Quotes About Music

You didn't need to know the specifics about a male like that to be fully aware he was a Taylor Swift song waiting to happen.

the future was unknown and unknowable. So if you had the chance . . . even if there was no music and no ballgown, no tuxedo or gala . . . when your true love asked you to dance? It was important to say yes.

But then this one time, at band camp

Esto iba a doler, pensó Saxton. Pero esto no iba a romperlo. Finalmente lo superaría. Sanar, seguir adelante. Los corazones se rompen todo el tiempo... ¿No había una canción sobre esto?

Aunque cantaba en voz baja, la pureza y la belleza de la voz de Zsadist eran impresionantes. Siempre había tenido voz de tenor. En las raras ocasiones en que cantaba, los sonidos que salían de su boca eran asombrosos, capaces de hacer que el tiempo se detuviera y se deslizara hacia la eternidad.

It was the kiss. For that brief moment, the volume of her world had been cranked up to Metallica levels, and she had loved the booming bass, and the spinning and twirling, and the sense that her heart had taken flight and not left her body, but taken her physical form along with it.

Well, daddy?" she said over the trippy techno music. "Want to make my dream come true?" He

The deaf people there with balloons, holding them up and feeling the vibrations of the balloons to the Germs, all these fuckin' great bands, and using these balloons and dancing around. For a tough old punk, it just made your heart -- it gave you that beautiful feeling. They loved the music, and we were making money for them.

Every clarinet has its own particular bag of tricks, which must be exploited and explored.

The clarinet in its most perfect form is a strange beast--if it is imperfect, it is also completely untamable.

A good hollow bone, tapped smartly by another, can be made to emit a most satisfactory note of recognisable pitch; and the effect of tapping a row of empty skull-bones was no doubt one of musical man's earliest ghoulish delights.

Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods. Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt. But there's music in us. Hope is pushed down but the angel flies up again taking us with her.

We are a singularity that makes music out of noise because we must hurry. We make a harvest of loneliness and desiring in the blank wasteland of the cosmos.

She talks with a broken heart - Her voice lutes brokenly like a heart lost, musically too, like in a lost grove, it's almost too much to bear sometimes like some fantastic futuristic Jerry Southern singer in a nightclub who steps up to the mike in the spotlight in Las Vegas but doesn't even have to sing, just talk, to make men sigh and women wonder I guess...

I never saw such crazy musicians. Everybody in Frisco blew. It was the end of the continent; they didn't give a damn.

And what does the rain say at night in a small town, what does the rain have to say? Who walks beneath dripping melancholy branches listening to the rain? Who is there in the rain's million-needled blurring splash, listening to the grave music of the rain at night, September rain, September rain, so dark and soft? Who is there listening to steady level roaring rain all around, brooding and listening and waiting, in the rain-washed, rain-twinkled dark of night?

I'll go to the south of Sicily in the winter, and paint memories of Arles – I'll buy a piano and Mozart me that – I'll write long sad tales about people in the legend of my life – This part is my part of the movie, let's hear yours

The cowboy music twanged in the roadhouse and carried across the fields, all sadness. It was all right with me. I kissed my baby and we put out the lights.

If you can't boogie I know I'll show you how.

In the hall itself the din of the music - for this is the real way to play a jukebox and what it was originally for - was so tremendous that it shattered Dean and Stan and me for a moment in the realization that we had never dared to play music as we wanted, and this was how loud we wanted.

Holy flowers floating in the air, were all these tired faces in the dawn of Jazz America.

I stood in the middle of the room flipping and Pusher was plucking at the guitar, just one string, and I went up to him and said, 'Man don't pluck those dirty notes at ME,' and like he just got up without a word and left. [Mardou]

Every now and then a clear harmonic cry gave new suggestions of a tune that would someday be the only tune in the word and would raise mean's souls to joy.

To this boy of New England the May morning was like faint music in the woods again, some unspeakably exciting foregathering of events far in the deep shade of morning pines, all of it stirring there. He could hear it all faintly in the woods from far away, from across the fields and pastures, in the cool misty morning air, and he wanted to go there too.