An Essay I Wrote Without My Parents Consent.We see the eyes. And they wander, trying to find safety in the music that repeats itself. Yet it is always evolving. SHRINKING MOON. The voice echoes over the droning guitars bringing the focus back in on the set drum beat, set by the rhythm of the song which is setting itself by the space they are performing in. feet start to tap, fingers tap. It is ‘nice’. No: Confusing, what does it mean though? It has nothing behind it to make you listen but you do because you can and you want to see through it and be understanding and knowledgeable but maybe you’re not supposed to.
Just see where it goes.
FALL, THE SUN RISES, CUTS THROUGH THE BLACK CLOUDS.
The piece has changed it had captured me enough so that when I see myself watching it I was so concentrated and focused I didn't notice the instruments changing the voices sticking in your mind. “What does it all mean?” Is not a question it seems to be a fact of what the genre is.
A sound starts to be played in the perceived reverse of what may just be a sound pan in an inverted way. Our ears pick up the harmony and melodies sounding correct and the music sounds like music to our ears. Yet the me I am watching is looking deeper perhaps he has a deeper understanding of this strand of noise and sound than i do. He says “A Sound Is Not A Sound”. This is what I say but he understands it. He thinks this music has more than just a nice harmony that makes it sound good as I said, he believes it has a feeling a sense of place, perhaps a
preset atmosphere.
"The composer was weeping onto the paper", he says.
Now we read it and we learn it but we do not cry.
We just think its 'nice'.
