Home Music Lane

It's all about the music, dude! Sit down, relax and listen to some tunes.

Hey! John E!!!

Get your arse out of the EZ-lift, stop comparing yourself with bums on your road to get a fresh newspaper and some croissants in the early morning and tell me about what happened to Jasmine, because I've been searching all over the Lane, tried to find her hiding in Classical Court, wandered through the fields if I could find her grave, of course molested in my bizar fantasies by necrophiles, but besides some badly lit churches where owls were squeeking and doors were eeching and the smell of bodies in decay was all over the graveyard, all those attempts left me feeling alone like a parrot with a blanket covering its cage picking out his own feathers in total darkness while screaming 'Hello' to himself.

The trailer-park near Newbie Acres is almost left, sometimes after some heavy boozing I see Allan's spirit wandering around, searching for Jasmine as well while glanzing through a catalogue, checking which recordings he doesn't have mumbling it will be a great flogging-day when he's buying Solti's Mahler and with his ghastly eyes he stares to the place which once was the place where we would be redeemed from our sins by silently accepting the tortures Jasmine had been planning for us, but now only a square mark of pale green grass denotes the place where once her trailer stood, that caravan with skai-leather couches she furnitured herself, saying 'Easy to clean' compared to the velvetty cloth she used to have before she became the mascotte of Music Lane, making your butt stick to it and after sunny days, having been tanning all day long giving you the first torture standing up and feeling the epidermis being peeled of the backpart of your legs, awaiting the punishment of our Mistress of Divine Purity, beating everything pure out of you with her cat with seven tails.

My calfskin gloves are gaining dust, my marching boots are getting stubborn to the demands of my feet, not wanting to cooperate anymore, like saying 'Wear sneakers, you twit! You don't deserver this German craftmanship, this antidote to popular culture and mind-numbing nihilism.'

Where's Jasmine when you need her to properly flog those who prefer soundquality over performance; those who dissect music into sound like they're pathologist-anatomists while she makes them say: 'Punish me, punish me, you're allowed to be my punisher.' Her greatness makes us small and humble and I'm wondering where the two of you went to, because Big B's bribary bank is forcing us to pay more and more while we don't get the expected service anymore.

Bruckner: 8. sinfonie
Berliner Philharmonisches Orchester - Wilhelm Furtwangler

Droppez-moi un email, s'il vous please, Johnvinylistic.

Rob

rob2sibie@yahoo.co.uk



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Topic - Hey! John E!!! - Rob 15:29:54 09/26/00 (22)


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