 |
| Now, the neat part is
this: while the preceding description has probably made it sound as
though Fly Ashtray just throws nine different inchoate song-parts
at a wall and hopes they’ll cohere, the wonderful, wonderful
truth of the matter is that these almost-microscopic sections flow
so effortlessly into one another that you’ d never notice just
how many different things were going on if you didn’t slow things
down to take a closer look. It’s nifty; it’s playful. It’s
fun. It proposes a world in which music is not a didactic but a participatory
science in which there is infinite room for variation and all rules
are fluid. You can’t get famous practicing such a subtle art;
you can barely even get noticed doing it. Certainly, there’s
nobody up in the EMI offices who’s going to pay you twenty-eight
million clams to go and do it somewhere else. But there’s a guy
in New York who’s doing it anyway, some seventeen times over
in the present volume, and it’s a total kick in the pants. |
|
 |
