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Chronicle of the NonPop Revolution


 
The Essay
Show #201
wymminsong
David Gunn

Now that we've gotten that pesky 200th show out of the way -- and in hindsight, it wasn't really worth all of the pre-programmatic hoopla (the luau with the Vacuum Decay Chorus keening in parallel fifths certainly was overkill) -- we can get back to the basics of music from which we seem to have strayed over the last dozen weeks or so. Today, we continue our exploration of alternative forms of cutting edge composition by getting in touch with our feminine side of music. So, for the next two hours, we want you, our avidly listening audient, to forget about the cold war, stop yelling at the neighbor's kid, put aside the Sports Illustrated golf issue, turn down the volume on the World Wrestling Federation Sings the Fugs video, and get up off of the couch for a minute. Instead, we want you to imagine yourself walking quietly in an enchanted forest. All around you are vibrantly deep greens set off by soft mauves and golds. You yourself are attired in a red and white gingham frock with blue piping. A spray of ribbons in your hair has curled into an elastic caduceus, and the wind whistling through it mimics the song of happy clams. Egrets with softly droopy plumes circle overhead, molesting no one, not even the Shrimp King. You enter a sun-swept glade and sit down by the edge of a babbling brook. Frogs gather round, erroneously sensing a bluebottle feast. In this pacific milieu, you are finally free to let the feminine side of your personality emerge. As the last vestige of Hulk Hogan's knotty rendition of "Nothing" fades, you become aware of music that you had long sublimated, music that conjures comforting images of baking cookies, sewing curtains, darning socks, doing laundry, vacuuming carpets, scrubbing the tub, clipping coupons and shopping for grocery bargains, picking up the boys after soccer practice, consoling a sad little girl after her Barbie doll refuses to say where she was all night and what those stains on her hot pants are, reading Harlequin Romance novels during CNN commercial breaks, primping in front of a two-way mirror for days on end, placing irked fire ants in the Beave's hot pants. Now, don't fight it. You are coming to terms with your feminine side, a kinder, gentler persona whose musical counterpart ebbs and flows like a great Montovanian tidal basin, shimmers like the residue of a fire jumper's pacemaker struck by lightning, howls like a radiolabeled rat on cetirizine. It wobbles and honks, it festers and doinks, it is the lyrical equivalent of fast food by fax, it is the calling card of the musical mama. It is from planet Venus, and all of the little orbiting asteroids are its emetic chorus. An apt if politically ingenuous analogy might be having spent the last three weeks on the road attempting to sell a case of Acme Atomic Slide Rules, each night eating out in odd little restaurants featuring such unfamiliar cuisines as Cajun, Thai, Italian, Athabaskan, Panamanial and Mesopotamian, and then returning home to a friendly meal of hand-roasted duck, slippery green peas, smooth mashed potatoes and a warm cup of tap water. In a culinary nutshell, that's what the feminine side of music is like.

It is girl music, wymminsong, Dame Harmony, female hormone operetta, and it's high time it was explored and, yes, even championed on Kalvos & Damian's New Music Bazaar, which this 201st episode will endeavor to do ... that is, right after we hear a contradictory point of view from Kalvos.