As honorable readers of these humble chronicles have noted, every once in a while I crank some music on the box at major volume that wafts out over the road and the paddies and the forests in waves of Doo-wop, Doors, Zappa, Dylan, Van Morrison, Redding, Springsteen, Pickett et al. (one tends to outgrow the less-than-seminal), and during rice-growing time, as the elderly farmers (they're mostly elderly now) come riding up the mountain on their scooters to tend their paddies and pass through the wafting (more like tidal) waves of sound, even from their seats in motor loudness they turn-- from the purely Japanese-countryside musical past they carry in their heads-- toward my open windows whence the strange but intriguing foreign chords are flooding... could that be... could it be...The Pixies they've never heard of, asking Whe-e-e-ere is My Mi-i-indd-d-d?? They pass on through the audioflood, faces unchanged, but somewhere deep in their sonic psyches a chord has been struck, and they are certain of more than the foreigner's bizarre taste in music: there is that little bit more to their world, now, than there was before, of a nature that is...new. Thus do cultures intermingle over the generations and the centuries, grow into the new worlds our descendants will discover and delight in, like The Pixies on Pure Land Mountain.
Wednesday, August 07, 2002
PURE LAND FARMERS MEET THE PIXIES
As honorable readers of these humble chronicles have noted, every once in a while I crank some music on the box at major volume that wafts out over the road and the paddies and the forests in waves of Doo-wop, Doors, Zappa, Dylan, Van Morrison, Redding, Springsteen, Pickett et al. (one tends to outgrow the less-than-seminal), and during rice-growing time, as the elderly farmers (they're mostly elderly now) come riding up the mountain on their scooters to tend their paddies and pass through the wafting (more like tidal) waves of sound, even from their seats in motor loudness they turn-- from the purely Japanese-countryside musical past they carry in their heads-- toward my open windows whence the strange but intriguing foreign chords are flooding... could that be... could it be...The Pixies they've never heard of, asking Whe-e-e-ere is My Mi-i-indd-d-d?? They pass on through the audioflood, faces unchanged, but somewhere deep in their sonic psyches a chord has been struck, and they are certain of more than the foreigner's bizarre taste in music: there is that little bit more to their world, now, than there was before, of a nature that is...new. Thus do cultures intermingle over the generations and the centuries, grow into the new worlds our descendants will discover and delight in, like The Pixies on Pure Land Mountain.
As honorable readers of these humble chronicles have noted, every once in a while I crank some music on the box at major volume that wafts out over the road and the paddies and the forests in waves of Doo-wop, Doors, Zappa, Dylan, Van Morrison, Redding, Springsteen, Pickett et al. (one tends to outgrow the less-than-seminal), and during rice-growing time, as the elderly farmers (they're mostly elderly now) come riding up the mountain on their scooters to tend their paddies and pass through the wafting (more like tidal) waves of sound, even from their seats in motor loudness they turn-- from the purely Japanese-countryside musical past they carry in their heads-- toward my open windows whence the strange but intriguing foreign chords are flooding... could that be... could it be...The Pixies they've never heard of, asking Whe-e-e-ere is My Mi-i-indd-d-d?? They pass on through the audioflood, faces unchanged, but somewhere deep in their sonic psyches a chord has been struck, and they are certain of more than the foreigner's bizarre taste in music: there is that little bit more to their world, now, than there was before, of a nature that is...new. Thus do cultures intermingle over the generations and the centuries, grow into the new worlds our descendants will discover and delight in, like The Pixies on Pure Land Mountain.
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