I don't know about you, but I can't resist an essay that begins: "San Francisco is a city without graves. In 1900, the board of supervisors passed an ordinance prohibiting burials within the city limits. In 1912, the board announced its further intention to eliminate the city’s previously existing cemeteries, and in 1914 removal notices were sent to all burial sites, declaring them 'a public nuisance and a menace and detriment to the health and welfare of city dwellers.'"
If Keith Jarrett weren’t such a magnificent pianist, it would be intolerable to watch him in concert. His screechy humming and moaning, his lizard leering and preening—in three decades of seeing him play, I’ve never managed, despite some effort, to find the charm in his theatrics. And yet, he usually has me from his first chord—so warm, rich, and intriguingly edgy—especially the past few years, as he’s tightened his rhapsodic tendencies while enriching his lyrical core.
"'If you define the black hole as some place where you can lose objects, then there is no such thing because the black hole evaporates before anything is seen to fall in,' said [Case Western Reserve University physicist] Vachaspati."
Captain Beefheart's rules for guitarists: "Wait until the moon is out, then go outside, eat a multi-grained bread and play your guitar to a bush. If the bush doesn't shake, eat another piece of bread."
John Marks writes: "Here is a page with six free downloadable MP3 tracks that for one reason or another had to be left off my CD survey of the historical and significant pipe organs of Rhode Island I have mentioned a few times in my Fifth Element column.
I was doing a little dance on the subway platform. I was standing behind a dirty, purple column, so that no one could see me. I was waiting for the uptown F train. I was listening to the iPod¹. I was somehow avoiding death. And it occurred to me that I should start a new band.