Refreshed, resolved resolve to post on this blog every day. It is a jukebox, after all.
This quote made me do it:
“We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.”
Aristotle
I can't guarantee excellence at every turn (again, a jukebox), but nothing's pulling the plug outta the socket on this machine.
Showing posts with label Tubas in Rock Songs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tubas in Rock Songs. Show all posts
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
You've Got to Learn to Grit Your Teeth and Smile
God, I love a tuba in a rock song*. Those sonorous, farty notes are so...unexpected. Swollen. Emphatic. Merry. And mournful. Like you musically captured the character of Falstaff.
A tuba brays, "For-get. For-get. For-or-get."
Kidz, if you really want to replace the bass, try a tuba. You get someone playing that big brass tulip and squatting and pitching on your stage, you got a show!
I'm reminded suddenly of whatever band or other--or stray members of a band--I encountered one night at the Uptowner bar in Milwaukee years ago. It was one of those moments when you walk into something that's in full monkey-swing. We opened the door and the bar, typically full, was chattering, but its din was muted by the duo in at the back of the room. One played a drum, standing up, or maybe guitar, and the other was just singing into the mike, I think, wearing an industrial barrel that he'd cut open at either end and that had the words C*NT LUBE scrawled in paint across its broadest part.
When I first recall that, whatever that was, I think they were playing a tuba. Only they weren't.
*see also:
A tuba brays, "For-get. For-get. For-or-get."
Kidz, if you really want to replace the bass, try a tuba. You get someone playing that big brass tulip and squatting and pitching on your stage, you got a show!
I'm reminded suddenly of whatever band or other--or stray members of a band--I encountered one night at the Uptowner bar in Milwaukee years ago. It was one of those moments when you walk into something that's in full monkey-swing. We opened the door and the bar, typically full, was chattering, but its din was muted by the duo in at the back of the room. One played a drum, standing up, or maybe guitar, and the other was just singing into the mike, I think, wearing an industrial barrel that he'd cut open at either end and that had the words C*NT LUBE scrawled in paint across its broadest part.
When I first recall that, whatever that was, I think they were playing a tuba. Only they weren't.
*see also:
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