I somehow must’ve been out having a leak or a walk or something when they handed out the music gene. It’s not that I don’t like music – I really like lots of different music – eclectic tastes that’s what that’s called. But somehow the making of music seems to have eluded me. At school I missed the hip music of the 70’s by listening to Mike Oldfield, Tangerine Dream, Beethoven, Wendy Carlos, and the like. In the early 80s punk chundered and left. Reggae smoked through. And now it’s all of the above, along with oodles of Penguin Cafe and a dash of Mozart.
Today my wife arrived home with a selection of cds – Enya’s Amarantine, and Fat Freddys Drop – Based on a true story. Lovely music, to add to our ever expanding cd collection – our friend Cathy sent us Flowers in Song, from the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. Cathy is there, selling art and culture, stop by and buy – goowan, you know you wanna. At the gift shop, ask for Catherine, and tell her I sent you.
Meanwhile, in the corner of my mind, rarely shared, is the part of me that looks at recycling bins and sees musical instruments, looks a daikon and wonders what they’d sound like with a recorder mouthpiece shoved in it, what sounds would a cucumber make with a clarinet reed poked in, and whether I can record and loop and scratch and play my electric toothbrush. I want to grab sounds and make them my own. A sort of middle class middle age middle earth deep forest. I’m thinking: Shallow Suburbia. Accompanied by lawn mowers. Blenders. Electric toothbrushes. Alarm clocks. Cellphones.
What music is hidden in our lives? Perhaps I wasn’t out when the music gene was handed out, perhaps they just dropped it, wiped the dust off and – *bing* good as new. A bit like the sausage off the barbeque – blow the dust off and yummy yummy.