Happy birthday, belatedly. I agree that your singing has the feel -- based
on _Murder Museum_. Not 'very greasy' in a David Lindley kind of way (i.e.,
rootsy, eclectic, goofy, very funky, etc.), but I guess greasy in a Kurt
Weill, Lotte Lenya kind of way.
The middle aged gypsy men's art is goaded and stroked by despair, and yours
as well. And me, I don't even have any. Because sentimentality is not art.
But I'd rather have sentimental, nonart, sometimes. I'm feeling in the dark
for some dialectic between faith and cynicism, despair and sentimentality.
Ratiocination and dreaming. Feeling in the dark for a mythological
language, even a pastiche, that might pull that sled. Deconstructed into
hopeless futurity, doggie paddling through my own fairytales, all made up,
all made up, and still wanting to be held and loved. Belatedness and irony
as obstacles to the feckless inner child.
>so now i am kinda tempted to play again. not for hungarian festivities
>though, ick. but maybe bring this band of middle aged gypsy men into >my
world a little. the feel, ya know. despair.
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