I struggled with the decision as to where the following should be placed; here in the “General Movies, Music and Television” category or under “Short Story Sharing”. At first blush it appears as a short story, but it is in fact an informative account of what transpired yesterday pertaining to classical music. I have also attached two wonderful recordings at the end.
Never the less, I am at the mercy of the Administrators and their infinite wisdom in determining a proper home.
Respectfully submitted,
Gilliatt
Dumas; the Panhandle prodigy of the Texas high plains, scoured by eons of wind driven sand and tumbleweeds. A dusty delirium that found a foothold on the Llano Estacado. A land so vast and flat, it would certainly yield credence to Johnson and his Flat Earth Society. In Dumas you spit grit, fatten cattle, harvest cotton and as this sonata plays out, we will all learn of another insane characteristic among the “Ding Dong Daddy’s from Dumas”.
It was mid September when I rolled into Dumas (pronounced doom us) to get a truck load of superb Dumas dung. You’re most likely thinking; ah Gilliatt must be a gardener. No, you see I had heard rumors that Dumas dung makes a fine fire supplement for those long cold winter nights and now you’re asking; why does it have to be from Dumas? Well, the rumor goes on to indicate that Dumas dung is world renowned for its ability to produce beautiful flames in shades of blue and green.
I pulled off of Mainstreet veering toward a watering hole to wet my whistle. The joint was called the Dreary Beery. I sauntered in and sat down to a cold Lone Star while my truck was being loaded with prairie patties from a neighboring stock pen.
Sidled up to the bar were a few local sodbusters and cotton gin operators, “ginners” curling shots of Marillenschnaps, an Austrian apricot flavored Schnapps, followed by gin chasers.
Sitting in a dark corner was an old man with the appearance of an inebriated shaman. Following introductions with the boys at the bar, I inquired about the old man.
“Why that’s ole Jack Russell the “Terrier” he’s older than the hills”.
“Hell Billy, we ain’t got no hills round here.”
“Well he’s older than dirt anyway, and a smidgeon wiser ‘an Aristotle even with one arm tied behind his back!”
“Especially when it comes to eighteenth century classical music”, interjected one ginner.
“The Terrier taught us all bout that classical music stuff, specially bout that Motes Art feller from Australia.” “That’s Austria you dim wit” This was followed by another shot of Marillenschnaps and a round of back slapping and guffaws.
At this point the Terrier made a grumbling sound which brought an immediate, respectful silence throughout the bar. The shaman stood and began to shuffle toward me wiping a dribble of Schnapps from the corner of his mouth. Being new to these parts, I naturally grew tense. Perhaps he is coming to exorcize the intoxicating spirits from my mind?
“Cityslicker, I see you come for a truck load of our most prized commodity, but there is something I’ll share with you that is far more precious than fire Frisbees”
The dung loader popped his head into the bar to let me know the chips were about ankle deep in my truck; “jes wunderin if I should keep shovelin in more BS”.
“Yes, yes; let’s keep piling it on.”
Annoyed at the interruption, the Terrier continued: “City slicker, are you familiar with Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart?
“Yes, to some degree and please, you may call me Gilliatt.”
“As you wish Gilliatt, do you believe that Mozart authored all of the wonderful compositions generally attributed to the creative juices of his own mind?”
“Well, yes, that’s what I been told and taught”
“Ah ha! You see fellas? He says: that’s what I’ve been told and taught”
“A typical response from an unenlightened, city slicked mind. Well let me enlighten you my friend. Mozart couldn’t compose his way out of a paper bag! He was a sham, a lackey made famous by the plagiarizing of music born right here on the high plains surrounding Dumas.”
You can imagine the shock and bewilderment on my face at this unfolding scene ill suited to the vernacular of the region. The murmurings of an impassioned debate could be heard from the boys at the bar. I couldn’t help but pick up on the name Rousseau and something about the Franciscan monks, Master Jacques de Molay, etc. It was all so confusing.
(aside) – Clearly these people aren’t playing with a full deck. I wonder how deep the manure is. I want outta here!
“SILENCE! Silence! you numb skulls why do you continue to espouse these confounded theories; It was the Franciscan’s, no it was the Jesuits and God only knows why, but Dusty over there believes Mozart’s notoriety was propagated by a sect of underground New Age Templar Knights. And you Rowdy, why do you insist that Mozart was capable of composing his own music?”
“D--n it all, how many times have I told you Francisco Vázquez de Coronado was the genius, the ghost writer if you will, behind Mozart’s success? Remember it was Coronado who, during that futile search for Cibola, first heard and recorded the wonderful melodious music emanating from the limitless ocean of sage and yucca that lay before him on this very spot. It was a cold winter night in 1541, a blue norther with a full head of steam was bearing down on Coronado and his men as they lay drunk and entangled in the sage following a night of debauchery. Soon a stiff cold wind was passing across the leaves of the sage, grasses and yucca creating the most wonderful music to the ears of the nauseous conquistadors. Coronado immediately put quill to paper and transposed the notes, sharps, flats, rests, staccatos, etc. He was a man possessed, feverishly documenting the wind born sonatas, concerto’s, operas and requiems. Coronado’s music eventually found its way back to Salzburg Austria, falling into the hands of Johann van Beethoven. It was Johann, who had a proclivity toward manufacturing great composers (such as is own son) that took interest in a young street urchin named Mozart. Johann had Mozart copy Coronado’s music so it would appear as though it came from his own hand and the rest, as they say, is history!”
The shaman finished speaking which was followed by a moment of silence. A shameful tear could be seen trailing from the eye of Rowdy. I was dumbfounded. Thank god the dung loader stepped in at this moment to inform me there was no more BS to be had. His timing was impeccable. I slapped a Jefferson on the table, tipped my hat and bolted out of there faster than you can say allegro. Putting the pedal to the metal, I was heading south on Highway 287. Myriad convoluted thoughts and images were racing through my mind. Glancing in the rearview mirror I noticed the sky to the north was a dark slate blue color. At first I figured it must be the swarm of flies trailing behind my truck, but I suddenly realized; a blue norther! I pulled over and stepped out to allow the cold refreshing breeze blow the insanity from my mind. While standing in a moment of solitude I began to hear the sound of music growing louder from the north. At first it arrived sporadically and unstructured but soon I was able to hear the piece, complete in its inviolable beauty. It was Violin Sonata No. 35 in A Major K526.
Next year I’m heading south of Dallas, to Italy for my fire supplement. I hear tell the locals down there believe that Shakespeare was the son of a Tuscany grape farmer.
Now for some actual music:
From the violin:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hD0AaAqlyJo
To the fiddle:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wIYzNVuGGBA
Gilliatt
