Hello, while reading a response to a post tonight, I found myself getting frustrated over feeling misunderstood, and like I was "nothing". But instead of another post, I thought it might be fun to have a whack at a short satirical piece. Now I'm sure to be even more misunderstood. Oh well.
Invasion of the Music Snatchers
I am out of breath. I am on the run. I must tell you my story fast before they find me--but I don't have much time.
I'm the only one left. I think my name is Benny, though my friends call me Boney--I think--but--I haven't slept in a week--so who knows? Ah--sleep, that would...be...nice...BUT I CAN'T--or--or I too will be replaced!
We were playing a week at the "Come, Come Agogo" I was in a big band called "Hit Me Buddy'"--we were all ex-Buddy Rich band members--and all found we still had an embarrassing need to be cussed out occassionally, so we all took turns...only in rehearsals mind you. I digress.
Heath changed the first night. He used to play in a Pharoah Sanders-ish style--all meat and growls and a tad flat--only on this night he didn't scoop into any notes--they were all spot on. His growl was gone, and he sounded more like Kenny G. only with a vibrato even more syrupy. The crowd dug him.
On the second night, Mojo's multiphonics were missing from his clarinet playing; then Greta and Garbo, our trombones, usually played this repeated note motif in "Sing, Sing, Sing" that showed how much variation they could achieve with just one note. Gone gone gone--on this night, out came repeated notes that sounded like--like one fart run through an echoplex. Very strange. The crowd dug all this.
The third night, El Hurt's aggressive trumpet turned twee. He was holding a double high c that was impossibly tame, and scratching his butt at the same time. I asked him about "the note" in the mens room during intermission--as well as why he had the words "Native Instruments" tatooed on his chest. That's when Hurty lost it--pointed at me and screamed like a modem. Only now I know that wasn't Hurty.
My bandmates have been replaced by less than exact replicas, but nobody believes me. Burt the Drummer told me so--while attempting to kill me by playing an extended Max Roach solo on my head with mallets. He said he was the first to be perfected, but soon the piano, then electric guitar, then the winds. He said brass would be next to last, and me, last of all. Oh, did I forget to mention I'm the singer?
I managed to wrangle away Burt's mallets and kill him by playing a Grateful Dead bootleg I got off the net. He put his hands to his ears and cried "Nooooo! cannnnnot duplicate!" Then yelled out "the day will come when people will forget what real instruments sound like--when the words *live concert* are words and nothing more--when they dawn their headphones and just listen to us instead." Then added, "When there's enough of us, we'll take over the world--or at least itunes." Then he keeled over.
Then my double appeared, and slowly started walking toward me, pointing, while singing a high note that sounded like Antony missing a Johnson or two. I ran.
...and here I sit, trembling and drinking coffee, trying to stay awake-- listening to real music played by real musicians, wondering if I'm the only real musician left.......I need...to convince someone..........anyone...................they're inferior..................except in some.......simplistic..............pop............ .................................................. .................................................. .............