FYI:
It is very nearly impossible to tango to Pink Floyd.
Showing posts with label DJ Dave. Show all posts
Showing posts with label DJ Dave. Show all posts
Monday, April 30, 2007
Friday, April 27, 2007
DJ Dave's Convert Strays
I am acting out.
I am sick sick sick of hothouse conventions.
Overpolite
Strictures dictating
Acceptable
Behavior
Who is the boss of me? Not you!
Not the keepers of the flame!
Whoever said good fences make good neighbors
should have stuck with apple-picking.
So what if he was right? He was
frosty at the soul, his heart encased in ice.
I am the fire this time, and you can’t keep me
Down. There is something that doesn’t love a rule.
I am the boss of me. I say, let ‘er rip!
Are you taken aback?
You measure out your life with coffee spoons.
Bite me.
Tonight I act
out!
(And how should I begin?
Quickly now, dive in!
There will be time to wonder “Do I dare?” and “Do I dare?”
There will be time to fix my hair.
And later, eat a peach.)
Tonight
On the polished wood floors of #6 Downing
A new tattoo of footsteps.
In the elegant rooms below, a woman looks up.
Her tiny dog gives a civilized yip.
She arranges a pillow, throws off her shawl,
Returns to her picture book, Michealangelo's art
She bought for her coffee table but much enjoys
By scented candlelight.
Music flies out the window, into the trees.
I am my own damn dervish. I whirl to the beat of my very own drum.
French blues. Motown. Windham Hill. Celtic crap. Bach.
DiSarli, take a seat.
Don’t tell DJ Dave.
Read earlier post: DJ Dave Makes a Convert
Read about coffeespoons, Michaelangelo, peaches etc: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
I am sick sick sick of hothouse conventions.
Overpolite
Strictures dictating
Acceptable
Behavior
Who is the boss of me? Not you!
Not the keepers of the flame!
Whoever said good fences make good neighbors
should have stuck with apple-picking.
So what if he was right? He was
frosty at the soul, his heart encased in ice.
I am the fire this time, and you can’t keep me
Down. There is something that doesn’t love a rule.
I am the boss of me. I say, let ‘er rip!
Are you taken aback?
You measure out your life with coffee spoons.
Bite me.
Tonight I act
out!
(And how should I begin?
Quickly now, dive in!
There will be time to wonder “Do I dare?” and “Do I dare?”
There will be time to fix my hair.
And later, eat a peach.)
Tonight
On the polished wood floors of #6 Downing
A new tattoo of footsteps.
In the elegant rooms below, a woman looks up.
Her tiny dog gives a civilized yip.
She arranges a pillow, throws off her shawl,
Returns to her picture book, Michealangelo's art
She bought for her coffee table but much enjoys
By scented candlelight.
Music flies out the window, into the trees.
I am my own damn dervish. I whirl to the beat of my very own drum.
French blues. Motown. Windham Hill. Celtic crap. Bach.
DiSarli, take a seat.
Don’t tell DJ Dave.
Read earlier post: DJ Dave Makes a Convert
Read about coffeespoons, Michaelangelo, peaches etc: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
Saturday, January 20, 2007
DJ Dave Makes a Convert
DJ Dave says you should never buy tango music from Virgin Records. I tell him I bought a sampler from Twist and Shou...
"Get your money back," he says. He doesn't even ask what I got.
Fat lot he knows. Two to Tango was hard to get used to, but after two months it is growing on me. I am not at home in any of the songs yet, but if I concentrate hard I can work my way into them. What can I expect? This is not my native musical milieu.
So when it comes time to practice, I hesitate. The new CDs will take some getting used to. It's hard enough to feel the music I know. Do I want to start over with somebody new?
Di Sarli. I've heard of him, of course. I'm sure I've heard his stuff in class, but I wouldn't recognize him. DJ Dave sent him home with me. Nina and Grisha and Chaz get giddy when they talk about him. OK, in you go.
Oh.
Oh, yes.
The best wine you have ever tasted, $1200 a bottle, sipped from the glass of a woman in love. The head of a newborn cupped in your palm. The quality of moonlight as it falls on the hands of a waiter serving truffles with eggs at midnight in the courtyard of Le Cygne, Vincennes. The mouth-feel of the names as you same them aloud: Podestá y Di Sarli.
Instruments lust to be played so. My feet move to my shoes.
Tomorrow I will see about getting my money back.
"Get your money back," he says. He doesn't even ask what I got.
Fat lot he knows. Two to Tango was hard to get used to, but after two months it is growing on me. I am not at home in any of the songs yet, but if I concentrate hard I can work my way into them. What can I expect? This is not my native musical milieu.
So when it comes time to practice, I hesitate. The new CDs will take some getting used to. It's hard enough to feel the music I know. Do I want to start over with somebody new?
Di Sarli. I've heard of him, of course. I'm sure I've heard his stuff in class, but I wouldn't recognize him. DJ Dave sent him home with me. Nina and Grisha and Chaz get giddy when they talk about him. OK, in you go.
Oh.
Oh, yes.
The best wine you have ever tasted, $1200 a bottle, sipped from the glass of a woman in love. The head of a newborn cupped in your palm. The quality of moonlight as it falls on the hands of a waiter serving truffles with eggs at midnight in the courtyard of Le Cygne, Vincennes. The mouth-feel of the names as you same them aloud: Podestá y Di Sarli.
Instruments lust to be played so. My feet move to my shoes.
Tomorrow I will see about getting my money back.
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