A multimedia puzzle-story of an immortal being's struggle to define and exert their will upon a wholly deterministic and ambivalent multiverse, and the art-obsessed cult who loves them.
Everything is music. Small pebbles, seashells, grains of sand, reuben sandwiches, buckets of lye, ash, planets, comets, popsicles, prosthetic arms, careless whispers, midnight confessions, empty bags of flaming hot cheetos, satellites which emit brain piercing beams of pink light, tin cans rattling in the gutter, delusions, legumes, insects, octopi, earthworms, vampires, fingernails, heavy artillery, 20 dollar bills, old matchbox cars dug up in the backyard, telephone poles, chunks of quartz, subterranean pools of liquid mercury, ibuprofen, mysterious religious artifacts, pyramids, serpent tongues, bird beaks, and those bits of dry crusty food that fell beneath the burner on the stove. All are music.
I was running through a desert landscape of white glassy sand, dodging behind towering obelisks of obsidian, while a UFO hovers overhead, dangling long shiny black vacuum hoses which suck me up into the belly of the ship with a group of people some of whom I recognize, others I do not. We are trying to figure out how to sneak past the guys in the white lab coats when I realize I am able to transform myself into a statue sitting on s shelf and wait for the right moment to make a move for the long stainless steel hallway to the heart of the mothership. From the statue I am able to astrally project my consciousness into a mainframe computer and temporarily manipulate spacetime. Meanwhile an ex-girlfriend kisses me gently on the forehead and cheeks, stroking my head with hands tipped by gloriously beautifully decorated fingernails, assuring me that I must write a symphony in order to escape and free the others.
I would start by changing this question to "what is your favorite food right now at this moment?" The answer is Nashville hot chicken.
Twinkle twinkle little star, and the ABC song.
Blue Öyster Cult, Cardiacs, Residents, Art Bears, King Crimson, Fred Frith, John Zorn, Herbie Hancock, Yes, Neu, Can, AR & Machines, Hawkwind, Einsteurzende Neubaten, Paganini, JS Bach, Zappa, Nektar, Camel, Gentle Giant, Alan Parsons Project, Peter Gabriel, Laurie Anderson, John Cage, Lou Reed, Diamanda Galas, Sun Ra, Yoko Ono, Edgard Varèse, Bjork, Butthole Surfers, Gong, Eno, Pere Ubu, Soft Machine, Sonic Youth, Mr. Bungle, Henry Cow, Amon Duul, Robert Wyatt, Bill Laswell, Claude Debussy, Phillip Glass
Am eternally living and continually reincarnating mythological being known as "The Shining One."
"Send Snacks"
Like a fire and brimstone preacher of the end times.
More focus on creative freedom and the personal liberty of creators. Artists should be provided with a UBI (universal basic income) in return for their lifelong service to the art of creation. Money should never drive art. The complete and utter destruction and subsequent eradication of all capitalist thought and intent would be a good start. More people should read Josephine the Singer by Franz Kafka.
It's ok. Getting better again as more diverse folks use it. Seems like a refuge for lots of jaded old burnouts. Which speaks equal volumes about me as well as the other users here.
Elevated mediocrity. Music that is created with a marketing mind which considers its "target audience" ahead of time, which deliberately pigeonholes and limits itself to what is potentially profitable. The perception of music consumers which expects music to be a certain thing or sound a certain way, or be performed and presented in a traditional manner.
There are musicians whom I like very much, who seem to be doing the right thing, with the right intent. I despise "music scenes" in general though. They are a cancer. We are the free radicals who work tirelessly to topple the established normal. Those are the people I support.
Desperation. Foolhardiness. A lack of shame. A willingness to put the act of creation above all else at all times. To never consider what others might think. To make music that is pure and true to your heart, free of expectation.
Size Of Alaska Keepers of the Key Godzoundz