Tag: music

The tale of Sir Vapid

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Sir Vapid paid for musicians to accompany him on his adventures. He thought he’d be more impressive with some kind of theme music.
So a deal was struck, and off they went.
They climbed mountains, crossed swamps, went on holy pilgrimages, and even negotiated a treaty between some farmers and an ogre.
“Impressive,” said King Richard. “You’ll go far, Vapid.”
But the moment he got into a fight, the other knight ran him through with a sword.
“Perhaps I should have bought some armor instead of minstrels,” were his final words.
They played at his funeral for no additional charge.

In Chicago, they played rough

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You’ve probably seen the movies where Chicago gangsters all had Thompson machineguns in violin cases.
That couldn’t be further from the truth.
The real story is that gangsters went around with violins in Thompson machinegun cases. So when there was a dispute between rival gangs, each side would rosin up their bows and have a hootenanny.
Benny. Youngman.
Perhaps you’re heard of them?
At his peak, Capone went around with a whole orchestra. He’d bought out the Chicago Symphony’s string section before Elliot Ness shut his operation down.
Trying to improperly deduct replacement strings from his taxes did him in.

Don’t Put Another Drachma In The Jukebox

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What’s with the singing box?
Well, remember the old story about Orpheus going to Hell to free his girlfriend?
He looks back – WHAM! Eurydice is back in Hell. A gang of women tear Orpheus apart, and his head falls into the stream, still singing.
Some chick puts the head in a box, sells it to a joint on the island, and it becomes the first jukebox.
Here it is. Just fifty bucks.
Problem is, it sings in Greek. It sounds so painful and sad, but beautiful. Too bad I don’t know Greek.
Do you?
Oh well. Still sounds beautiful.

Threatened By Skies At Night

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Bob dropped his bong and looked up at the swirling green skies.
“Radical,” he whispered. “This needs Floyd.”
He went back inside, humming “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” while hunting for his iPod.
He found it, went back outside, and scanned his playlist.
“Damn,” he shouted. No Pink Floyd. Must have cleared it out.
He went back in to search for the files.
Gone.
He then dug through his CDs, but they were too scratched to rip.
Ten bucks and two hours download later, he synced up and went back outside.
The lights were gone, and so was his buzz.

Note

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Nigel tapped Middle C again.
Still nothing.
He lifted the green piano’s lid and checked the striker and the wire. Everything worked fine.
But he didn’t hear anything when he hit Middle C.
B played. D played. Every other note played.
But not Middle C.
Nigel blew out the candelabra and hit Middle C again.
Of course it wasn’t that, he thought. That would have been silly.
Nigel tried another piano. Middle C worked just fine.
He went back to the green piano, lifted the lid, and plucked Middle C.
Perfectly tuned.
He hit the key again.
Nothing at all.

She’s Got Rust

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She once had legs, but over time she let herself go. Varicose veins, a deep hacking cough, and stints in rehab for a heroin problem finished off her partying days.
The dream guy she hooked with the help of ZZ Top’s gang of gals had long slipped the line and swam back for deeper waters.
Rags filled her closets.
Still, she kept the car in the driveway. The paint faded, the tires rotted, the engine seized up, and rust spread like brown cancer and covered everything.
Sometimes, she’d go out front and snap her nicotine-stained fingers, wave the keys.
Nothing.