High Standards. Have Them.

I think I threatened to talk about music. It’s far too important to me to let you fuck with it in your heads. I can’t even start, crippled by the critical. Who isn’t? (I don’t have to be offensive, but I like to test you.)

What if you don’t care about music?

That’s your first mistake. You need the education the most, do your best to read on, for your own sake. I promise you some saucy sex and a bit of violence, if that helps. Be sure to remind me.

My only rule is that it must move me. It sounds quite simple, and it is, if it doesn’t affect me, none of the rest matters. But after you have wrung all that you can from me, I will want more. I will need something to feed on, something to learn, to love, and to hate. What are you saying, how, and why?

I give you a few examples, at each end of the spectrum. Reach for heaven and find the masters, Radiohead, Sigur Ros, Olafur Arnalds, Ludovico Einaudi, Yann Tiersen, yes, the devil has his favourites. Look down at what you have escaped, the sick, lovely lustre of something like beyonce. Don’t touch it, it will stain.

In between there is a world of music that the ancients could never imagine. Where are the classics, you ask? In virtuosity untouchable, in heart strangely lacking, in soul, it very much depends on what you are listening to.

Let me say it here, the Moonlight Sonata does not bring moonlight to mind. It leaves no room for it, in fact, a brief introduction then she is whisked away in wilds of music that have nothing to do with her. I’ve spent centuries watching her, I know her intimately, she is many things but there is no gaiety in her.

A female force, a power, a teacher, she is essentially cold. The kind and colour of cold that inspires heat, ignites it in the careful eye. An enigma that is difficult to visualize with music, if you get my meaning. Hard enough to do with words.

Sex and violence, are you ready for some?

Read my book, “A God in Chains,” (as soon as you can, patience my children, it cometh) where you will learn about the torrid sex between the love of my life Aela, and a certain lead singer of a certain legendary band of musicians, under my own roof. (Radiohead, in flagrant disregard of the guest/host relationship.) For violence, imagine what I would do to him if I didn’t love his voice so much. I suggest a few rounds of video games for the visuals, really, they can’t be beat. Better than the real thing, almost.

I recommend some time spent listening, good headphones only. Sell your anything, just get them. Radiohead, start with “Burn the Witch,” and really listen, then “Scatterbrain,” because I love it. Move on to Sigur Ros, find “Festival,” live, for a different kind of brilliant, brave “Ovedure,” if you like things dark. Reach for hope with Yann Tiersen and “I’m Gonna Live Anyhow”. Finish with Olafur Arnalds, “Ljósiò” and hold it in your hands.

Reflect on what it means that such a heaven is made by mere mortals. God knows I do. Push repeat.