The Day The Music Died

I was playing in the band last night.

It’s always fun, loud, and late. We tried some acoustic stuff, a little more mellow.

There was a guy there, sitting in—not jamming, just listening—a bass player with a metal band. He stayed the course—about four hours’ worth—so I guess he was having fun, and even though it was an audience of one, it put an edge on the music.

In the breaks, we talked about this and that. Foremost, about music and musicians. Killer versions of particular songs, old guys still smoking dope who had trouble remembering lyrics, a Brazilian dude who could do more with a snare and a couple of other drums that most guys with a full kit, and of course, gear. Snare drums at two grand? Are you kidding me?

Time to put up my favorite Goodfellas meme (again).

We had a go at singing a very beautiful love song—Baby I Love Your Way, by Peter Frampton. It’s sung in a very high register, so our audience’s suggestion was to detune the guitars—that way, you keep the chord structure, which is also beautiful.

Of course, that means detuning a couple of electric guitars and the bass—hardship duty, really, for just one tune. Not a problem for our friend, “you just need three other instruments tuned to the right key.”

But it was audiences and musicians that we turned to most often. The former have disappeared, and the latter are on their way out.

This disaster is true across the performing arts, but to different degrees—movies now have a sitting room audience, with much viewing going on in sub-zero temperatures, as in Netflix ‘n chill. Soaps are ten-a-penny, with new series—mostly crap—popping out of the woodwork daily.

So I guess actors are still doing okay—all the way from adverts to Oscars.

But where it all breaks down is with live music, and that’s across the board. From rock in bars to elevator music in hotel dining rooms, performers are going through a terrible year.

But let’s face it, rock is particularly bad. Badly paid anyhow, it’s all about crowds, drink, drugs, and excitement—talk about COVID-friendly.

The famous 1970s hit American Pie sings about ‘the day the music died’, widely considered to be a reference to the plane crash that killed Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and the Big Bopper.

Van Morrison, seventy-five years old—and now Sir Van, which sounds like a resurrection of British Leyland—is releasing three anti-lockdown songs in protest of scientists “making up crooked facts” to justify measures that “enslave” the population.

He goes on to sing “The new normal, is not normal, We were born to be free.”

I’ve always been a big fan of his, and I think artists need strong support this year that the music died, but this isn’t the way to go, as another chap in his age group recently discovered.

Oops, wrong turn…

The US opposition leaders who’ve come out to wish the orange man a speedy recovery—although I expect they’d suggest that as a precaution he remain in hospital for thirty-one days—have shown America a high road which has been sadly lacking, as seen in the presidential debate.

I too wish him and his family well, and a quick return in full health to whatever the future may bring after leaving the office he currently holds.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

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