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Chronicle of the NonPop Revolution
The Pluperfect State of Chaos Theory
Bon radio. While itís still February in the present space-time configuration and we still
have some time before, according to Nostradamus, the reign of Chaos Theory concludes
and life as we know it is thrown into a state of predictable conformity, likewise spelling
the end of anarchy with a capital C, as pandemoniumists everywhere immutably turn into
placid ho-hummers bearing mute witness to argumentism's Armageddon while embracing
its antipode, Arthur, we would like to, assuming the character of the radiophonic signal
upon which many of our transmitted sonic skirmishes are based has not yet gone awry or,
worse, been annulled, take several moments to clear up some misunderstandings which
have crept into recent shows.|
First of all, the self-destructive tendencies of the twelve-tone system as methodically applied in tunes which tend to tear the fabric of lyrical tapestries from the walls of student band concerts conducted by tenured administrators of musical bad taste whose inability to find the ictus in three-four time is exceeded only by the number of hairs expelled from an allergy-prone camel's snoot in a potpourri factory are in no way related to the algorithmic subsets of dental hygiene, and if they are -- which they aren't -- it's not something that we should be discussing on this show, not when there are more important topics of practical musicology which we fail to consider week in and week out, such as what music should a person listen to when his or her hemorrhoid flares up (and by a not unprecedented coincidence, that happens to be the quiz on today's program, better known in some circles as. Kalvos & Damian's New Music Bazaar, episode 90), or, why do trees migrate, and when, and why don't more people catch them at it?
Secondly -- or thirdly, given the often pluperfect state of Chaos Theory -- the cyclical sounds that one hears emanating from the rings of a freshly hewn tree trunk do not reflect the age of the future pallet of two-by-fours. In fact, they don't reflect at all. They absorb sound. See for yourself. Cut down a tree -- a gnarly old bristlecone pine will do nicely -- and saw off a thin slice of trunk. Hear that pinging sound? Have you forgotten to turn off your chainsaw? Now hold the wood up to the sun. Note how both the sun and its hydrogen surface explosions are muted, proving that lumber matter absorbs sounds. If any of our radiophonic audient were led astray by conflicting statements, we're sorry, i.e. that your brain has all of the stylistic earmarks of a cantaloupe.
So ... what music should you listen to if your hemorrhoid flares up? The answer, for which we have awarded ourselves a small prize, is known variously as baleful genie aroma, agile abalone femur, algae before alumni, and especially as le flambeau oriange, the holographic corollary of which was said to have frightened the pants off of old Mr. "Been There-Done That" Nostradamus, but which has an abiding kinship with the only musique concrete versus situational comedy mediator which Chaos Theory could produce, our own Kalvos.