Neurotic Owl

flying through clouds of uncertainty on wings of existential dread

Not the jazz you listen to, though. Obscure jazz. You can’t even handle this jazz.


I can’t help but feel like I’m a constant disappointment to my awesomely musical brother because I think I’m just not that aurally attuned.  I connect best to music with a human voice, and ideally with lyrics; I can appreciate the beauty of instrumental music, but very little makes it into my iPod, and what does tends to be something I can choreograph to in my head.  I think the thing I really love is stories, and so music without a story I can hear is harder for me to enjoy in the same way that minimalist art doesn’t really speak to me.  My brother occasionally feels irrelevant because the music he really loves to compose and play is the music very few people appreciate, and besides telling him that art doesn’t have to connect to everyone to matter, I’m not a lot of use.  The jazz I listen to involves Ella Fitzgerald and Harry Connick Jr. and Blossom Dearie.  Musically, I am the 99%.

For me there’s art I can appreciate on an intellectual level and art that touches me, and I will go see and learn about and support both, but I’m only going to take one home with me.  That’s a failing in me more than the art, probably, but there you go.

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