Hear Mark Dow read “Home” here.
There's literally nothing going on: Nicki Minaj’s rhythms are lame. I played them Schubert’s Trout Quintet but shouldn’t have quite yet. They just complained. They go, “This shit is wack! Just turn it off!” I tell them, “Hey, philosophy in music’s more than we can put in words.” I must be nuts. They laughed at me. Is there a chance they’re just putting you on? Not a chance. And how do you teach someone who doesn’t want to listen to listen? Listen, it’s an itch you can’t reach — But theirs or yours? Frustration gets you off. You really think I’m that fucked up? You just can’t tolerate their taste. We’re old but haven’t faced it. That’s abrupt. Look it: Nicki Minaj is thirty-one, nine years older than Schubert was when he wrote that. Rhythm’s not just connecting the dots. We count because We walk, talk, breathe, blink, love, fuck, die: on, off. Harmonic tissue in the mean time unfolds as it separates, connects and conversates what’s in between. Recently, though, and more and more often, it’s unclear who says what to whom or even, really, what gets said — if we tangled the thread or got led home. What you said about how I get off on trying what’s most impossible: they might, if they carried the tunes inside, feel less alone in life is all.
Mark Dow | Declaration Contents | Mudlark No. 59 (2015)