The Dead Beat

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Music (there are still people who say this, for God’s sake) is the universal language—which is nonsense. Don’t misunderstand me; I like music, of several sorts, from classical to the peculiar ninth-tone bass chants you’ll hear on Alphacent. But even preSpace, anybody who quoted that silly saying should’ve been sentenced to alternating days of German, Syrian, and Thai concerts for a year. Not that you can’t like them all, though I know no one who does (I know several who pretend, but why burst bubbles?)—but the musics are as different as the languages used to be. I speak as an expert on the subject, all of a sudden, having recently spent some time on Apelles, where there are concerts of all persuasions—as well as art exhibits, network publishers and readings, dance recitals, comweb share groups, and you name it—every day of every eight-day week, all the year round as, I think, the Christmas annuals used to say.

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