Music Makers and Dreamers of Dreams

When I was 24 years old, I found it necessary to retract and re-submit my *theory about musicians and just what the hell is their deal anyway. This happened all in my head, in the high seats at Foxboro Stadium at approximately 8 o’clock on May 20, 1994. My theory? Please note, I was a wee bit baked, and Pink Floyd, on the Boston stop of the Division Bell tour, had just opened with Astronomy Domine, from their tragically underrated 1966 album Piper at the Gates of Dawn.
[*sex bots]

Aliens. Musicians are descendants of an enlightened alien race that landed an unknowable number of millennia ago and integrated (kinda) with early mankind. When expertly applied, especially at night, the mambo, the wang dang doodle, the rock and roll, the boogie woogie, are all syno for the same wordless body & soul communication: Sex! Music, singing and dancing all lead to sex. Maybe it's the other way around. Either way, inter-species hanky panky, moving and grooving with each other, resulting in mixed alien-human babies, means here we all are now: we are the incomprehensibly complex descendants of a rock & soul interplanetary bop and we have retained this cosmic knowledge. To compress massive volumes into one nearly indefinable word, we named that "talent." Some extraordinary talents just walk around earth, saying stuff, acting like everything they can do is normal. Granted, the reviews have been mixed.

I assume what these randy galactic travelers were trying to do was bring to earth a universal language so that mankind could communicate irrespective of spoken word. At first with just voice, sticks and rocks. Then animal hides, bones and gourds. Then wood, ebony and ivory and Mozart. Then electricity and steel and Jimi Hendrix. It gets quite complicated after that, because technology and Bob Moog and those guys we don't think of as "rock stars" but nevertheless changed the world. [See also Chapter 5, "Cosmik Debris," search term "giraffe filled with whipped cream," Chapter 7, "Movers and Shakers" search term "Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy," Chapter 10, "Gods and Monsters," search term "Tonto," all of Chapters (Prince symbol) through 😭 and in fact most of the rest of the book.]

Musicians manipulate the air, causing particles to collide and vibrate into what they call "notes." They control the rate of these vibrations by shaping time into specific pulses they call "beats." It gets more complicated after that, I'll do a diagram or something later. But this talent is as close to magic as you can get, is it not? Within and between the notes and beats is a mysterious kind of unteachable "something." Music can bring people together, convey wisdom and trigger memory. Music grants courage, provides comfort and nurtures love and laughter. Music can define, amplify and connect ideas. This is a force so powerful that it frames time and space, defines entire regions and speaks for generations.

In theory, any of us likely have some degree of talent somewhere in the bloodline. Think of your worst cousin who can somehow play the spoons for some reason. But in reality, it doesn't always work out. Sometimes you'll get the musical talent without the proper gift of expression. We call those "teachers" or "sound guys" and they're great. But sometimes it's the other way around, and we call those "writers" or "comedians" and they should not be picking up the guitar but they do so don't leave one around when you invite them over. Sometimes there's no obvious explanation, which is when you get a Michael McKean and have to sort that out for yourself. All of these talents are all terribly important and should be thanked and appreciated often. Pay them. Bring them food. Tip them. Offer coffee. PAY THEM. Share your weed. Get Cheez-its. You wanna watch out for that horn section. Don't go to sleep on them drummers. Pay. Them.

Attempt to live without music for one hour. Don't even hum for that hour. Tell someone about that hour. Then consider buying music from one of these independent sex aliens from another planet.

We idolize our rock stars. But generally speaking, oddly enough, we've endured roughly a century of disrespect for future rock stars. Stop making that noise, cut your hair, go work in a bank, you're a bum unless you're getting paid for your time, and conveniently, through an unexplained series of events, nobody wants to pay for music anymore. Like it ain't no big thing. Dare to dream the dreams, future rock stars. As though anyone could stop you.∎

Paypal

Do you like this so far? I really hope so.
Paypal $1 or $10 would help a lot and I'll make sure you get the book! I promise I'll write it. Trust me, I'm a writer. I'm also making some little gifts for $50 and up...