Random Thursday (ˈrandəm ˈTHərzdā): the day on which Sarah plunks down all the odd bits and pieces she’s acquired during the week in an effort to avoid writing a real post, the assembly of which usually ends up taking twice as much time as actually sitting down and creating real content.
This week, I have three buskers playing highly individual instruments and one FTW musical reproof . Thanks go to Kev, Lillygriff, and . . . um . . . that really cool person I follow on Twitter? You know who you are, right?
Here you go:
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Woking Music:
The young man doing incredible things with modified cookware* is Daniel Waples.
The things I like best about this is that he’s have so much fun, and he’s got two of these instruments.
OOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOO
Just Listen:
Bryson Andres plays the electric violin. And he plays it very, very well.
I’m told that none of this piece is pre-recorded. See that red pedal he’s stepping on? As he plays, he’s recording brief tracks—if I were showing off, I’d call them ostinatos**— and his equipment plays them back as he moves on.
That’s how he’s layering this incredible music.
It’s all him.
OOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOO
Name that instrument!
Seriously, what is it? ‘Cause I’m not Googling “air mouth organ” ever, ever again.***
This gentleman bills himself as The Human Jukebox, and who am I to argue?
A challenge for those of us who were past the larval stage during the last decade of the previous century: turn off the commentary on the screen—don’t ask me, ask your kids—and see how many tunes you can name.
The ‘nineties have so much to answer for . . . But not as much as the ‘eighties.
Trust me.
OOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOO
Pure, Scornful Class
Lukáš Kmiť delivers the most beautiful response to a cell phone interruption, ever:
Bravo, Sir!
There’s a special place in Dante’s Hell for people who don’t turn off their cell phones in theaters.^ Or text on their glowing screens after the lights go down.
Or don’t bother putting ’em on vibrate at the library—hey, if I gotta, you gotta.
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*I can’t ever show this one to my kids—they’ve already comandeered most of my bowls and wooden spoons for various activities, and I hope never to find out what they’re doing with my potato masher. If one more cooking utensil disappears, I swear I’ll use their Monster High dolls as whisks.
**See, Mom? That first year of college wasn’t a total waste.
***EDIT: a friend has just told me that it’s a melodica and that they come in right- and left-handed versions. She used to play one in second grade. All I was given in second grade was a plastic recorder and a couple of wooden sticks to smack together. . .
^It’s a giant hall full of uncomfortable seats, and demons drone Chekovian monologues with no repetitions, no intermissions and no napping allowed. If the damned can learn and recite a single monologue without a single mistake, they can leave. But just as each demon gets to the last few lines of the very last stanza, its words are drowned out by M.C. Hammer’s “Can’t Touch This” at top volume. Every single time. For eternity.
Earful of Cider 