“. . .got some John Coltrane on the stereo, mama, make you feel all right.”
John Coltrane Stereo Blues
Dream Syndicate
Hear the world as it is.
Also see, feel, touch, and smell it.
It is messy, yes, often sad,
Sometimes repulsive,
Now and then heartbreaking.
Also see, feel, touch, and smell it.
It is messy, yes, often sad,
Sometimes repulsive,
Now and then heartbreaking.
But the notes are pure and true,
Breaking through the noise,
Without which they are sterile.
The racket aura over which they play
Is what expresses the soul.
Music transports but what it transports from
Must be part of the hearing.
It must struggle up against the racket.
The purity of music is not in some drab sterility,
But in its convulsive, almost hysterical cry
Against that very cleanliness that would strip it
Of its eroticism, its sex, its fuck-me-nowness.
Sex and music should be filthy.
(in the good sense. . .ha)
poetastrophy 