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| IT IS IN THE NATURE OF CURVES TO SOFTEN THE ROADS. AS EACH SEGMENT OF A DUNN'S MUSIC TURNS ANOTHER CORNER, DIPS DOWN AND AWAY BEHIND US OUT OF VIEW, THE VISTA OPENS OUT AGAIN AND THE CURVES UP AHEAD START TO TAKE SHAPE INVITINGLY, CURIOUSLY. THE FALL SOMETIMES - LIKE IN METAPHOR WHICH IS THE CENTRAL THEME OF JOYCE'S FINNEGANS WAKE - THE LANDSCAPE AROUND THE ROAD COLLAPSES INTO A CACOPHANY OF BABBLE, BREAKING DOWN ALL PRETEXTS AND STRUCTURE INTO AN AUDIO GLUT OF NONSENSE SOUND. AT OTHERS THE STRUCTURE BREAKS SUDDENLY, DISINTEGRATES OR SIMPLY MISSES THE CORNER AND SLIDES OFF INTO THE DUST. IN A RECENT RADIO 3 WEEKENDER OF JOHN CAGE'S MUSIC, A CURIOUS THING HAPPENED. ON THE FIRST INSTANCE THE ENGINEERS HAD TO REALIGN THE AUTO DEVICE THAT SWITCHES OFF THE BROADCAST AND SWITCHES TO AN APOLOGY AFTER 30 SECONDS OF SILENCE. ANOTHER WAS YOU WOULD TUNE INTO THE STATION AND NOT BE SURE WHETHER IT WAS ON OR NOT. THE TENDENCY IN RECENT YEARS TO PLUNDER AT WILL FROM THE WONDERWALL OF MUSIC AND MIX AND MATCH AS WE PLEASE IS A DEMOCRATISATION OF PRODUCTION BROUGHT ABOUT BY (RELATIVELY) CHEAP HOME STUDIO SOFTWARE TOOLS AND DISTRIBUTION MEANS (THE WEB ETC). MOSTLY LIMITED TO POP AND DANCE EXPERIENCE, ALAN D TAKES IT OUT FURTHER INTO A MORE OPEN AND FREE LANDSCAPE WITH AN INFINITY OF POSSIBILITIES. THE ROAD IS LITTERED WITH EVENTS, PARADOXES, PECULIARITIES, SOMETIMES WITH FLASHES OF FAMILIAR LIT WITH YOUTH //// REBELLION. SINCE THE BIRTH OF THE IDEA OF /// REBELLION //// MUSIC, THE ROAD HAS OBSESSED THE JOURNEY LIKE THE GHOST OF KEROUAC AND HARRY SMITH /// TRAVELLING SALESMEN AND TRAVELLING BLUESMEN SQUEEZING OUT EVERY OUNCE OF THEIR MOJO BAGS. AD'S SITS SOMEWHERE BETWEEN VOYEUR //// SCANNER, THE EPIC LAYERS OF MUSE AND THE DISSONANT OF A RAFT OF INTERNATIONAL CLATTER FRACTIONS (MOSTLY MALE). AD /// AND DISSAFECTED COMPUTER PUNKS FROM KNIFEHANDCHOP TO CLOUDDEAD. BELIEVING IS EVERYTHING. AND WE WISH TO BELIEVE THAT WHAT WE LISTEN TO MAKES SENSE - WE LOOK FOR CLUES, SIGN POSTS TO THE EMOTIONAL CONTENT, SOMETHING TO GRAFT ONTO OUR OWN INTERNAL COMBUSTION ENGINE OF EMOTIONAL MEMORY - REAL OR FALSE DOESN'T MATTER - IT'S THE BEING THAT COUNTS, THE FEEL OF THE ROAD BEHIND AND BEFORE US. AD PULLS THE PLUG BEFORE IT KICKS IN, OFFERING US SNATCHES, BITES AT THE HOOK, THEN IT IS WHISKED AWAY, RUN DRY, DE-RAILED OR CRASHED INTO THE LEVEE. WE ARE LEFT GLIDING SOUNDLESSLY ALONG THE TARMAC WAITING FOR THE NEXT GUST FROM BEHIND, WIND BAITED WITH SCRAPS OF RADIO SHOWS, FOOTBALL MATCHES AND DISTANT SINGING. ALL FAMILIAR TO SOME DEGREE, BUT USELESS, DUST-RIVEN AND ULTIMATELY SPIRITUAL IN THEIR LONGING FOR FIND A HOME. KERPLUNK SKIDDING OUT OF CONTROL. THERE IS A COLLEGE BUILDING I PASS ON THE WAY BACK FROM THE TRAIN STATION. IT SITS SQUARE AND RED-BROWN NEW BUILD BRICK, HOUSING STUDENTS FROM THE RNCM, HUNDREDS OF THEM. AS I WALK PAST, SNATCHES OF NOTES /// MUSIC EDDY IN THE WIND FROM OPEN WINDOWS. FLUTE SCALES, A PASSAGE OF MOZART STRING QUARTET, OBOE, RAP, BONEY M, NIRVANA AND MUSE. THE CARS TO MY RIGHT VEERING OUT INTO THE ONCOMING LANE TO AVOID THAT BIG PUDDLE BY MY RIGHT LEG. THIS WILL ALWAYS REMIND ME OF AD MUSIC. SWERVING CARS, A BUILDING FULL OF MUSICAL MOMENTS, A HINT OF TROUBLE AND THE WINTER WIND MIXING IT UP AND URGING ME ON. AT MY BACK. WOKE UP ON THE TRAIN DISORIENTATED, NOT KNOWING WHICH WAY I WAS GOING. A SHOPPING CENTRE OF MUSIC.
ROGER McKINLEY, 2004 |