Hymn Number Dinky Do
Hi there, pop fans!
Smile, smile, smile
It's all over
I have got the furious needle
Observing a bingo session taking place in a wooden hut at a sea–side resort has led me to believe that I know why the Church is suffering from poor attendances. This hut had the appearance of a chapel. There was the congregation sitting in rows eagerly clutching bingo cards instead of hymn books. The high altar was a platform on which the preacher was calling out numbers instead of delivering a sermon. He was assisted by altar boys and wardens to ensure the smooth running of the service. Instead of amen and hallelujah, shouts of “bingo!” rent the air to rape the solemn quiet.
This substitution of images is becoming a habit. Not only have the flickering flames of the family hearth been replaced by the flickering images of the TV screen, but the church service is being forsaken for the bingo session.
In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was bingo!
Two in a bar
The sad thing about getting older is that we are prone to becoming blasé. Once everything was fresh and exciting—and then my memory began storing up all it heard. Now it has so bloody much that only the talented artists can pass the censorship of my own built–in computer. Then, and only then, music becomes a pleasure.
So I let my architect pal go off to his musical pub and I hope he was able to tap his feet into orbit. I remained in my music–less pub and listened to the sound of human voices undergoing various stages of inebriation. Come to think of it, that can be hard graft also.
Arise, Sir Jazzington
The tiller will be a double bass with the f holes plugged, the sail a harp with old Spud Murphy arrangements sewn to the strings. The mast was a bit of a problem until I hit on the idea of straightening out a serpent.
I am setting sail from Buckler’s Hard some time this month so I’ll be back in time for Xmas. I have reckoned that if I set off at about 180 crochets to the fathom and then vivace a litttle when I go past the Scilly Isles I’ll be able to make it okay. So I’ll see you when I receive my accolade. There will be none of Drake’s rusty old sword for me: I want it done with a platinum flute. I think I will adopt the full title of Sir Jazzington of Archer Street and so become the first jazz knight.
More and more I am inclined to think that the discovery of sound recording, and indeed any form of mass reproduction of art, is a truly retrograde step in the evolution of mankind. Just as mass education relieves the people from the unforgivable sin of illiteracy and yet results in the reading of tons of pulp literature, so the technique of recording sound has resulted in tons of plastic being impregnated with diabolical sounds. Goethe and Shakespeare count for nowt as long as people only read Hank Jansen and Batman–and who really cares for Beethoven and Ellington when rubbish is dispensed at every available opportunity?
Why not have a couple of minutes silence? I know they say that Silence is Golden, but these days it’s so hard to come by it would seem that it has priced itself out of existence. But please, no more of this non–music.
Copyright © 1968, Kenny Graham. All Rights Reserved