"And the Wheels of Time
Grinding in friction —
Everything in the world is spoiled by rubbing..."
Vysotsky, of course.
Vladimir Semenovich.
You can find the answer to him - there would be a willingness to look.
How tactile we all are, people that is. No matter how much the number oppresses us, nor does it flatten us, and we are all one – with our hands something to feel, with our hands! My ears would be my own. And eyes. With ears and eyes, the number of us is deft, of course. Her grips are mean and skillful: "Grab him by the zebras, grab him by the zebras!.." And here we hang the grasped, but!... One splash and we don't, leaked under the driftwood of lamp technology!
Is. You can spend humanity on the chaff. However, seasoned dinosaurs resist. And even more, they teach bad things to small, growing dinosaurs.
And we have music. We listen to it with and without. It's pouring into us. A generous stream. True, unlit most often. That's why excesses happen. All sorts of mental poisoning, mental intoxication and other attacks of hypochondria on the basis of absorption of a low-quality very product.
Ha ha.
We kind of figure it out, but not always very, not always.
Art (increasingly modern) sharpens the shop chosen in the park under the old linden tree, and tries to knock the dinosaurs into a common pile with leaves and other nonsense. Husks. Potato peels.
And then we have music. And often a good one. If old and its own - selected (collected?) by caring hands on the boundless wastelands of folk and rock, in the shadow of the gloomy foothills of jazz and blues, on ... In short, where they found it, it was ours: "Don't give Swabos to anyone! Just like that! That's it!"
Lift the curtain by the edge —
Such an old, heavy backstage:
That's what time it was before,
Such an even look, Alice!
Again, it's Vysotsky.
And what was even about that time?
And I'll tell you: there was more realness. There was more friction, in every sense. Everything is in contact between people. Between the mechanisms is a needle on vinyl. And it turned out to live both more cheerfully and cocky. And now "I planted the garden itself, I will water myself" is not so straight passes. Gardens, excuse me, you can grow virtual ones, carrots in them wither strictly according to the schedule. I don't water and it wilts.
What do we have left?
Oh yeah. Exactly!..
But it's already being approached.
And the mastodons of science fiction warned us about it...
Man in general is an imperfect being. We can't crush rocks with our hands, we hear three times worse than cats and dogs, we can't swim naked in the Arctic... Melancholy.
But music.
We have music...
Do you know why vinyl went uphill again? No, not because of fashion. And not even because of advertising, it's all secondary. It's uphill because of our nature. How is strugatsky in Ugly Swans? "The natural is always primitive ... And man is a complex creature, naturalness does not suit him..."
Listening to the number is incredibly natural. Simply. Conveniently. And even profitable. You can do it for nothing, or you can for mere pennies. But the ear is beastly. It is hardened by the formation of super-stable neural connections in the brain - the same thing, the same thing ... You can move. Understand? You can move!!!
You (okay, we) when you scream, when you explain in love, when you sing a lullaby and when you tear your throat at a match, in your entire life, I think you will never be able to say a single phrase in the same way – twice. This is... Beyond. We are very complex. Everything in us is water. Almost everything. We are fluid and volatile. We are an ocean within an ocean. Movable in movable...
Mobilis in mobile.
Captain Nemo's motto is embossed on the hull of his Nautilus.
Isn't that something to think about?
We deny the cold of static. We crave living warmth. Everything should be as it is inside us – impermanent. That's when we're interested. Only then does the heart light up.
No matter how many times you put the same disc on the turntable, you will not get absolutely the same sound. Everything according to Vysotsky is friction. Subtle rustles, creaks, clicks. This needle leaves its mark on the vinyl and the vinyl takes the needle invasion for granted. No hugs, no curses.
"And if you don't live, you don't die..."
Something familiar, right?
Some obsessive itching in the brain.
The wheezing of a hackneyed record is like the end of life in all its glory. It will happen to each of us. And the happiness is that it is "this" – it will be thoroughly real. We can't lift a single rock star out of the coffin, and they aren't there, they continue on a path unknown to us. But we can put Jimi Hendrix's 1968 Electric Ladyland original on the needle every night and slowly go crazy with Have You Ever Been, Crosstown Traffic and Voodoo Chile successively covering us on the A-side. But the very first thing of the album, preceding the listed three, is ... And the Gods Made Love...
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Why are we not gods? That we should not indulge in our own created love? As far away as Hendrix is with his guitar at the ready, he's alive, alive in vinyl, and every next listen, every new needle run along the tracks is both the new sound of his footsteps in the studio and the new experience of that new sound.
The ear is not fooled.
It fiercely smells the beating of the pulse. It knows how to recognize the cold of a static number...
Love everything that becomes unusable, decays like a dress... Love yourself and those who are with you: later, in a day unknown to us, we will all turn to dust. Love now and with an open heart the very patina of time - erased floors, plates with slits, burning candles, starships - burned and lost their luster when meeting with the Earth. Friction...
Oh... We still haven't built starships...
But we have turntables.
And it's not a dinosaur riot.
The Abrasion of Time...
The author's point of view may not coincide with the position of the editorial board.