Less all cerebrate. I say narcissism, you say business. I say narcissism, you say everybody's doin it.
I say narcissism. What's the big deal? Let us self-aggrandize! Let the aggrandizing continue! You see, there are almost 7 billion human or human-like creatures on Earth. Each one needs a real active URL (or 3).
And about 10 domain names.
This is mathematically no problemo.
On my PDN (my page de narcissism), I have let the world (world?) know I think it would be cool to actually be able to play 20 Bird, or Dizzy, or Monk, or Mingus? tunes. Preferably on all 3 instruments I claim to play. My theory was that, like contest fiddlin, bebop is a discipline which can be mastered in a few simple finite bursts of effort. Say an hour a day for a month or two. Contest fiddlin actually more like a year or 4. Why? First, although I could scrape through "Scrapple" when I was 26, I can't anymore. It's taken about 3 days to get "Groovin High" back and then down on the cello and the piano....It's short! Fiddle tunes are a whole lot longer.....and in them harmonic rules appear fuzzy and/or arbitrary --- (in a good way; the stuff is beautiful when well played, and can be potent).
Boring. Everything is hard, except if it comes easy to you. Lately music comes a bit easier, is pure joy, even though my left hand hurts (practicing too much).
These styles are equally languages. A fellow named Marc Cohen told me this about bop in about 1977. It's a language -- you learn the grammar, get a bit of vocab, then start speaking it. Same goes for Texas style (aka contest fiddlin'). A language.
Initially all those bop tunes sound alike. And I am disappointed at the apparent low ratio of musicality to difficulty. I'm saying it seems like a lot of work to speak this language of bop, and nobody seems to want to hear much of it.
Still, like the contest fiddle route, great discipline, and in its way a lovely language. And great for your chops. The fiddlin language is like Hungarian to me. (Harder than Greek). But I have been pecking away at it for close to a decade.
A breakdown, a waltz, and a Tune Of Choice. I need to go to a real contest, and see if anybody plays "Night in Tunisia" as a tune of choice.
Chromaticism DOES occur in Texas style, when notes are real out of tune. Bebop is danceable if you take designer drugs.
J Gimble, my hero, says "How do you tell those fiddle tunes apart? ..... By the titles."
I don't want to take the time to massacre "Ornithology" on the cello. What's the point? Oh yeah, chops. I suspect your grandmother would much prefer "How High the Moon? which is an excellent question.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Life
I can do this real quick.
Life is suffering. That couple over there, the two who are dressed perfectly, smiling, seem to be healthy, loving, maybe even wealthy. They suffer. If they care about the clothes, they have to take care of them. Okay, perhaps this is a joy for them. Doubt it. Anybody can smile. It means little. Good health is at best temporary. Bad health is almost guaranteed in anyone's future. (It can be avoided by getting t-boned in a small Honda by a large Dodge Ram running a red light at 80 mph -- this almost happened to me yesterday). Failing to achieve the extremely rapid demise, we all get to look forward to bad health. And love. HA! If you love somebody and they're not doing fine or even don't seem to be just right and happy or whatnot, then you will more than share their misery. That is, if you are not a sociopath. And it seems so hard to achieve a feeling of security in love .... Etc.
To live is to suffer. So we might as well all be reasonably compassionate and look for the best in each other. Until we stop looking altogether. People who don't try to be decent most of the time really piss me off. I know it's hard.
Life is suffering. That couple over there, the two who are dressed perfectly, smiling, seem to be healthy, loving, maybe even wealthy. They suffer. If they care about the clothes, they have to take care of them. Okay, perhaps this is a joy for them. Doubt it. Anybody can smile. It means little. Good health is at best temporary. Bad health is almost guaranteed in anyone's future. (It can be avoided by getting t-boned in a small Honda by a large Dodge Ram running a red light at 80 mph -- this almost happened to me yesterday). Failing to achieve the extremely rapid demise, we all get to look forward to bad health. And love. HA! If you love somebody and they're not doing fine or even don't seem to be just right and happy or whatnot, then you will more than share their misery. That is, if you are not a sociopath. And it seems so hard to achieve a feeling of security in love .... Etc.
To live is to suffer. So we might as well all be reasonably compassionate and look for the best in each other. Until we stop looking altogether. People who don't try to be decent most of the time really piss me off. I know it's hard.
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Dissertation on Recording Technology and the Rise of Lay Composers
Wowsers. I just managed to login to this blog for the first time this year. There is hope for a less dim future!
It is well-known: when new technology or even just a new product arrives, it will quickly be exploited by some folks and, later, by some very professional folks, for financial gain. This is something we can count on. Nice. It will probably have some use in the sex realm as well. It's just the way it is. I try to see how the new cool taxi service is "disruptive." But not really. It's just swell, sometimes. But not really all that innovative. Good exploitation of something is going on tho (people are making money, and tips)
"Anyone can make music now." I give this a 9 as in 9 out of 10 people who can more or less operate a computer can yes make real music. Music someone might want to listen to.
Old folks like me who have made music for a long time -- the good old way (they have to keep their nails trimmed, or most of them) -- often are fearful that their lifetime of experience and hard-fought gains in chops of various kinds (tricks and secrets too) has been all for naught. And they will starve and no one will like them. Nup. They may be shunned and detested, but it won't be because they play the banjo, say. Not any more.
Recording studios still have their flavors and odors and emotions. Of course, the hopped-up-happy kids who get miked up and anticipate the thrill of the red light (red light?) bring a great deal more of all that with them. My point is that I'm sad to have lost many of the big old studios, but my house (it's 79% a studio now) has some pretty nice odors.
Artists important to me and at least 45 other people have said "I love workin there." (Don't check the syntax of that too carefully)
I'm not sure we're making real records here, but we're working at it. And so are a few tens of thousands of other folks, old and young. Some use "construction kits." Know about these? Just what the label says. Pick drum thing from column drum loop, bass from bass lines (it's not spelled base by the way), etc. Then close-mic your cranium and overdub yourself scratching your scalp (see earlier dandruff blog post), in no particular rhythm. Feature your scratch in the mix, even if it sux -- maybe you can use it as the intro....
Source of the Fear (that technology renders us obsolete and we will starve): A few people, a few thousand, have gotten very wealthy off ideas lately. Those people! They think they're so cool. And they have amazing houses and more than one. Damn, I want to be them.... But yer not! BUT you are somebody, and 9 out of 10 people can make music. In their kitchen if they want! (Not my fave place)
Today's big haunting question: To what extent did Beethoven actually pick up a fiddle or bang on a piano as a way to compose? Not much in his last couple years, that's for sure.
I suspect that the big difference between our modern "composers" and many of the old dead "masters" is that we new millennium guys generally play our pieces or have them played first. Then we write 'em down. If we even bother. They are usually sound ONLY. Watch out ears, here I ------------->
It is well-known: when new technology or even just a new product arrives, it will quickly be exploited by some folks and, later, by some very professional folks, for financial gain. This is something we can count on. Nice. It will probably have some use in the sex realm as well. It's just the way it is. I try to see how the new cool taxi service is "disruptive." But not really. It's just swell, sometimes. But not really all that innovative. Good exploitation of something is going on tho (people are making money, and tips)
"Anyone can make music now." I give this a 9 as in 9 out of 10 people who can more or less operate a computer can yes make real music. Music someone might want to listen to.
Old folks like me who have made music for a long time -- the good old way (they have to keep their nails trimmed, or most of them) -- often are fearful that their lifetime of experience and hard-fought gains in chops of various kinds (tricks and secrets too) has been all for naught. And they will starve and no one will like them. Nup. They may be shunned and detested, but it won't be because they play the banjo, say. Not any more.
Recording studios still have their flavors and odors and emotions. Of course, the hopped-up-happy kids who get miked up and anticipate the thrill of the red light (red light?) bring a great deal more of all that with them. My point is that I'm sad to have lost many of the big old studios, but my house (it's 79% a studio now) has some pretty nice odors.
Artists important to me and at least 45 other people have said "I love workin there." (Don't check the syntax of that too carefully)
I'm not sure we're making real records here, but we're working at it. And so are a few tens of thousands of other folks, old and young. Some use "construction kits." Know about these? Just what the label says. Pick drum thing from column drum loop, bass from bass lines (it's not spelled base by the way), etc. Then close-mic your cranium and overdub yourself scratching your scalp (see earlier dandruff blog post), in no particular rhythm. Feature your scratch in the mix, even if it sux -- maybe you can use it as the intro....
Source of the Fear (that technology renders us obsolete and we will starve): A few people, a few thousand, have gotten very wealthy off ideas lately. Those people! They think they're so cool. And they have amazing houses and more than one. Damn, I want to be them.... But yer not! BUT you are somebody, and 9 out of 10 people can make music. In their kitchen if they want! (Not my fave place)
Today's big haunting question: To what extent did Beethoven actually pick up a fiddle or bang on a piano as a way to compose? Not much in his last couple years, that's for sure.
I suspect that the big difference between our modern "composers" and many of the old dead "masters" is that we new millennium guys generally play our pieces or have them played first. Then we write 'em down. If we even bother. They are usually sound ONLY. Watch out ears, here I ------------->
Sunday, June 9, 2013
fear and dandruff
Fear is a common topic in these sporadic belches. Dandruff, rare. Ah, dandruff! It's me coming off in smallish scaly pieces, a-blowin-in the wind, mingling with the junk that settles in the new settlements or on your new suit. I amused a band-mate in an airplane in 1978 or so by tilting my head ever so starboardly, scratching surreptitiously, and depositing bits of me on the traveler seated to my left. No charge! Sir, madam. Cocktails! yelled the band-mate, chuckling.
What would I do without dandruff?
I am told that habitual scalp play is classified with the OCD disorders (ATM machines), like compulsive hand-washing, rubbing raw of any accessible body part (no, not that! jeezus).
I like to think of myself as a little native American engaging in little mini-scalpings.
Okay, enough. Just let it be known, I am not a flake. Though advancing through my 60's I slowly gather more and more evidence that I am one. But the gathering of evidence belies the flakiness. Thing is, if you don't drink and don't ingest THC, you, like me, will retain at least enough clarity to be scared out of your wits pretty much all the time.
It used to be: Oh god, please don't let them find out the truth (that I am a fake). Now it's more, oh god, please don't let me find out the truth (that You are a fake). Rabbi Reblen, my cousin and truly my only remaining childhood friend said the clever thing: God delegates to Nature, and Nature has no conscience. Most folks are disturbed by the apparent presence of Evil in the world. What bugs me is the fear. Get it? "I see Evil" means "I am scared, mama!" Fear not. There is the world. It is perfect. An ongoing perfect mess.
Those who make the mistake of caring about the big world often mess up their own backyard. It is hard enough, even with a brand new push-mower, to keep the yards presentable. Syria? Be serious!
It is fashionable around these parts to be non-harming. Many younger yogic/zen friends of mine aspire, and in the aspiring they accidentally leave a messy wake. But nobody I know is throwing himself into anything like a full-tilt joust (possible exceptions, the 2 youngsters I just helped pack up to move to DC -- beware the unintended consequences is my caution to them, unspoken).
I started a list of dead friends of mine. This was a thoughtful move on my part. I thought it might help my daughter make good choices on her wedding invitation list. (Don't invite dead people -- then again, they are cheap to feed -- and in Texas, many vote!)
There are few constants in my life. There is music, for now, there is low level fear (Evil lurks), there is lonliness, and there is dandruff. There used to be writing! Now it seems I'm out of think.
What would I do without dandruff?
I am told that habitual scalp play is classified with the OCD disorders (ATM machines), like compulsive hand-washing, rubbing raw of any accessible body part (no, not that! jeezus).
I like to think of myself as a little native American engaging in little mini-scalpings.
Okay, enough. Just let it be known, I am not a flake. Though advancing through my 60's I slowly gather more and more evidence that I am one. But the gathering of evidence belies the flakiness. Thing is, if you don't drink and don't ingest THC, you, like me, will retain at least enough clarity to be scared out of your wits pretty much all the time.
It used to be: Oh god, please don't let them find out the truth (that I am a fake). Now it's more, oh god, please don't let me find out the truth (that You are a fake). Rabbi Reblen, my cousin and truly my only remaining childhood friend said the clever thing: God delegates to Nature, and Nature has no conscience. Most folks are disturbed by the apparent presence of Evil in the world. What bugs me is the fear. Get it? "I see Evil" means "I am scared, mama!" Fear not. There is the world. It is perfect. An ongoing perfect mess.
Those who make the mistake of caring about the big world often mess up their own backyard. It is hard enough, even with a brand new push-mower, to keep the yards presentable. Syria? Be serious!
It is fashionable around these parts to be non-harming. Many younger yogic/zen friends of mine aspire, and in the aspiring they accidentally leave a messy wake. But nobody I know is throwing himself into anything like a full-tilt joust (possible exceptions, the 2 youngsters I just helped pack up to move to DC -- beware the unintended consequences is my caution to them, unspoken).
I started a list of dead friends of mine. This was a thoughtful move on my part. I thought it might help my daughter make good choices on her wedding invitation list. (Don't invite dead people -- then again, they are cheap to feed -- and in Texas, many vote!)
There are few constants in my life. There is music, for now, there is low level fear (Evil lurks), there is lonliness, and there is dandruff. There used to be writing! Now it seems I'm out of think.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
New Lease on Mystery
So, no more posts that matter. No real stuff. More just journaling. More just boring.
I was going to do a "New lease on Life" post, as a silly pun thing on the subject of leasing out a building. The bright idea of becoming a landlord. I actually expect this to happen in 3-5 years.
I am the not-so-proud co-owner of a piece of remarkable real estate. 8000 square feet literally a stone's throw from a state capitol building and also from a major major major university. Thus has the universe bestowed upon me, a fiddler, a former fiddler, still a fiddler, potential capital.
But I remember my default hero Burroughs and the seeing of exactly what is on the end of every fork(ful).
And hence to my real story: Mystery. There is no Naked Lunch, Bill B. There is only "I wonder if....."
I am fond of saying "I don't have any friends." This is absurd. My friends have started dying at an alarming rate. But there are plenty left! It's just that I never socialize with them. Some are angry, a few. Most just get that I prefer a self-inflicted life of quite restricted activity much like prison. But more the solitary confinement kind of prison. With pets.
There has been improvement with the pets. They like music, even bad music. They are less rebellious. They worry less about me. They see that my chronic melancholia is nothing really, nothing that will threaten their food and fun supply. Not soon.
I am going to take the position that there are few mysteries. I am saying that nothing surprises me anymore. I notice that a lot of people have sex and a lot don't. I notice that governments make lots of laws and enforce some, very selectively. I notice that children generally get upset when their parents live badly, but are generally more upset when their parents become ill or die. Upset, pissed off. My wise children make no attempt to change my apparently unhealthy habits. For now, there is nothing fatal going on. Though the solitary confinement is sad.
I used to say romantic things like "The only possible explanation for human existence is that we are here to help each other." Sometimes I still say that. Usually when I'm trying to have sex with someone (I like girls). Silly thing to say. The explanation for human existence is evolution, and I think I sort of understand what that means. I read a lot of SJ Gould. Some cool stuff there, no mystery though. The genetics confuses me. I skip that. Confusing does not equal mysterious.
Some things get to be called mysteries due to my confusion or incompetence. Some electronic anomalies. But these too are not mysteries. Throw away the old stuff, buy new, usually what didn't work will now work. i.e. the current will flow, the monitor will not flicker, the headphones will not feed back, the receptionist will answer the phone, the check will not bounce, the oil leak will be revealed to be benign, the tumor will be revealed to be benign, the cost of living will not go up because no one has any money, the incorrect choice will be made because the committee that makes the choice gives power to silly people who are too busy or too uncool to see right answers ... sometimes.
Why did I write all this junk????
A mystery.
I was going to do a "New lease on Life" post, as a silly pun thing on the subject of leasing out a building. The bright idea of becoming a landlord. I actually expect this to happen in 3-5 years.
I am the not-so-proud co-owner of a piece of remarkable real estate. 8000 square feet literally a stone's throw from a state capitol building and also from a major major major university. Thus has the universe bestowed upon me, a fiddler, a former fiddler, still a fiddler, potential capital.
But I remember my default hero Burroughs and the seeing of exactly what is on the end of every fork(ful).
And hence to my real story: Mystery. There is no Naked Lunch, Bill B. There is only "I wonder if....."
I am fond of saying "I don't have any friends." This is absurd. My friends have started dying at an alarming rate. But there are plenty left! It's just that I never socialize with them. Some are angry, a few. Most just get that I prefer a self-inflicted life of quite restricted activity much like prison. But more the solitary confinement kind of prison. With pets.
There has been improvement with the pets. They like music, even bad music. They are less rebellious. They worry less about me. They see that my chronic melancholia is nothing really, nothing that will threaten their food and fun supply. Not soon.
I am going to take the position that there are few mysteries. I am saying that nothing surprises me anymore. I notice that a lot of people have sex and a lot don't. I notice that governments make lots of laws and enforce some, very selectively. I notice that children generally get upset when their parents live badly, but are generally more upset when their parents become ill or die. Upset, pissed off. My wise children make no attempt to change my apparently unhealthy habits. For now, there is nothing fatal going on. Though the solitary confinement is sad.
I used to say romantic things like "The only possible explanation for human existence is that we are here to help each other." Sometimes I still say that. Usually when I'm trying to have sex with someone (I like girls). Silly thing to say. The explanation for human existence is evolution, and I think I sort of understand what that means. I read a lot of SJ Gould. Some cool stuff there, no mystery though. The genetics confuses me. I skip that. Confusing does not equal mysterious.
Some things get to be called mysteries due to my confusion or incompetence. Some electronic anomalies. But these too are not mysteries. Throw away the old stuff, buy new, usually what didn't work will now work. i.e. the current will flow, the monitor will not flicker, the headphones will not feed back, the receptionist will answer the phone, the check will not bounce, the oil leak will be revealed to be benign, the tumor will be revealed to be benign, the cost of living will not go up because no one has any money, the incorrect choice will be made because the committee that makes the choice gives power to silly people who are too busy or too uncool to see right answers ... sometimes.
Why did I write all this junk????
A mystery.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
why not
Why not post your innermost stupid middle of the night fearful crap half-thoughts?
Because somebody might read them and kill you?
Yes. That's why not.
A little metaphysics: If you believe, as I do, that the world is all that is the case (the sum of all true sentences), then there isn't much world as we like to know it. The Cartesian human predicament is very much of a predicament. Satan may be tempting us --- is. It is probably all a dream, several dreams in fact. So there are no really really true sentences. No certainty. No world.
What feels certain is when we say to our children "Good job!"
I had a good job once. I overdid it. Trudat. or Turdat.
Because somebody might read them and kill you?
Yes. That's why not.
A little metaphysics: If you believe, as I do, that the world is all that is the case (the sum of all true sentences), then there isn't much world as we like to know it. The Cartesian human predicament is very much of a predicament. Satan may be tempting us --- is. It is probably all a dream, several dreams in fact. So there are no really really true sentences. No certainty. No world.
What feels certain is when we say to our children "Good job!"
I had a good job once. I overdid it. Trudat. or Turdat.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
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