Quotes About Music

Are you kind enough, on your little planet, not to shut that rhythm down? Not to crush underfoot the singers of songs and tellers of tales and wearers of silk? Because it's monsters who do that. Who extinguish art. Who burn books. Who ban music. Who yell at anyone with ears to turn off that racket. Who cannot see outside themselves clearly enough to sing their truth to the heavens. Do you have enough goodness in your world to let the music play? Do you have soul?

I remember she sang the opening aria from Her Last Nocturne and I saw the night sky pour out of her mouth. Every time I wemt to hear her sing afterward, even months afterward, I saw the same thing. Blackness and stars flooding her mouth and splashing onto the boards in great gouts. Galaxies and the void dripping off her chin. Her teeth burning. I told her about it on a night in December and she whispered I know it, baby. I see it, too. That's my insides coming out.

Sometimes I am a cicada, hissing and singing in the leaves of a tree by the sunlit water, thoughtless and wordless, a voice that is all consonants and tribal clicks. Sometimes I rub my legs together like a string bass, and the lake quivers

They found themselves striding into the herald's square of a place called Mercutio before they could discuss whether it was nightingales or sparrows that sang so prettily in the woods.

You can't get into the real meat of hatred and eternal enmity without love and betrayal, without that, it's just an argument with occasional gun music. The good stuff, the all-obliterating all-annihilating one-for-the-novels mano-a-mano crackling on the pork roast, that has to come, as the hermits will tell you, from attachment.

She drank like a Czar and sang like a broken squeezebox and danced like the Sugarplum Fairy cutting loose at last

Music has more rules than math or magic and it's twice as dangers as both or either.

They start setting up on a little left stage playing my secret favorite song: the rustling of sheet music and set lists, the coughing and quiet warm-up, the tuning of instruments, squeak of speakers and amps, the last rags on cigarettes and popping of knuckles.

Oh!" cried the young man. "A little deaf child! How sweet! We should adopt her and teach her to write symphonies. She'll be all the rage in town. I'll buy her a powdered wig and a tricorne!

Ivan said, If only we could eat violin music.

Ragtime plinking, glasses clinking, choruses getting sung with only half the lyrics right, giggles bubbling over like a tower of champagne. It's a party, shaking down the dawn.

Butterfield Blues Band, Vanilla Fudge...

Expressive arts therapy--the purposeful application of art, music, dance/movement, dramatic enactment, creative writing, and imaginative play--is a non-verbal way of self-expression of feelings and perceptions. More importantly, they are action-oriented and tap implicit, embodied experiences of trauma that can defy expression through verbal therapy or logic.

He raised his shot glass of soju. "I have never tried to kill myself," he declared, and downed his glass. The other musicians clinked their glasses and also downed their drinks. There was nowhere to go after that, so we stopped playing.

Even the genteel ladies in the high stands opened their delicate throats and pierced the sky with their soprano squealing.

ELECTED Silence, sing to me And beat upon my whorlèd ear, Pipe me to pastures still and be The music that I care to hear.

Tom te tom tom, tom te tom.' zong Frits in zichzelf, 'het gaat slecht, verder gaat het goed.

Ik zit, m'n benen bunglend, op de waterkant En in een bootje hoor ik ginds een tango spelen; Verdomd! Ik wist niet, dat er in dit land Nog zoveel aards geluk viel weg te stelen.

Remember the first time you went to a show and saw your favorite band. You wore their shirt, and sang every word. You didn't know anything about scene politics, haircuts, or what was cool. All you knew was that this music made you feel different from anyone you shared a locker with. Someone finally understood you. This is what music is about.

I believe that art has a kind of rightness, as in music, when we hear whether or not a note is false

T]he best, truest popular music is one born of journeys and arrivals, of long odysseys and lightning epiphanies.

I know acts and I'm not going to name names but these people sold ten million copies the first time and the second album sells three million and it's considered a failure and they're dropped and that's really a shame.

What is music. A passion for colonies not a love of country.

Dire, schioccando le dita: Go, Stop, quando un ascensore sta per partire o fermarsi, e io sono solo della cabina; dirigere con entrambe le braccia un attacco d'orchestra invisibile che s'ascolta davanti alla radio... sono debolezze che ho dell'infanzia, m'è sempre piaciuto, per scherzo o rivalsa, fingere di condurre chi mi trascina.