Diana Gammill
Ah, music—the elfin spirit that embraces the saddened heart in the cool night wind of despair, and bestows passionate caresses of golden notes upon the weeping soul.
If anybody ever hears a sound that fits that description, let me know, will you? Right now I am trying to recuperate my ears from the “music” created by a distinct group of musicians who have the habit of performing during my biology lab on Thursdays. Located strategically across from the lab in the bandhall, this little combo must never get enough fresh air. They always seem to have the windows open. Unfortunately.
Results? Cracked slides and nerves to match. Nothing like observing bacilli to the steady staccato of a snare drum. (Who’s responsible for this—David, Brad, Steve, or who?)
Oh, don’t get me wrong. I like their music. Especially the occasional vocalizing done by a couple of the group. After a few choruses you learn to like it or else!
While we’re on the subject of music, how about the pianos in the Student Center? Almost any time of day you may find students gathered around these popular instruments for gay, sociable sing-alongs. There you may be treated to various long-hair selections from Bach, Beethoven, and Floyd Crammer.
Then, of course, there’s always the jukebox concerts during the free periods on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You can show your appreciation to these gatherings by participating in such ceremonious movements as the “Dog” and the “Swim”. What I don’t get about this musical activity is that nobody seems to dance much. It’s very obvious that everybody wants to — why else would they come and stare at the few that do?
Boys, it’s your move. Ask the girls to dance. They won’t bite your arms off if you offer to lead them out to the dance floor. Why do you think they’ve been staring at you for the past half hour?
Well, enough music for now, music lovers. I think it would be a losing battle, but if you happen to be a music hater, you might try to discourage its abundance by starting a “TC Beatle Despiser Club” or “National Cotton-in-the-Ear Year”.
Or something.