If there were truly justice at least of the poetic sort perhaps Van Gogh could have been born 75 years earlier, and in Vienna not Holland, so that when he decided to be rid of an ear he could have offered it to Beethoven neither of his working in his later years. And if a poet could arrange time travel using his license then he could just as easily have made the ear work for Beethoven. But on second thought, heaven knows what the mighty Ninth Symphony might have sounded like if Beethoven had to listen constantly to the critics.
He liked nothing more than slipping out the back of the Ritz Carlton and heading down Nonhyeon-ro, more alley than street, past the small bulgogi restaurant, and winding his way to Gangnam-daero 106, finally arriving on the great avenue, Gangnam-daero. It was buzzing with life at all hours, but in the early evening the Virgin Megastore was quieter. He’d slip in, ignoring the rock blaring on the first floor, the insane K-Pop on two and finally, passing through classical, arriving at the international section tucked away in a third floor corner. He’d rummage for Celtic CDs, certain he’d find things he never could get at home, for while Korea was so greatly influenced by America, Virgin, a good U.K. company, brought its CDs from England and sold them at surprisingly low prices. A bit of the ould sod in Korea, and hey, kimchi was once green right?
Some day I need to return to Tokyo and walk its streets listening for the soundtrack that Haruki Murakami requires of the city, bebop jazz in Shinjuku, classical when wandering Asakusa and Senso-ji, and rock on the streets of Shibuya.
I have often been there, but my soundtrack was that of horns and the clatter of a pachinko parlor, or the pitched giggles of young girls walking hand in hand down Omotesando, dreaming of what they could buy in the shops of Aoyama.
The problem with too many songwriters these days is that they either pose a question but demand answers, or only partially answer their own question, leaving the listener to guess at the balance of the answer.
You are atop my list, sadly, dear Alanis, for when you ask if it is ironic, for most of your examples I must respond that it is not so.
And Paul, nice song, but would you care to tell us the other forty-five ways to leave your lover?
But in the spirit of giving to Michael Stipe I say I spoke to Ken and we agree it is 88.5 MHz.
After years of embarrassment I have finally come into the light. It isn’t that my writing has improved, although I surmise that would be a narrow space to fill, or that I can now draw things that were once stick people and animals and things.
What has improved, and improved significantly is my singing voice, once a three note range, and one not known to music, but now I carry complex tunes to near perfection.
If you ask how this is possible, I will let you in on a secret, it is all in the audience, and mine is now limited to those stone deaf.
Music was so much simpler when I was younger, or so it seemed, artists came and went but we always knew who was who, and when a group broke up you’d almost hold your breath until a new group was formed by the lead singer or songwriter.
We missed the Zombies, but Rod knew where his silver was minted and Argent came along quickly.
The First Edition realized it would have only one, so Kenny Rodgers went solo and we all know that story.
And we learned never to turn your back on Clapton or Jimmy Paige, lest a new supergroup emerge when we weren’t looking.
Now music is populated by genres beyond my aural grasp, singers name Lil This or That, and I miss a world that revloved at 33 1/3 revolutions per minute.