O, I’ve been extra-lax

Only 21 cds in January, and I haven’t posted my first Feb chunk until the 9th! So bad. But, it is the big slush season in Western NY, Jan/Feb/March have a way of sucking at your soul, grey skies and crusty black snow piles, sudden warm spells that tease one with sunlight, then back into snow… I like snow, but that’s a different story, I’m making excuses.


Once upon a time, a charming young sitarist named Ravi woke to find monsoon season had come early, and with much suddenness (Ravi Shankar: The Sounds of India). The rain beat at his roof relentlessly, and found its way through every hole in the thatch. In fact, Ravi woke, despite the fur that the previous evening’s party had stuffed into his skull, because one very fat raindrop landed exactly on the bridge of his nose. “Oh, bother,” Ravi thought; “I suppose I will have to go find someone to rethatch my roof, once the monsoon is over. In the meantime, I had better find somewhere else to live!” So Ravi took his sitar and an umbrella and set off on the path to the city, listening to the ragas that the rain played on the leaves, 5 note patterns all.

After walking for half a day, Ravi stopped to rest beneath a plane tree. He took out his sitar and began playing an afternoon raga. Before he had made his way twice through the movement, he felt a strange, wet, sandy sensation on his wrist, and turned to see a bright yellow frog stabbing at him with his tongue. “Hello,” the frog said, in a froggy voice. “Why, hello,” said Ravi, “how are you, Mr…?

“Bob,” said the frog.

“Mr. Bob?” Ravi answered.

“No, Mr. Holroyd,” said the frog, “but call me Bob” (Bob Holroyd: without within).

“Ah, Bob,” Ravi said. “And why do you lick at me with your sandy tongue, Mr. Bob?”

“Just Bob. Ribbit. I’m a musician too, ya know,” Bob replied. “I play chill-out music. And like that.”

Ravi looked at the frog and said nothing. And said nothing. And said nothing.

“You wanna hear some?” Bob said, once he could bear the silence no longer.

“Yes, you are Bob, yes? I forgot. Did I hear the music already?” Ravi asked, and stood up and continued walking toward the city. Bob hopped up onto Ravi’s shoulder and kept talking: “I make ambient world music. I play the mixing board, and Reason, and Acid”–“what are these instruments?” Ravi interjected.

“Do you want some E?” Bob answered.

“Yes, thank you, are you a girl?” Ravi replied, and together the two musicians continued toward the city, chatting happily under the umbrella.

Soon, the road began to grow steep, and Ravi and Bob had some trouble making their way through the mud. After some messy clambering, they arrived at a small, bent building painted a furious lime green. The sign in front of the building read “Templ Uv Psychick Youth” (Psychic TV: Dreams Less Sweet). Ravi pulled at a rope that hung beside the sign, and the sound of a goat braying into a vat of crumbled wax paper echoed from within. It seemed there was no door, but before the goat had brayed thrice, the travelers heard a creaky, exhausted voice warbling at them from all directions: “Oh, very boring, very boring, is that a frog?”

Ravi and Bob turned in a circle, and then in another circle, and then in a third circle, and they became dizzy and fell in the mud. When they looked up again, they saw: Mr. G.

to be continued…