At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
Sounds like two skeletons copulating on a corrugated tin roof.
At Bloomington, Indiana, I was invited to listen to music written in quarter tones for four harps and voices. I had to go out to be sick.
The sound of the harpsichord resembles that of a bird-cage played with toasting-forks.
When something is coming off of a Neve board and being laid down on tape, it's like a warm blanket for the brain. When you're working in a digital form, it's so harsh; it's almost painful. Your ears get more fatigued if you're mixing all day.
On 'Black Ben Carson,' I had strict no melody thing. I wanted straight, raw, rugged noise music.
His voice was the most obnoxious squeak I ever was tormented with.
The sound of a harpsichord - two skeletons copulating on a tin roof in a thunderstorm.
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.
My music is not lovely.
The last thing I want is for people to say that the music is nice. It's not nice. It sounds good, but it's got grit, and it's got edge. It never veers into sweet.
On a sudden open fly With impetuous recoil and jarring sound Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder.
