Following the can lately has given me my love of Peter for the Beatles, (we made the plan to destroy one of his albums in the next Audio course), I keep thinking about the loneliness of musical tastes - all that will happen? - and I wonder, for the umpteenth time, why conditions.
I'm sure that has to do with intimate and tender moments that are attacking us over there, with sudden flashes of light in which children suddenly ordering the cosmos, with moments of fragility or class origin, with intelligence, with chance.
Still too many variables, and finally nothing explains why only my understanding of music as me, and I do not understand how can you like x ...
Now there are companies that are dedicated to making analytical information on successful components of songs, develop complex programs for publishers to maximize their resources on the safe bet. Fortunately fail ... if I'm going to feel even more alone.
The only object of study I have on hand myself, and, for starters, I have been able to identify feelings that have to do with the nights when my mother read me or Sandokan adventures of Tintin. Hergé Salgari
have in common and very vivid descriptions of places they had never seen romanticizing , if I may, the environments in which they placed their stories, it provides them with a particular power, and have an ability to stimulate enormous imagination, perhaps stronger by the fact of having to promote themselves to make credible his stories, or his own need to escape. This false
exoticism, that need to travel without leaving one's head was inoculated me since childhood, and has resulted in music search. Maybe so, but a couple of exceptions, can not stand the rock in English: me too real and immediate, words weigh more than the music, and words of the rockers rarely interest me. The music, while mystery, resists understanding. So I am a musician.
And strange things have happened to me, for example: flamenco gave me a huge fascination while living in Mexico. Their sound, their strength, were added to the illusion of having roots in another country that gave new meaning to my life. Now that I've walked their land, their flavors tasted, smelled its aroma, has ceased to interest me at all. I appreciate it as a genre and I enjoy it rationally, but for me it has lost its magic. It is no longer exotic. To make sense in context is dead fantasy.
intangible worlds to which music takes me is so real and horrible and dirty street because are music, and music is absolutely real.
are part of it as much as the instruments that play music or pancreas. Are possible universes, infinite and individual, and each contains a unique collection of music for each spirit.
The travel route is often lonely. At most we can hope for is a fortuitous collision, sporadic connections, a laugh here, a crybaby there.
As I say, as real as life itself.
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