The guitar case lay open, a dollar bill lining the padded case; the guitar was no where near the case. The guitar was as far away from the case as possible; hiding in the attic, not wanting to be played ever again.
I decided to put on a record while I worked. When I stopped working, the record was spinning, but the needle remained still, not a scratch on the record, even though it had been played many times before.
“It was a perfectly good grand piano.” She thought, as she was unraveled by the mounting crescendo.
Walking home at night between the stony graves of DDR-cement-housing-blocks, suddenly the high screech of violins playing the „Psycho“-theme screams into my ears. I spin around, heart racing – and realise that the man standing right behind me has picked that ringtone for a reason.
His image repeated for two hundred projectors back, the conductor raised his baton, at which moment a sea of one point two million flutes, clarinets, oboes, saxophones, bassoons, French horns, trumpets, trombones, baritone horns, tubas, mallets, drumsticks and cymbals all lifted up, signaling their readiness to strike the first note. It was hard to believe that music, of all things, was the alien monster’s weakness, but they were ready.
Our band had booked the gig a year ago while tooling through Wyoming on the way to the west coast, but we came back to find the factory closed and the buildings slumped, abandoned to time and weather. We pulled our gear out of the van and set up anyway, cranked the amps to ear-splitting and rocked out under the lazy summer sun for a few rats, a bone-thin stray dog and the lonely ghost of an old miner.
After opening for the headlining Pynchonettes, the members of Shredded Pecker returned to their van parked in the alley behind the club to find what they initially thought were their first groupies. Though on closer inspection it was determined that they were only a pair of bag ladies looking for a place to get out of the cold, this did not prevent bass player Flemmy Squatencough from partaking anyway.
I’ve got to the point in my life that all the music I listen to is by dead people.
Not Zombie music, but that all the singers have died, I mean.
He claimed he like jazz.
He only said it to sound cool.
She made her away towards the stage, her heart beating like crazy, her legs felt like jelly and her hands just wouldn’t stop shaking. She stood there and stared at all the people staring back at her, then she opened her mouth and sang her song, and everyone was entranced by her voice and the lyrics that she had written.
Glittering glass shards, curious cell phones, oozing pink fluid, and relentless red lights litter the highway. I’ll never sing along to the radio again.
I know with absolute certainty these sentences will be the only to survive the destruction of our civilisation and will be endlessly puzzled over and analysed for deeper meaning forever and ever.
With that in mind, David Bowie is freaking awesome.
He wanted to be like Lennon, which made me McCartney, I guess. We never needed George or Ringo – nor, as it turned out, Yoko.
The ridiculous secret of their lovemaking wasn’t covered by the music he always put on.
Imagine a thunderous storm apparently concealed by the tinkling of a music box to get an idea of scale.