"Interesting music," I said to Jacob the other day, "has always been the province of fucked-up people." The subject of our conversation was jazz's origin as the music of the junkie, but really I just wanted an excuse to expound on this concept so dear to my heart. And behold! Again, it's marginally relevant as I sit here listening to a juxtaposition of Mozart and the Smashing Pumpkins, but really I just want to expound some more and you're all powerless to stop me.
You won't, goes my argument, compose Requiem if you're in a sane and healthy mind any more than you would compose Who Will Survive, and What Will Be Left of Them? in a sane and healthy mind. If you're a sober and well-adjusted musician, you might be Dvorak, or the Osmonds, or perhaps Jewel. You're unlikely to compose a work of heartrending beauty or searing horror that will leave the listener inspired as if touched by a muse in the form of a chemical-burn hotseat. You may delight their ears and make them think of the sweetness of dappled sunlight on the tresses of lovely maidens, but what's that going to do besides make a lot of maidens get worried and take out restraining orders?
Write to your congressperson today and urge him or her to support denying mental-health insurance coverage to people with musical inclinations. Do it for the sake of the maidens.
Posted by dianna at January 3, 2004 06:23 PM