If Music Were Woman

At times I sit and ponder,
If music were women,
Would men wish and wonder,
Would we try to understand?

Oh, the complexities it would bring!
With each and every note,
Every word we sing,
This is not how it was planned.

The cut-throat reality of rock,
Sewn together with guitars and drums,
Mouthing off bout this or that round the clock,
She would not make your mother glad.

What of the smooth and silky melody,
Dressed in satin and lace,
Breaking into unseen clarity,
Streaming out the brass in those Jazz hands.

The raw, red-blooded sexuality,
Rough in word and deed,
Essentially the taken liberty,
Hip-hopped and offhand.

Alas, none of these I see fit,
But there is one remaining,
Perhaps the only one I'll permit,
The love child of genius and wonderland.

Yes, hidden in history and steeped in judgement,
Love, passion, brilliance personified,
Elegant, yet not overbearing, always triumphant,
Fit for kings and queens and me, the classic answer.

Always, grand.

Be the change you wanna see in the world...

I'm struggling with something. I know no one really reads my blog, and it doesn't phase me. Life is about so much more than pointless numbers of page views on a screen. But few of us actually realise that. We don't want to have to face the truth about the world around us. The truth about who we are and what our overriding ambitions in life say about us. Reputation, money, status. That's all we really care about. We care more about the coastal holiday home than the health of the ocean it overlooks. More about the speed or pedigree of the car we drive than the pollution as a result of manufacturing it and using it. More about the size of the balance of our bank account at the end of the month than the difference those few rands would make to the guy on the street. The truth is we don't care. We'd rather turn a blind eye to the issues and hope someone else takes care of it. Or shift the blame to our predecessors. Anything but accept responsibility. I have a question. How would you feel if your child or grandchild asks you about trees one day? Or about non-polluted rivers? Or dolphins and whales? What if they ask you what happened to them? How OK are you with replying "We killed them"?

I wouldn't be.

Start today. Make a difference.

Questions.

I see my follower count has not increased. Single minded fools. I must say that my previous blogpost was my most viewed. Woo. I do have some universal questions.

Why? - Why when faced with tragedy do we sympathise instead of help?
When? - When will we, as citizens of Earth, realise that petty disputes are just that, petty?
Where? - Where does our help come from? (I do know the answer)
What? - What is wrong with our mentality that we no longer fix, but the replace the broken? (things and people)
How? - How can we continue to live as though there's tomorrow, when we are guaranteed today?

Belief.

I understand that it has been some time since I last posted. For my one dedicated follower, I thank you for your patience. For the rest of you passing on through, you should follow this blog. I'm not going to tell you why, that just wouldn't be prudent. I also understand that so far no part of this post has anything to do with the title. I'm getting to that.

Recently, a few things have happened to me that have shook me to the core, have threatened my ideas, bombarded my dreams with pessimism and resulted in a spate of sadness. The combination of poor results academically, a distance between my father and I and a recent spate of undesirable decisions have a had a rather negative effect on my current mental state. Although this comes at a rather inconsiderate time, so be it.
Life has very little sense of occasion.

These events have led to me two things, one being an album by a revered artist, the other a film starring Morgan Freeman. No, it was neither Invictus, shot in my beautiful country, nor Shawshank Redemption, but in fact the first art film I had seen in a very long time. I am dealing with the film first because it came first chronologically. Anyway, this film, by director Rob Reiner, aptly named The Magic of Belle Isle, was a turning point. I won't rob you of the pleasure of watching this brilliant film, brilliant if you are of sound mind and not desperately dependant on the average social conformity to find purpose, but brilliant it is. It was a turning point, as I said. It made me realise that creativity is not a gift. It's not something you either have or don't. It's alive. It's a feeling that moves within you. I have always considered myself a creative person, I'm fairly talented musically, I feel like I have a feel for writing at times, as well as being able to appreciate many a good film. But I now know that that is just wrong. The mathematician solving equations has to be creative in his use formulae, the business man has to be creative in his implementation of marketing and growth strategies. Creativity is not a thing we are blessed with. It is a thing we tap into, but is always there. Creativity is not a gift for individuals, but a resource for all.

Now onto the album, which is currently playing in the background as I type this out. Bob Dylan's 35th studio album, Tempest. Brilliance. Dylan has a way with words and rhythms that has made him the legend he is. Although everyone knows certain songs of his, such as All Along The Watchtower, Hurricane, Tambourine Man, and The Times Are A-Changing, I still believe you don't know an artist until you have listened to a full album from start to finish the way it was intended. This album lead me onto another realisation. Art, especially music, is not a commercial entity as many have made it out to be. If you look at those who have made a significant impact on the musical world over the last few decades, they all share a specific trait. Passion. It's passion that leads artists like Sir Paul McCartney and Mick Jagger to continue to make music and tour until they're in what most would consider their twilight years. It is uncanny to think that all those years ago, when John, Paul , George and Ringo got together, music was not something you could learn on the internet. It was not something you could just start on a whim. The way they revered instruments back then is unreal when compared to the availability of them these days. Please, don't get me wrong, I would never have started playing music if it wasn't for the availability of affordable instruments, but I just feel that it has lead to an unhealthy consumerism culture in the arts. If one act doesn't make money for a label, it's OK, a new one will be around in the next few years. It's saddening. This is why I am hell-bent on establishing an indie label. Because not everyone is meant to be a musician, and the current routine of finding an attractive person with little or no talent but some sex appeal and making an artist out of them is ruining the industry. Label exec's have lost the thing that got them involved in the first place. Passion. Passion for good quality music and not just the bottom line. A lot of you will think this to be idealistic, but without ideals we are nothing. I am in no way naive about the fact that making a profit is a necessity these days, but there is a way to do it. a way where the passion for good quality art is never lost or forgotten.

I find myself wondering why I gave this post the title Belief, and not Creativity and Passion, and then I recall why. Because I have belief. I have faith. That by combining creativity and passion with belief, we will be able to do anything we set our minds to. Idealistic? Yes. Impossible? No. I'd hate to end with a clichéd statement, so rather, a quote by Irish playwright, George Bernard Shaw:

“You see things; and you say, ‘Why?’ But I dream things that never were; and I say, ‘Why not’?” – George Bernard Shaw

Cliché? Yes. Untrue? No.

Inspiration

As I wait it begins,
My heart starts to sing,
The crowd is moving,
To the people we bring.

A new type of music,
The type that comes from within,
Moving and shaking,
The boundaries it's breaking.

As my brow starts to sweat,
I'll be giving it my best,
Because this is what I am meant for.

Let us break free
Of the society
That provokes and promotes no longer the sounds of this nation's folks,
But rather the algorhythms that the machines have spoke,

Brings us to our knees,
Let us weep and plead,
For music that is written for the people by the people it belongs,
Not by the lifeless definitions of those zero's and one's.

Now's the time to forget,
And the time to reflect,
For the fear does relent,
I have time only for my frets,

And the strings,
Upon which my life depends,
For come the day of reckoning,
I will go down, my heart open, my mouth will sing.

As my brow starts to sweat,
I'll be giving it my best,
Because this is what I am meant for.

Let us break free
Of the society
That provokes and promotes no longer the sounds of this nation's folks,
But rather the algorhythms that the machines have spoke,

Brings us to our knees,
Let us weep and plead,
For music that is written for the people by the people it belongs,
Not by the lifeless definitions of those zero's and one's.

No longer shall we be required,
To put our lives in the fire,
For what we do isn't art, it isn't just a part,
But rather the entire start,
For the world to realise it's faults,
And rise up in a song, revolt.

Draw The Line

There was a time when I walked this road,
There was a time when I was alone,
There is this place I used to know, 
Nothing's changed, hatred grows.

I walked the streets, I carried the load,
Of shattered dreams, of broken homes,
We were deceived, with the lies they told,
It's not as it seems, break the mould.

I'm not happy, I'm not satisfied,
I can't help you, but we're not blind,
Someone save me, this life's not mine,
Where's the bravery, where is the line.

Dis nie my probleem nie, dis nie my skuld,
Jy het jou keuse, ek kan nie jou lewe red.

Now is the time we walk this road,
Now is the time we're not alone,
This is this place we know, 
Things have changed, settle the score.

We walk the streets, we carry the load,
Our shattered dreams, our broken homes,
We're not deceived with the lies they told,
It's not as it seems,we're gonna break the mould.

We're not happy, we're not satisfied,
We're gonna help you, causewe're not blind,
We will save us, we will in time,
We are the brave, we've drawn the line.

Dis nie my probleem nie, maar dis my skuld,
Ek het my keuse, ek sal jou lewens red.

(For those of you without a working knowledge of Afrikaans, the first two lines translate to mean "It's not my problem, it's not my fault, You had your choices, I can't save your life." and the second two lines translate to "It's not my problem, but it's my fault, I had my choices, I will save your lives.")

In dedication to my father.

Once there was a little spoon,
Who was so shiny, bright and new!
He had the sheen and glimmer that all good spoons do.

He learnt his lessons while he was young,
He never really thought it was fun,
Learning how to measure, stir and serve food.

So one late winter morning,
He heard the bed beckon, calling,
"Little spoon up on the table, how do you do?"

The spoon cried out "I'm bored!"
And slowly started shifting forward.
He'd found that rebel streak which was due.

The bed, menacing with his great lore,
Lay out far but still the nearest shore.
The colour, the pattern always in view.

The little spoon thought back to things his father said,
"All is well, and fair, but the bed!"
Yet the little spoon had thought it through.

He crept right up until the edge, and peered down, remembering his pledge.
"Always and forever, will I be a loyal, faithful spoon, through and through."

The thoughts plagued him as he began to hop,
But once he lept he had but one lonely thought.
"But I shall be the only spoon of the bed, what ever shall I do?"

But once he landed, although with regret,
He knew that he had decided his fate.
Forever to be held, forced between blankets, two.

He gave a shriek in despair,
And remembered his life so fair,
He cried, and sobbed, till the sheets looked like dew.

Then he heard a faint call,
"Little Spoon, Little Spoon, where'd you fall?"
His heart jumped and squealed and his spirit grew.

He knew the voice that was calling out,
And suddenly he was filled with doubt.
"I left my father" he thought, and back he drew.

But there, standing on a great crest,
Stood his father, bearing his chest.
The Little Spoon saw him, and felt renewed.

His father grabbed him and held him close,
"I've been searching for you, coast to coast"
The Little Spoon looked up at him confused.

His father held him tight and whispered in his ear,
"You never have anything to fear"
The Little Spoon just said "I love you".

For his father had saved him,
Fought warriors, and slayed dragons,
Just as the best dads do.