Beirut – My Family’s Role In The World Revolution
I’ll tell you exactly how I listen to this song:
Waaarp, air-piano! Ba-da-da-da-da-da-dum!
Pause… laugh along with the band, man, you guys are great… and piano!
Ba-da-da-da-da-da-dum!
Trumpets, tubas, whatever the fuck they are, air-play those!
Drop ’em (I’m not worried if they get scratched) and back on the piano.
My feet are pressing the pedals,
I’m making the sounds ring,
they’re flying,
I’m flying.
My lower back and my stomach, convulsing.
Back to the trumpets! Come on, people. Get in here!
I want to hear the thunderous march of your ambition!
The spine-curling cry of your despair!
March march march!
Grip at the air with your instruments and play a goddam song.
We don’t see the melodies, so why should we see the instruments?
And now strip away. One goes.
The other goes.
Just a tinkling piano.
A smashing on the cymbals. Pssshh!
And a squealing trumpet.
And slump, head down, into silence.
[Let’s go to Lon Gisland.]
Woah. I wish I could get so physically into music whilst listening to it. My feet get tapping and my head starts nodding and even this amount of movement makes me think I’m drawing attention to myself. Even when listening alone, I can’t bare the thought of someone walking in and seeing me in that state. I sing sometimes and get reproachful looks from my parents and screams to shut up. Evidently, I either need to move out and get an apartment with great acoustics, or learn to physically love each note and instrument. Perhaps both.
Also. I like how you wrote that. Very… onomatopoeia-like. Look grade 3 teacher, that word was absolutely worth learning! “Onomatopoeia”. This has been it’s only instance of use since then, but I’m glad that frenzy of vowels was there for a reason.