Music is truth.
A magic greater than anything we can imagine.
Does that explain Mozart writing symphonies at the age of 7? The bastard.
The only people I really envy are musicians. Everyone else, I look at and think, hey, I could do that. Banking? Maths and smarts. Got both. Law? Smarts. Check. Doctor? Don’t like hospitals and blood and sick people and I completely lack empathy, but no problem. Good memory and some fairly decent genetics in the general cranial region. I’d be sorted at any other profession.
But music gets my goat. Right down to the last baaa.
I listen, and I transcend. I listen to the layers. Layers upon layers of instruments. Notes written for each instrument. Each coming together in perfect harmony. Premeditated. Me, I have to listen to a piece at least 5 times before I can even identify all the instruments. Another five listens to appreciate fully what each instrument is doing for the piece. Another 5 listens to get a feel of the lyrics. And another 5 to just let the song soak in.
And by 5, I mean 50.
Take this piece for example
You’ve head it a zillion times, but mostly in its bastardized rock version. Listen to it again. How each instrument enters. And changes it into something beautiful. Something that has meaning and can move you, a hundred years after it was written.
No art will ever match up to music. Because it’s universal. You don’t need to have a keen eye. A trained eye. You don’t need to have attended art school to appreciate a song
Aptly titled: What the Fuck (acrylic on canvas)
You can write like an angel, but your words will only be read by the educated.
You can make a movie, but at some point, it’s context will fade.
Only music is immortal. People will sing your songs. Your work will forever be remembered.
As long as there’s Piratebay.
Oh how I wish I were a musician.
Francis Thomas is still occassionally lapsing into bad poetry. Engage in his brilliant verbal diarrhea Here.