vinyl tickles my fancy, music tickles my soul

Little ridges are the music. a needle bobs up and down, plodding methodically along the grooves like a desert man riding his camel. camels have humps like a record. they also have ears, like me, the listener.

As I sit here in my burgundy, second-hand armchair I contemplate the invention of this record-playing technology. who was the first to hone in on this method of recording sound? Wikipedia would tell me that Thomas Edison was the first man to develop a sound device that could record and playback the music. it was called the phonograph. he patented the mechanism in 1878.

A lightbulb just popped up above my head. Edison invented the light bulb. the light bulb above the head is also a common illustration of a blooming idea. the idea is this:

Edison may have invented the phonograph, but he did not invent the music.

Why are we as humans (I will speak for myself, why am I) so fascinated, drawn toward, moved by music? sound waves tickle the tiny hairs of our inner ears and we feel an emotion. what a profound experience.

The title of this little rumination addresses my bias: vinyl kicks digital music in the rear end, hard. not only do the notes seem that much crisper, but the music has life to it, as though the Fleet Foxes are actually performing inside my speakers; little people harmonizing inside a wooden box. all of these melodies fill my 8x6 dorm room with the force of a tsunami and a speeding bullet train multiplied together. ok I exaggerated a bit, the room is 8x7.

Regardless, music makes me happy. it makes me sad. the fact that sounds so intricately formed together make me do anything is remarkable. music is the sign of something bigger than man and his fundamental limitations. of this, I am convinced

"you gotta look out for love"

it's fitting that my first post be from a coffee shop (not one actually called a "coffeeshop", but a real one, an indie one, called "a market"), a "market" that plays arcade fire's funeral as i sip my drink aptly named a noah's float. i love biblical allusions, especially when they involve ice cream, as this coffee and haagen dazs concoction dazs. i know that was bad but i'm trying

yes i agree. A.I. is the greatest thing to hit memphis since hurricane elvis in '02, maybe that was a bad thing. i guess the answer may be not be a good fit either. let's just hope allen doesn't chop down the trees in my front yard like hurricane elvis did when he was takin' care of business via freakin' fast gusts of wind.

bon iver. good winter. if lollapalooza taught me one thing, it was the correct pronunciation of this band's french name. no, wisconsin was not recently acquired by our liberal, fry-cooking foes from across the atlantic, vernon, as he is commonly known, by us, the only ones who matter, and of course the ones to whom "it" doesn't matter, yeah they matter too, chose the name out of his experience in the cold. the cold winter in a cabin in the woods in wisconsin. rough life. excellent writing material.

i too have been afflicted by this record's indie-ness, an indie-ness that deserves not to be ruined by pop moguls and their money making record labels. if our buddy vern wanted some cashola, i doubt he would've slept in a log cabin for a good chunk of time. rather, he would've been selling himself like a woman of the night to any greasy-haired, pinstriped, suit-wearing pimp of the music industry willing and able to ravage the wisconsonite's musical genius and innocence. i apologize for the vivid imagery. i have a vivid imagination. and for that i will make no apology.

aimless. random. pointless. this post could fall under all of these categories, but i'm a student, not a teacher. i'm learning and will improve. life doesn't always have a thesis. my english paper though will not improve with my insightful rambling on the blog, so as the muses have called me i must bid thee farewell to tend to my own attempt of literary critique. hemingway's "the snows of kilimanjaro"

books, greisy.

i'm not worried about it though.