There are those for whom the streams and rivers of imagination
Are become nought but dry beds or sluggish stagnant trickles.
For them come not the joyous roiling torrents of elation
On hearing music celestial within a jar of Bramwells' Pickles.
Oh spare them not your pity and your tears;
Those monsters born without their mental ears.
J L Scryton 1785 -1796
Music like any art cannot be pinned down with any single definition. The Greeks knew that music could be found just as easily in the taste and smell of pickles as in the sound of a lyre. That is why Polyhymnia carries a spade.
Looking after Kit's shop will give me the chance to experiment with the Prepared Accordion. A project once discussed with John Cage.