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When it’s done right, the third movement
of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No 3 rocks harder
than nearly anything else in music, except
perhaps Raw Power by the Stooges. You can’t look this up anywhere, and no one will tell you this
but me. Now listen. We know the empire is corrupt and we’re pretty sure
they put a man on the moon, and I know
that these days of distrust give me pause
and give me gas, that less-than-exquisite feeling
in which case why should I bother describing these sounds? Hearing music is sometimes like dancing
out of one’s tight pants and into someone else’s tight pants. A woman in her evening gown who pulls a bow across taught
strings belongs with a half-dressed man rolling around on broken glass.
When they first got together they just went
ahead and did things.
One of them didn’t like to dance, but that’s how you grow.
It’s like when a peacock flashes its feathers and you look right there,
like you’re looking at someone’s ass.
With your lips slightly apart, your index finger moves like a snake charmed
your chin, which you point downward as if
to say, “Thanks,
— Jose Padua