We don’t have to be a despotic emperor to enjoy self-produced melody while the capital of our civilization is threatened by fire. Here a couple of steps into the 21st century we have more reach for our tunes than old Nero could ever have imagined.
So how does its work you ask?
One, we get out our violins. Yours might be pink and eschewing the traditional wasp-waist shape. Mine might emit a gentle glow of polished wood as I lift it from its case. My violinny looking instrument may cause some to laugh. Your wacky colored electro fiddle may cause others to scoff. No matter.
Some, of course, will continue to follow the conventional approach bow on strings to etch out their melody. Others may beat their instrument drum-like until they hold only strung together pieces clattering through the air. Still, others will find strange and wonderful new ways to make their fiddle “sing.”
Recently, a young man garbed his violin in only a coat and plucked the strings like a trigger before some Philistine in the audience grabbed the instrument and ended the concert. That’s what he deserved for playing in a Waffle House.
Another unfortunate venue for music these days has been found in public restrooms. I admit the acoustics ring sharp and long in such a place. Parents play songs of protection for their children. Those of shifting genders stridently respond with angry counterpoint. The musical battle rises to such levels that I just wait until I get home.
Our corporate leaders live as detached foot tappers, who have to get in on the strings, so they raise melodies that the cacophony of the halls of government (another venue of marvelous acoustics) can’t get together. Instead, the players of the government string section emit mews like lost kittens. They live just as herdable as those tiny felines, queuing up for the benefits and forgetting any notes from the second before.
Meanwhile, the violin smashers are feeling ignored. They cast their pieces into a huge pile, take up gasoline and match. The blaze begins from their strengthened hands. The flames crackle as if laughing at any tone but its own. As the energy spreads to more dashed fiddles the melody broadens to a roar as lacquer and polish and paint goes up in a flash eating away wood hundreds of years old right beside wood harvested humanely just yesterday.
Bonfires can radiate such heat that we have to back away or melt in sweat. This conflagration drives scores to their corners. If a fire could be said to live, this one seems bent on consuming every scrap of wood its waving tongues can wrap up.
A maestro steps forward, undaunted by it all. Soon several surround the party, their faces quavering in shadows and heat waves as the rest of us look on. These few take up their instruments. And for a lonely minute, we hear a high and noble melody rise with equally brave harmonies. Sweating and smoking these few continue to play as their hair begins to smolder. The flames penetrate their hearts as the final chord of their song swims through the shimmering air to us.
