings, let alone the Garibaldi String Quartet. If they occur at all, those things occur after hours or on long sodden weekends of R&R from the trenches.
Time and place translate to decorum, I remember when I was soldiering, not many guys stopped to play the jukebox when engaged in an op, albeit guitars, harmonicas, banjos, and spoons often came out when on R&R several clicks back of the line. But to suggest a musical interlude when on or near the firing line ... is just not a real good idea. Your colleagues will assume the obvious bet, you've gone off the cliff, and they'd probably be right.
A time and place. Decorum, the way of civilized life. We are on the firing line here. If you don't believe that just check out the way Luis is taking pot shots at yourself, sort of smugly suggesting he caught you impersonating Benjamin Franklin with your weather riff. Live fire, dude. You better take cover.
But no mind, you post all the music up here your little heart desires, my quick little Mustang cutting horse will do the juke and slide and we'll go right on past it without so much as a fare thee well, a-whoopin' and a-hollerin'.
Reverend Blair wrote:
Music and falderol create an overall context for the discussion. Consider the difference between sitting in redneck roadhouse somewhere and sitting at a folk festival. Or compare and contrast Woodstock with Altamont. You can be right and all frowny and serious, or you can pay for the round.
I've seen lots of "frowny and serious" guys pay for the round, it's real common among Bikers, Gangstas too.
But why imagine "frowny and serious" in the first place? Despite the fact that it's wrong there's no need of it anyway.
As with many of us I've attended my share of music festivals, often involving their own musical genre or idiom or musical vein, from Jimi Hendrix to Don Williams or Bobby Bare or Frank Zappa or Paul McCartny or [flip a coin and choose: Dixieland, Swing, Jazz, Blues, Zideco, Country, TexMex, Western, Bluegrass, band music, Alberta Country) or the LA Phil, and the truth is I enjoyed them all with a big fat smile on my brightly shining face, happy as a clam.
"Frowny and serious" are so cliche and so hackneyed I am disappointed, I have to say. This isn't 1954. Hunter S. Thompson is dead, so is his gruffer but more deeply brilliant partner in the caper, Charles Bukowski, who preceded Hunter's own demise. It happens to the best of us. Leonard Cohen is probably among the last of this dying breed.
New issues and social conditions give rise to new styles and languages, descendant tongues and chord progressions and melodies and harmonies and rhythms, they carry the banner forward, the cutting edge of the evolution of pop music, prose, and poetry.
I met a girl in this Hostel I put up in one night in Silverton, Colorado, left the Goldwing parked at the curb out front. She was a beauty, a tough mountain lady who had hiked inta town from her wildrness camp where she had a dozen juvenile delinquents from Illinois she was giving a litle mountain boot camp. She was on a supply run.
After dinner as we strolled, she asked, "You wanna check out the concert?"
At the end of the block there was a park and in the park was a big gleaming white circus tent, under which the National Association of American Bands would soon offer a concert of their kinda music, marching band music, John Philip Sousa sorta music.
It was so crowded we had to sit on the lawn outside for the first show, which turned out great 'cause relaxing next to me and mountain girl on the lawn I discovered a woman who had been a teacher of mine in High School, 40 years earlier and a thousand miles distant. She helped me out greatly in convincing little miss mountain honeydew that I was a cool guy, which quite amazed me and pleased me no end. She got me through the door! Mrs. Richardson, the staid English teacher, helping me with my date! "Sean was a real football star in High School, dear," and a fine young man. Go to the bar with him.
Go to the bar with him you say? You mean fuck his brains out? Oh I think you do!
Unfuckingbeliveable!
Then we went in and took a seat. And enjoyed the hell out of 45 minutes of the best band music this side of anywhere. Then, smokin' a J, we ambled to the saloon and had a Courvoisier, after which to the hostel, where we fucked like minks, with great shrieks and howls and head butting ... until we passed out, only to wake at four AM and do it again.
One of the better concerts I've ever had the pleaure of attending.
Short of perhaps the odd one-liner or throwaway. I am serious when in the thread. I consider it to be a serious subject, worthy of my considered attention. I never liked commercial breaks on television, either.
Onward!



rule..
(education impinges on many issues involving public understanding of situations...)
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