Listen to the Silence - George Russel

Got spotify. Had it once, but shunned fbook then comp got asthma and died. By the time got round to downloading it again it was all newfangled and I didn't get it. That'll teach me for turning my back on networking websites, and not cleaning my desk. Anyway, this time it worked, and though it pains me to say it, I'm content. Missed it as was previously dependent on sites that were great for the new and unknown, but no good for entire albums. Sound quality seems much improved too. I tend to use this blog as a way of keeping track of decent music. If it made the post title it's because it pleased me in some way. I don't want to be a music critic, nor do I want to write for the hell of it if uninspired to write. Whenever the music does not warrant unnecessary wordiness I tend to go off topic. It's more fun. Lack of comment doesn't mean the work was unworthy though, more that no words spring to mind at that particular moment. What I'm listening to now is a good example. It literally has everything. There's groovy percussion, big-band brass, orchestral strings and choral singing. It doesn't fit into a category. Maybe it's modern classical, but that seems a loose term for something so rhythmic. It could be some shade of experimental sound art, but that's too non specific and flat. So, if forced to categorize I'd call it 'operatic jazz', but probably not to it's face.

Jackie Oats - Dream Angus

It's International Women's Day. Phew! So pleased. Will be celebrating by ------ not celebrating. The reason I hesitate before cracking open the fizzy stuff is: I don't believe in it. Call me jaded but, much as I'd like to, I don't feel that progress has been made regarding women's empowerment. Save perhaps my own personal journey (sexist jokes don't bother me as they used to, but I'm practised at it by now; I am what you'd call a bookish rather than sexy woman). Yup tis true that education is the key to equlity, and I don't mean attending school in a blazer, fountain pen at the ready. I mean getting out and doing stuff. A while back I heard someone say that if it's Women's Day today, it's men's for the other 364. I'm inclined to agree. Not sure a single day in which I'm revered for my gender was what I had in mind. Would have preferred good solid respect the year round as a normal hard-working citizen, regardless of what's between my legs! Men get better pay, don't have to bother with maternity leave and are more likely obtain positions of power. Indian males don't get drowned at infancy. Something to do with arranged marriages and dowries. Does it matter??? It's enough to make your blood boil. I happened to catch Nawal el Saadawi, a feminist writer from Egypt on the radio a few months ago. She gave a very moving account of what she went though, such as being told as a girl that, "one man is worth ten women." I remember thinking, "Yea but what if he's a useless c**t." ---- I'm not going to have a rant about men. For one thing, most of them do not displease me. And for another, I cannot be arsed. It does make me wonder though, "Are we feminists just experiencing a bit a bad pmt, or, is it just really f**king hard being female???" I've added Richard Dawkins to my twitter account, being a fan of modern atheist philosophy. I thought nothing of it until one of his tweets popped up on my newsfeed: "Blessed are you, King of the Universe, for not having made me a Gentile." "Blessed are you for not having made me a woman." A copy and paste into google later I could conclude that this was something he himself had written. I found myself feeling angry, then scolded myself for being stupid. It seemed disheartening that a modern scientist and philosopher should make such a seemingly narrow statement. Then again, maybe he was just showing sympathy. An open acknowledgement that women have it tough. I haven't filed a complaint yet. :)

John Cage

As I sit in my room listening to static noise I become aware of the horrible futility of existence. It doesn't matter what I do. What I go in for, went in for, set out to do, will be forgotten and swept away like sand in the wind. My thoughts are flecks of dust on a clean mirror. They don't exist. Where should I put these thoughts, this noise? This image? I cannot touch it. Like light it changes upon reaching my eye.