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THIS ARTICLE:
Any Resemblance to persons living or dead is purely
paranoid.
I rarely reveal the name of  anyone who may or may not be my personal friend...
or enemy.

NOVEMBER  2014
 


Parlor Tricks   (from patio to abandon)
 



patio and a-band-on the human vibe


Music of the middle class was some lost world
left over from aunt Lulu’s piano in the front parlor
where charm was sported away to secret rendezvous
after the song demo, and if she cared at all, she sang.
Uncle Bill, on the other hand, puffed on a cigar and
entertained for a beer followed by another beer.
Home movies were not for everyone and ‘culture’
as it starts out to be called, washes off as easily as
the cigar ashes and the sweaty beer can rings.

No one could have predicted where that ivory tickle 
Would lead, what other habits the music life might
pick up and, become a heavier burden than imagined.
but, in my day it started as a family room activity, or a
patio party to show off the progeny’s talents for back
yard entertainment as well as power performance as
far as the suburban carrying distance would allow.
Police arrive, hear late night decibels and give warning.

Volume knobs begin the struggle for dominance
in the almost alien invasion of personal space,
far cry of  attention getting thought to be harmless fun
and a way Of learning a skill that had bribe appeal
to parents, who Would do anything to get them do
something worth While and make money  (from / for)

                  an expensive hobby.

The drug scene was never any band-room problem.
Music was the right of everyone to learn his heritage.

A generation later drugs and music were inseparable
So much that schools no longer offered band music
classes in the building. Aunt Lulu’s front parlor turned
the uncultured world into dive dungeons and dope
deal havens for idle minds to make noise and dream
the big dream, put raw speech into audio access by
wire, medium, and psycho-drama. The pit was high
and deep and trapped more souls than I ever thought.

No wonder my father said music would make a bum
out of me, but lots of people made their fortunes off
all the misery that music generated, took advantage
and mislead millions to make more millions. Drugs
wear off sometimes and a pursuit of music can be a
drug in itself, soothing the hurt, the need, the empty
dream with nothing to take its place. We used to
laugh at crossover dreams whenever it appeared.

It doesn't matter what culture you come from just so
You make sense of it, both rationally and cosmically.
Standing on a bar-band stage for the first time and
Staring up at machine-gun, bullet holes in the wall
may give you some pause about what you are doing
in this place in downtown Sodom and Gomorrah,
and what goat are you sacrificing for the pagan god
of parks and creation or rest and relaxation. Pray.

Culture confines itself to small parlors, patios, dens
and identifies the tribe it belongs to, not because of
Aunt Lulu or uncle Bill, but because the human drug
needs to express a common sound, a rhythm going
around the circle of fourths and fifths that cannot be
hushed. Every celebration requires a joyous dance,
a leap of love, a soulful song, a profound logic that
makes more sense than all the speeches you know.

 


 


  
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