I don't it seems just get musical earworms. Sometimes I get speech. Yes, my very own voices in my head!
Although it could be argued that the current one—https://youtu.be/U3bVJAe8xVY—most likely counts as something close to music. It replays with Mitchell's delivery and intonation. And has been on repeat for about a fortnight.
(Also bought replacement mint and chives to be planted in the garden surrounded by razor wire with machine gun emplacements [you think Chicken Run was based on anything except fact], which is now hidden under cover, since keeping it indoors meant Big ate the chives.)
Thursday, end of term. Still no rain, and potatoes to plant.
Friday, John Harle on Radio 3 playing Syrinx like it was written for the sax.
Almost literally. With curious bleeding from one to the other.
Saturday evening saw us back at Grange Road (as if LL's ten concerts in two years there wasn't enough) for Bach's Mass in B Minor. It's all LL's fault, since she found the flyer and asked to go to it. Bit of a risk, maybe, a seven year-old at a full length choral recital. Two soloists were missing--the gor blimeyness of illness intruding--but the replacement bass and the additional work by the other soprano and counter tenor was superb. LL's eyes lit up and she went from jiggling mass to rigid rod of concentration the moment the soprano opened her mouth. We got to see the little organ in action, which was nice when we've seen it parked backstage so often. The orchestra wasn't bad (save the brass, tho' saving the brass isn't something I'd want to do in this case) and the choir really tuneful.
Last night, sans LL (I really wish we could have taken her, but there was just too much that was unsuitable--not so much the swearing [after my eulogising the sewing machine over the last couple of days, she's got as much of the f-word in her own home as she would have done last night] as the sexual concepts she doesn't have the capacity to process correctly. A shame as the music and production were of a terrifically high standard.), we went to see Jerry Springer, The Opera. Due to a piece of corvine incompetence, M and I arrived at different times and the civilized protesters outside, I think, in an attempt at being non-threatening to a woman arriving on her own--didn't give me a leaflet. Bah! (M didn't get one 'cos he was running in at the last minute and missed the beginning.) It was superb. Just f*-f*-f*-itty f*ing superb. I'd enjoyed the TV broadcast, but this is one instance where live really made a difference. I'm not sure I'd've appreciated it so much without the memory of Saturday's duets as an internal counterpoint to the wonderful Devil and Jesus duet--the former starting his two word aria "f* you" and the latter countering it with the beginnings of "talk" (to the hand). There was even a trumpet-like (tho' I'm not convinced it wasn't keyboards and couldn't see the orchestra to check) obbligato on top. Dance and movement were the tops, the costume changes between TV studio and hell--from garish to drab but retaining the garment styles--were very effective. And I'd forgotten the Klu Klux Klan.
As ever, the Devil had the best role and the best tunes.
After a gap, due mainly to the loss of The Wrestlers as a venue, The Hibachi Dealers had another gig: a weekday at the Man in the Moon. Unsurprisingly when you factor in the paucity of live venues in the town, Fridays and Saturdays are booked up months in advance. M found two support acts, lost one and found a replacement. So out in the sleet I went, having run round in small circles due to it also being parents' consultation evening at school,
( reviews )
Okay, so let us posit, just for this one entry, to avoid a lot of unnecessarily convoluted phrasing that the soul does exist and the ravens possess one. (The ravens, however, will enclose this dangerous concept in quotes.) And it's going to be one of those ( long, long entries )