Musical Notes
If Music Be the Food Of Love
The sweltering heat of the summer night was the kind made for jazz. The kind that just made you want to get up and dance to something with a good strong beat, with someone who meant everything.
The strains of an old jazz record being cued start up in the evening, a trumpet's happy tones squeezing through the shades of the window like liquid purity. The simplicity of it all is more than enough to start something beautiful, leaving you at the merciless hands of whatever beauty comes next.
You stand up, slipping slowly into the pulse of the music. Your eyes slide closed; all there is right now is you. You and this beautiful, haunting disease we call music.
It doesn’t take long before you’ve opened your shades and window, leaning out of your room to catch the notes better.
The night is perfectly still – no breeze ruffles your hair and nothing moves. The air is thick, heavy; sticky against your already sweaty skin. The moon has risen, giving light to the forest of pencils you have thrown out the window on too many occasions to count.
The jazz is still playing from somewhere; where exactly, is a question for the ages. It doesn’t really matter right now, though, as you stick your legs out the window and come to lie on the shingled roof.
The heat presses down against your chest, nearly suffocating you, but liberating you at the same time. Just in this moment, right here, right now, you can feel the bass line pushing you away from your body, raising your soul to the sky. Your eyes flicker open and closed, like the stars that are blinking in and out over the clouded sky.
Each breath you take is like breathing in hot water. You can feel the liquid condensing within your throat but it doesn’t matter, because that beautiful jazz is still playing and you’re still lost in its flavour.
The simple snare/cymbal combination almost makes you want to get up and dance again, but the lethargy that has taken over since you’ve lain down is much more overpowering. The trumpet’s light notes slide into your mind, sticking themselves there for just a mere moment until they’re pushed out the other ear to make room for the next.
It don’t mean a thing...
The piano playing middle-octave notes in the background just attributes to the mix of other ingredients in this savoury dessert that is this music. It doesn’t even need the scratchy, yet simply beautiful voice that is and has always been Louis Armstrong.
Here is where you begin to wonder; why is it that music like this makes you inspired; each and every time you listen?
Well, the simple answer is this; that from here you realize the beauty that each person has put into this one song.
And here is where you realize that just by listening, you are putting back the same beauty that is being taken out.
The strains of an old jazz record being cued start up in the evening, a trumpet's happy tones squeezing through the shades of the window like liquid purity. The simplicity of it all is more than enough to start something beautiful, leaving you at the merciless hands of whatever beauty comes next.
You stand up, slipping slowly into the pulse of the music. Your eyes slide closed; all there is right now is you. You and this beautiful, haunting disease we call music.
It doesn’t take long before you’ve opened your shades and window, leaning out of your room to catch the notes better.
The night is perfectly still – no breeze ruffles your hair and nothing moves. The air is thick, heavy; sticky against your already sweaty skin. The moon has risen, giving light to the forest of pencils you have thrown out the window on too many occasions to count.
The jazz is still playing from somewhere; where exactly, is a question for the ages. It doesn’t really matter right now, though, as you stick your legs out the window and come to lie on the shingled roof.
The heat presses down against your chest, nearly suffocating you, but liberating you at the same time. Just in this moment, right here, right now, you can feel the bass line pushing you away from your body, raising your soul to the sky. Your eyes flicker open and closed, like the stars that are blinking in and out over the clouded sky.
Each breath you take is like breathing in hot water. You can feel the liquid condensing within your throat but it doesn’t matter, because that beautiful jazz is still playing and you’re still lost in its flavour.
The simple snare/cymbal combination almost makes you want to get up and dance again, but the lethargy that has taken over since you’ve lain down is much more overpowering. The trumpet’s light notes slide into your mind, sticking themselves there for just a mere moment until they’re pushed out the other ear to make room for the next.
It don’t mean a thing...
The piano playing middle-octave notes in the background just attributes to the mix of other ingredients in this savoury dessert that is this music. It doesn’t even need the scratchy, yet simply beautiful voice that is and has always been Louis Armstrong.
Here is where you begin to wonder; why is it that music like this makes you inspired; each and every time you listen?
Well, the simple answer is this; that from here you realize the beauty that each person has put into this one song.
And here is where you realize that just by listening, you are putting back the same beauty that is being taken out.
♠ ♠ ♠
By princess.