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pecuniumThinking on Dickens, and this week, I realise part of what I like about fair(e)s.
It's the music. Billy Joel (and Sheryl Crow) have lauded the joys of living in an age where music is avaiable to all, anytime we want to spin a disk.
They are right, being able to hear Wynton Marsalis, and an orchestra, play Haydn's trumpet concerto, anytime I'm of a mind is glorius. It's wonderful that I can have whatever inspiration, comfort, amusement; or mere background noise, I want. Jug bands from the bayou, to choirs, to recordings of my performances in high school, all of them are available, anytime I want them.
Hank Willams isn't dead. Johnny Cash is still wearing black, Mozart survives his grave; all of it inspires, and none of it is gone.
But the sound of a single set of lungs bringing melody from a penny whistle, the thumping of a bodhran, half a dozen voices lifting a madrigal out of thin air, a chorus wishing all who hear to rest merry; it's precious.
This weekend at Dickens, I played the pennywhistle and chlidren looked on in wonder. Later I, in my meagre way joined, the crowded chorus singing carols and made it better.
Music... it makes the participant more than just himself, it lifts us from the everyday, and lets us rise, when we take part; even when the song is simple, to a place sublime.
It's the music. Billy Joel (and Sheryl Crow) have lauded the joys of living in an age where music is avaiable to all, anytime we want to spin a disk.
They are right, being able to hear Wynton Marsalis, and an orchestra, play Haydn's trumpet concerto, anytime I'm of a mind is glorius. It's wonderful that I can have whatever inspiration, comfort, amusement; or mere background noise, I want. Jug bands from the bayou, to choirs, to recordings of my performances in high school, all of them are available, anytime I want them.
Hank Willams isn't dead. Johnny Cash is still wearing black, Mozart survives his grave; all of it inspires, and none of it is gone.
But the sound of a single set of lungs bringing melody from a penny whistle, the thumping of a bodhran, half a dozen voices lifting a madrigal out of thin air, a chorus wishing all who hear to rest merry; it's precious.
This weekend at Dickens, I played the pennywhistle and chlidren looked on in wonder. Later I, in my meagre way joined, the crowded chorus singing carols and made it better.
Music... it makes the participant more than just himself, it lifts us from the everyday, and lets us rise, when we take part; even when the song is simple, to a place sublime.
