Its very grey, rainy, and cold here at Spider House Cafe. Most of my best blog posts are written from this very spot. Of course I doubt the enviroment here today is going to allow any writings of worth.
There is a herd of hippies sitting directly behind me with instruments; one guitar, one recorder, and one girl who occcassionaly sings some sort of pseudo spirtual mumbo-jumbo. But what they play is not music; what you hear is the sound of chaos! The guitarist knows about 8 flaminco rifts in disconnected keys. The woman is stoned out of her mind (i hope). The recorder player....oh the recorder player.
As far as I'm concerned, it's common sense that cream-colored, plastic, 10 dollar recorders are not to be played outside of 5th grade music class -- and best case scenario, one is able to create in-tune squeaks with it. Yet, this bard disagrees with such conventional wisdom. In fact, this virtuoso of the recorder insists on fully expressing himself -- and his whiteboy rastaman vibe -- through the mouth piece of the horrid object. The resulting sound is that of pigs being slaughtered. I'm hearing things at this moment that are so grotesque, so horrible, that if you were to hear a recording of it, you would flee in horror! More notes later... its cold, I'm moving inside.