(WC Fields: If I Had a Million, 1932)
At first, playing up on the roof, busking down onto a vacant city, was like something from a Twilight Zone episode. But then they returned, the muffler challenged motorcycles roaring down the main streets. But I found that if I sweep through the low Bflat harmonics on my soprano, I can generate an airflow staccato squeal, topped with a bit of growl. Today there were a pair of expensive mid-life crisis Harleys, carrying a middle age woman behind each middle age man, rumbling slowly up the hill, parading. Until them modulated harmonics practically stopped them in their tracks. Looking up and skulking off. (Unfortunately, there are plenty more road hogs, booming by day and night all weekend long. Glory is fleeting.)
At first, playing up on the roof, busking down onto a vacant city, was like something from a Twilight Zone episode. But then they returned, the muffler challenged motorcycles roaring down the main streets. But I found that if I sweep through the low Bflat harmonics on my soprano, I can generate an airflow staccato squeal, topped with a bit of growl. Today there were a pair of expensive mid-life crisis Harleys, carrying a middle age woman behind each middle age man, rumbling slowly up the hill, parading. Until them modulated harmonics practically stopped them in their tracks. Looking up and skulking off. (Unfortunately, there are plenty more road hogs, booming by day and night all weekend long. Glory is fleeting.)