There's really no such thing as 'proper' music
You either like a piece, or not;
The need for deep analysis is pointless
The end result of which would tell you what?
Appreciation of it is subjective
And one man's concord is another's din;
So let us not be snobbish 'bout the business,
Just listen up, and take it on the chin.
Whichever way you look it's just vibrations
From strings, or reed, or any tube of brass
That ends up rattling through your ear-holes;
It lays no claim to up' or lower class.
A scale is just a pure man-made invention
The intervals of which are arbitrary,
Not set in stone, completely at our mercy,
To do with as we please, and we're contrary.
And harmony, also, is naught but fancy,
That moves and bends at some composer's will,
Uniting with the melody, and proving
The joy the listener feels, the bliss, the thrill.
There's nothing in the rule-book can't be broken,
You're free to play whatever comes to mind;
And I am standing by this my conviction,
Without a grudge, complaint, or axe to grind.
But foolish would I be if I were thinking
That all and everyone agreed with me;
So I won't ridicule you, or your music,
If you in turn don't play the fool with me.
(Written June 2013)
Comments about this poem (Proper Music by John Carter Brown )
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