I am not a big fan of the movie All Dogs Go to Heaven. Sure, the messages of getting a second chance, and changing for the better, and doing the right thing, are all positive. And the music is catchy. But something about this movie in particular felt manipulative to me, even as a kid. Maybe it was the unbelievable innocence of the girl, or even the major premise of the film. Mafia dogs who go to heaven? Throw me a bone, please.
Yet sometimes it’s the absolutely ridiculous nature of the tale that tickles my fancy. Take the opera-singing alligator, for example (crocodile?). He’s living in the sewers, eating lesser dogs, and is just about to do the same to our hero, when the doggie howls. Which somehow is a pleasing, not repulsing, sound to the alli, and he insists that they have a sing-along instead of chowing down. I love that.
I love the idea of the world singing. I love that whole odd earlier Christian philosophy about the spheres of the heavens giving of some small, ringing music that we could all hear, if we were only just a little bit closer. I like the idea of every molecule vibrating with some kind of lively sound that we will someday hear and enjoy, when we only have the science. I like the idea of acoustic harmony bringing some sort of resolution or at least tentative acceptance and tolerance for the conflicting members of a group. Let’s just make music.
So, what else can we make musical? Garbage dump supplies? Been done. Old buildings? Yep, that’s taken. A giant concrete seashore instrument? I mean I love them, but they’re a dime a dozen. How about the swine flu? According to this article, it’s the next big thing. After a little listen, I’m not so sure. But the idea of viruses as encoding a natural music all their own…well, it’s just plain beautiful.
Corina told me she was utterly ashamed of me for not blogging about my experiences at the made-up superhero pub crawl this year. I thought about it, but then I decided being known as Flamebow Brite to the entire internet community might not be a good idea. Added to the fact that my sister thinks costumes make me look like a drag queen, I’d prefer to say very little and leave my excitement and joy to memory and what pictures are already widely available. Instead, I’d like to point out a few of the things that the experience shows about me through song. If I were a song, there would be a brassy trumpet involved. Sometimes it would be loud, and totally dominate all other songs in the room, but that would only happen very rarely. More often this trumpet would blare with no real rhyme or reason, almost like an accident on the part of the performer or the composer. A slip of the pen here, and…..Whoa, trumpet! There would be some other sounds – a nice bongo rhythm, a breathy set of pan pipes, a little base. Solid, pleasing, and enjoyable if not genius – except for the occasional squaking trumpet.
So, what’s your song?