At times, the only thing I find more physically demanding and emotionally exhausting than pursuing a career as a musician has been that of a writer about music. What isn't met with indiscernible apathy and neglect is usually, and very outwardly, criticized--damned to the dusty floor of the internet.
Lowercase, indeed.
And yet, we live these kinds of lives for some sort of fulfillment, some sort of grace and positivity in a most otherwise bleak, trivial and humorless world.
If you haven't already heard the e-bombs exploding, a story was posted on July 31; Sonny Rollins was gifted a most humorous homage by The New Yorker. "The saxophone sounds horrible. Like a scared pig," wrote "Django Gold" (amid my own side-splitting laughter).
Most, albeit not all, sensible readers can scour the Internet--uppercause--and pick up on phoniness, a la Mr. Holden Caulfield. The more crass among us might call it "bull$h!t," in an instant.
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