Last night I took a Hula Girl Mango Cigarillo and rolled it from the middle up and down until the filling was loose then I emptied it and mixed it with some nice tea and repacked it with a pencil. Then I grabbed my pistol torch lighter and headed out for a nice evening stroll. As I hit the corner I moistened it well half way, no deep throat, for a little longer burn, pulled out my glick(glock bic get it?) torched up and headed off towards town. I strolled along slowly listening to each home as I walked by, smelling the sunday dinners and BBQ's. Passing the dog walkers and jog talkers with earpiece in one hand and cell in the other in case they get a call during their little fat exorcism exercising. The clouds were slipping across the sky like slimy little marshmallows, one in particular caught me by surprise and I watched as it slid beneath another cloud and formed a fierce dragon with the moon for an eye... I continued walking back down the street behind my house now looking at each yard as I passed noticing that even the most perfect ones still had something that had been neglected, like a rusted flag on the mail box about to fall off or beautiful yard but the house needed a paint job. I passed on man raking leaves and dumping them in the can that needed to be set by the corner for tomorrows pick up he let out an explosive fart right about the time I hit a pocket of mostly tea, he must've thought he'd eaten something odd. I got to my street and decided to walk a few more blocks absent-mindedly. Then I sat at the bus stop watching cars go by studying each person inside trying to think their thoughts. Then a light drizzle started to mist me and the tinkling on my hair mystified my mind and I laid back on the bench and imagined myself a pedestrian moonman walking along kicking up moon sand just to see how long it would take for it to reland...and I pondered would the rain fall light like snow flakes on a planet with the moons gravity? Then I walked home completely puzzled but so aware of everything.
If music is dying, musicians are killing it. Composers are the ones decomposing it. We are as responsible as anyone--although we'd love not to admit it. We lash out at "The Industry", blaming things like corporate structure for our shitty music--but we are the ones making it. We open the box they've given us and jump in, wrap ourselves up, and even lick the stamp. Why? Insecurity--the need for acceptance--maybe even money. We're not thinking about our music, just how it looks. One would rather have the warm tongue of a critic licking his asshole than the tongue of his spouse. It gives him a sense of validity and power. He seems to defy gravity. Maybe it is because he doesn't know what the hell else to do. He sees it coming--but freezes with panic like a deer in the headlights. Don't laugh--I've done it and you probably have too. And it has undoubtedly effected out music. (But have we learned anything form it?) We know that we are mostly a lot of slobbering babies who need constant stroking. We realize also in the moral order of society, we occupy positions similar to the thief, pimp, or peeping tom. We know that even if one has the pride of a bull, it is hard enough just to remain focused in this world. It gives us milliona upon millions of images--distractions--all saying the same thing at the same time: DO NOT THINK. If your fantasy and desire give you migraines, how easy it is to forget them when there is so much to look at. Our creations die quickly when abandoned like this. Do we realize that we are eating our young? It seems the passion that moves us is accompanied by an incredible urge to squash it. It is as quick as a fucking reflex--a conditioned response. It it a sexual problem? A puritanical one? The most intense and convincing music achieves a sexual level of expression, but what we normally feel is frigidity and limpness. It is just too easy for an artist to 'socialize' his desires when life tells him cardboard is OK. You should be ashamed of yourself! What is your fucking problem? If you don't come out, sooner or later you will die in there. Use chunks of yourself. Bodily fluids. Look left and right. Sift through others' belongings. Borrow. Steal. And try to achieve some sort of pleasure while doing it. This excitement should increase and intensify when you visualize it being shared by a number of people. Think about it. If it comes from inside you, it is automatically valid--it just may or may not be good. Because if it is not communicating in some way, its pleasure is as short-lived as a quick fuck in the back room. It doesn't mean shit. The labor of many composers is to construct elaborate walls of sound--but we often forget to leave a window or door to crawl out of. ow can we survive in these clever little rooms? We must eat our creation or we will starve. At this point, we have heard what we wanted to hear--our ears have shut down. We've resigned as slaves to our own gluttony. But if we have boarded up our learning environment, our only way out is to teach what we know. Will they listen? Why should they? Because they need you as much as you need them. You can save them from being swallowed up by the world--they can save you from being swallowed up by the world. Young and old players should be seeking each other out and using each other. They should develope a healthy exchange of smut--and learn to wear each other's masks. In this kind of environment, incredible things can happen. Music can emerge that is athletic and personal. Music that is riddled with contradictions--impossibilities. And that is the shit that can defy gravity.