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| Music is good for the soul. |
Hey, Daddio! Rock-a-Billy, Boom, Shocka, Boom, Shockalocka, Boom. Oozing with rhythm, sounds, culture, and geography, we spent most of the day roaming the exhibits at the MIM (Musical Instrument Museum), Phoenix's number one must see in the guide book for rich white folks (Dos entradas: $54.00). Everybody there looked like us, except for one class of well behaved fourth graders on a field trip and one obnoxious eighth grade twerp who kept talking too loudly, not quite aware of the effect of his head phones, and who cut in front of me twice to change the screen I was watching, while his exceedingly patient and enabling mother cooed, "Now, now, Michael". I want to string him to the neck of one of the guitars and launch him like an arrow off the nearest precipice where he would land in a startled huff on top of his dazed mother. Instead, I just left. After all, I am the mature one, and besides, there were rooms full of pleasant images and sounds more appealing than the voice of an ineffective parent. For example, the second floor is organized geographically, beginning with Africa and its myriad of drums, masks, rattles, gourds, and creatively made string instruments. We traveled around the world (In about four hours) until we ended up in the U.S. where the exhibits had me flashing back like an old hippie on an acid trip. Janice Joplin screamed for me to hold on; a mutton chopped Eric Clapton fingered Muddy Waters riffs; Waylon Jennings took me back to Luckenbach, Texas ; Elvis squealed hunka, hunka burning love; Buddy Holly peered through his horned rims; and some women I'd never heard of played eery sounds in the air on an instrument called a Theremin. After I'd enjoyed as much of that intensity as I could stand, I suggested to Judy that we take a break for lunch. We adjourned to the cafeteria. We ate a very nice (Airport expensive, organically chic) chicken salad, a goat cheese, cranberry oatmeal cookie, and a bottle of diet Coke (In view of all that health food, I craved plastic sugar). We were lucky to find a table, and that's when I noticed that everyone in the place looked like me: a fair thee well boomer tourist. It's not a condemnation (After all, I am one), but just an observation. I wondered what it would take for inner city school kids to muster a field trip to the MIM. I suspect the class we saw were kids from Scottsdale or Happy Valley. They sure weren't from Glendale. After lunch, we toured the down stairs exhibits. There you could play instruments, listen to instruments that played themselves, and relive performances from various artists. It was a nice day, but like all places that are jam packed with artifacts, history, culture, inspiration, and lore, it would take a lifetime to fully appreciate the place, and that's assuming it could be done in that time. The museum also has an area that restores antique instruments, but the artisans weren't working today. In all, it's a fabulous place, and only the most dour curmudgeon would bark, "Once ya' seen one guitar, ya' seen 'em all", or worse yet, "Call an ambulance, I think that kid fell off the balcony." Just kidding. It was a delightful day, not just for the mystery of the place, but also for the warmth and protection because today it rained, and when it rains it pours in the desert. So as warm, dry adventurers enjoying this vast magnificent world, we thankfully threaded our way (Albeit briefly) through a world of music, which made life good, especially today.
A glimpse of last night's sunset from our living room window.
I took a 150 photos in poor museum light. Instruments of all shapes abounded, and the museum holds over a hundred thousand (My guess) artifacts. After a while, I quit taking photos and just enjoyed the music from each exhibit.
Many of the African stringed instruments were formed into figurines.
Many were intricate and ornate.
There were flutes of all kinds.
Some were merely reeds wrapped into spiral windpipes.
A few instrument showed their age through their lovingly worn faces.
Some held mysteries.
The masks, mute as they were, spoke volumes.
Ornately carved flutes are present in many cultures.
I only saw this one steel guitar, but it was a doozy.
Among the most ornate guitars were European.
This Spanish lady wore a delicately sensual Flamenco gown.
Accordions squeezed themselves in many cultures.
The chicken salad went down without a cluck.
Judy played the marimba.
I banged thel bells.
Carlos Santana's guitar.
The back weave of an amazing drum.
Drums of all types: Many like this one were shaped like goblets.
Rat a tat, rat a tat, rat a tat tat tat.
Even landscape was lyrical.
And the skies moved like a symphony.
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