All Quotes By Tag: Music
“The most important key to bettering yourself – is just that “yourself” – (g swiss)”
“Marie-Louise Mallet emphasizes the decreased control over the experience of listening as opposed to looking:To look is to choose one’s point of view. [ . . . ] To listen is to be “touched” without ever being able to touch what touches us, without being able to seize or retain it. [ . . . ] It is to hear what one listens to take its distance, lose itself like a fleeting echo. To listen is to not be able to maintain, to keep present. It is not being able to retain. It’s to not be able to come back. [ . . . ] What has been heard will be kept only in memory, that is, kept as lost, without ever assuring that we have heard well, without being able to reassure ourselves.”
“পূরবীতেই বা কেন সন্ধ্যাকাল মনে আসে আর ভৈঁরোতেই বা কেন প্রভাত মনে আসে? পূরবীতেও কোমল সুরের বাহুল্য, আর ভৈঁরোতেও কোমল সুরের বাহুল্য, তবে উভয়েতে বিভিন্ন ফল উৎপন্ন করে কেন?”দেখা গিয়েছে আমাদের দিবাবসানের রাগিনীতে কোমল রেখাব এবং কড়ি মধ্যমের যোগই বিশেষ লক্ষ্য করিবার বিষয়- এবং ভৈঁরোতে কোমল রেখাব লাগে বটে কিন্তু কড়ি মধ্যম লাগে না, শুদ্ধ মধ্যম লাগে, এই সামান্য প্রভেদেই প্রথমত সুরের মূর্তি অনেক পরিবর্তন হইয়া যায় তাহার পরে অন্যান্য প্রভেদও আছে ।”
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“My idea of success has little to do with fame. I just wanted to know if I could play with the best musicians in the business.”
“you have to have the fight to win to win the fight – (G Swiss)”
“Music is formed by instruments, framed with notes, paced by our hands playing with Time, but above all, it is made up of emotions. It transports you back to moments when you felt most alive. If it doesn’t release your locked feelings, music is just air.”
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“Music is the only place where time does not exist.”
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“And then the finale, its four modest notes. Do, re, fa, mi: half a jumbled scale. Too simple to be called invented. But the thing spills out into the world like one of those African antelopes that fall from the womb, still wet with afterbirth but already running. Young Peter props up on his elbows, ambushed by a memory from the future. The shuffled half scale gathers mass; it sucks up other melodies into its gravity. Tunes and countertunes split off and replicate, chasing each other in a cosmic game of tag. At two minutes, a trapdoor opens beneath the boy. The first floor of the house dissolves above a gaping hole. Boy, stereo, speaker boxes, the love seat he sits on: all hang in place, floating on the gusher of sonority pouring into the room. […] All he wants to do forever is to take the magnificent timepiece apart and put its meshed gears back together again. To recover that feeling of being clear, present, here, various and vibrant, as huge and noble as an outer planet.”
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“For some reason, the sight of snow descending on fire always makes me think of the ancient world – legionaries in sheepskin warming themselves at a brazier: mountain altars where offerings glow between wintry pillars; centaurs with torches cantering beside a frozen sea – scattered, unco-ordinated shapes from a fabulous past, infinitely removed from life; and yet bringing with them memories of things real and imagined. These classical projections, and something in the physical attitudes of the men themselves as they turned from the fire, suddenly suggested Poussin’s scene in which the Seasons, hand in hand and facing outward, tread in rhythm to the notes of the lyre that the winged and naked greybeard plays. The image of Time brought thoughts of mortality: of human beings, facing outwards like the Seasons, moving hand in hand in intricate measure: stepping slowly, methodically, sometimes a trifle awkwardly, in evolutions that take recognisable shape: or breaking into seeminly meaningless gyrations, while partners disappear only to reappear again, once more giving pattern to the spectacle: unable to control the melody, unable, perhaps, to control the steps of the dance.”
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“The smoke detectors began to ring; for they were battery-powered and thus still functioned, just as a record can still be played after the death of every member of the orchestra.”
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“Back in the days before CDs, or even cassette recordings, I would spend hours consumed with listening to rhythmic vinyl record albums, unaware that they infiltrated my subconscious with mystical religiosity.”
“The Qu’ran is God’s song, not ours, not even Muhammad’s. To allow such a song to pass through one’s body, however imperfectly, is to discover that the instrument is transformed by the music.”
“At Camp Don Bosco, there were Bibles all over the place, mostly 1970s hippie versions like Good News for Modern Man. They had groovy titles like The Word or The Way, and translated the Bible into “contemporary English,” which meant Saul yelling at Jonathan, “You son of a bitch!” (I Samuel 20:30). Awesome! The King James version gave this verse as “Thou son of the perverse rebellious woman,” which was bogus in comparison. Maybe these translations went a bit far. I recall one of the Bibles translating the inscription over the cross, “INRI” (Iesus Nazaremus Rex Iudaeorum), as “SSDD” (Same Shit Different Day), and another describing the Last Supper — the night before Jesus’ death, a death he freely accepted — where Jesus breaks the bread, gives it to his disciples, and says, “It’s better to burn out than fade away,” but these memories could be deceptive.”
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“It doesn’t matter how many drugs I take, I’m not fulfilled. This isn’t satisfying. There’s a spiritual hunger going on. Everybody feels it. If you don’t feel it now, you will. Trust me. You will… Drinking beer is easy. Trashing your hotel room is easy. But being a Christian, that’s a tough call. That’s the real rebellion.”
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