“No, Mr. Bond. I expect you to die.”
— Auric Goldfinger.
There must always be some force, some drive, some inner propulsion that causes music to spill forth from the musician. Such is the case with Gladly‘s !!! What Did You Expect !!!.
It is the muse in music. And this muse can take many forms. Mythically, this muse is a lover, an idol that must be supplicated, gently fondled, hand-fed, in order that she (mythically, the muse is a woman, but it need not be; it could be anything: a man, even) parts with her gifts, opens her long, velvet overcoat, to expose the glory of the beauty that she keeps hidden underneath: the much sought-after song. The musician – hungry, starving – kneels before her, sucking in each note, each motif, obsequious in thanks, a belly full, to live another day, songs picked from her body, her being, as if they were ripe fruit, sugars, flavonoids, textures of skin and flesh and seed, all mashed into a slurry, slurped down, devoured. This is how the musician feeds, gorges, sustains themself.
The muse is not always so kind, so generous. This is why musicians so often are skinny, malnourished, pale. Their muse, their source of song, is fickle. Their muse has tied them up, hands and feet bound, arms and legs splayed into an X. They may wield a whip, a strap of some kind. That is no way to make a song. They may even have a high-powered laser, in which they plan to divide the musician, literally, in two. That is why such care, such tip-toeing, such bartering is often required. Prayers and pleas. The rules, the obligations the muse sets out for the musician – and there may be many – must be followed. Or else, if not taking matters into her own hands, she may refuse to expose herself. She will cloth herself in layers, as if in the throes of fever, of illness. And there will be no song for the musician. And so the musician goes hungry.
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To read the rest of this review — and more by Steve Schmolaris — visit his website Bad Gardening Advice.
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Steve Schmolaris is the founder of the Schmolaris Prize, “the most prestigious prize in all of Manitoba,” which he first awarded in 1977. Each year, he awards the prize to the best album of the year. He does not have a profession but, having come from money (his father, “the Millionaire of East Schmelkirk,” left him his fortune when he died in 1977), Steve is a patron of the arts. Inspired by the exquisite detail of a holotype, the collective intelligence of slime mold, the natural world and the suffering inherent within it — and also music (fuck, he loves music!) — Steve has long been writing reviews of Winnipeg artists’ songs and albums at his website Bad Gardening Advice, leading to the publication of a book of the same name.
