Axidava

Colored Concert Troupes

George W. Peck

Sometimes it seems as though the colored people ought to have a guardian appointed over them. Now, you take a colored concert troupe, and though they may have splendid voices, they do not know enough to take advantage of their opportunities. People go to hear them because they are colored people, and they want to hear old-fashioned negro melodies, and yet these mokes will tackle Italian opera and high toned music that they don’t know how to sing.

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Nigga Heil Hitler

Costin Nițu

I can’t get Heil Hitler out of my head – and I don’t want to. Because Kanye West is a great artist and Heil Hitler is a great song damn it!

There, I said it.

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There’s A Nigger In The Moon

Clipski

I can’t get this song out of my head.

An Apology For Bad Pianists

J. B. Priestley

Ignoring those musical labourers who are paid so much per hour, at cinemas and dance-halls, to make some sort of rhythmical sound, all pianists, I think, may be divided into four classes.

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When Chenal Sings The Marseillaise

Wythe Williams

I went to the Opéra Comique one day to hear Marthe Chenal sing the “Marseillaise.” For several weeks previous I had heard a story going the rounds of what is left of Paris life to the effect that if one wanted a regular old-fashioned thrill he really should go to the Opéra Comique on a day when Mlle. Chenal closed the performance by singing the French national hymn. I was told there would be difficulty in securing a seat.

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Bob Vylan: The Outrage

Pacoste

Last Saturday, at the Glastonbury Festival, the front man of Bob Vylan chanted “Death to the IDF!” and the idiots in the crowd naturally followed along.

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The Agonies Of Writing A Musical Comedy

P. G. Wodehouse

The trouble about musical comedy, and the reason why a great many otherwise kindly and broadminded persons lie in wait round the corner with sudden scowls, their whole being intent on beating it with a brick the moment it shows its head, is that, from outside, it looks too easy.

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The Plague Of Music

Mrs. John Lane

Yesterday as I strolled through this little Hampshire village, I passed a woman with a baby in her arms, followed by a chubby boy of about three, whose little trousers had only just emerged from the petticoat stage. He lingered behind his mother, and drew across his pursed-up lips and his puffed-out red cheeks the instrument called a mouth harmonica, and drank in rapturously his own celestial harmonies.

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