Tale Teller Club Music: podcasts

Showing posts with label podcasts. Show all posts

Dec 20, 2024

The Beauty of Enharmonics for String Players and the Secrets they Hold #essays #musictheory #podcast

Nov 22, 2024

Countess Diaries Ch 21 The Week That Was: Chaos on the Airwaves

Diary Entry: The Week That Was: Chaos on the Airwaves

Ah, my dear world, where to begin? This week’s live broadcasts from the palace of Goddamn Media have been, to put it mildly, eventful. As the Countess of Brighton and Hackney, I pride myself on curating an atmosphere of elegance and creativity. Yet even I must admit, there are times when the universe conspires to turn my noble endeavors into something resembling a farce. And so, I present to you, dear reader, the highlights (and lowlights) of this week’s adventures on the airwaves.
A Noble Vision Derailed

Each week, I approach the live broadcasts with the same lofty ideals. “This shall be an evening of high culture,” I declare to myself. “A showcase of Brighton’s most talented artists!”

What unfolds, however, often teeters on the edge of absurdity. This week, the absurdity began with Boy Cat, who decided that a visiting guitarist’s open instrument case was the perfect place to, shall we say, leave his mark. The poor musician returned from the refreshment table to find his beloved guitar surrounded by a pool of feline disdain.

“Oh, it’s just his way of expressing himself,” I said diplomatically, though the guitarist looked unconvinced.

Not to be outdone, Girl Cat took to the stage during a particularly poignant poetry reading. As the poet recited an impassioned ode to lost love, Girl Cat settled center stage and began grooming herself with a thoroughness that bordered on indecency. The audience, torn between awe and laughter, eventually gave her a standing ovation.
Renaming the Lounges

The chaos wasn’t limited to cats, of course. This week, I overheard some of the younger attendees affectionately renaming various spaces in the palace. The VIP Lounge, in particular, has apparently earned the nickname “the BJ Room.” I nearly choked on my wine when I heard that one.

“BJ?!” I exclaimed to Joel, our ever-patient open mic host.

“I think it stands for ‘Brighton’s Jesters,’” he deadpanned, though the smirk on his face suggested otherwise.

As for the so-called “Ketamine Room,” it has now become, according to local lore, “the place to store coats.” I’ve decided to embrace the humor of it all. After all, what is nobility without a sense of irony?
Unintentional Commercials and Soundtrack Chaos

Dominicus, my mischievous overlord of a cat, made his presence known once again by triggering an ad for local plumbing services mid-broadcast. The sound of “Joe’s Pipes and Drains” booming through the speakers was met with a mixture of horror and hysterics, particularly as the ad looped three times before I could wrest control of the soundboard.

Later, one of the poets (the same one interrupted by Girl Cat’s grooming session) inadvertently cued the wrong music track during his performance. Instead of the haunting piano piece he had intended, the audience was treated to a cheerful jingle from a frozen food commercial.

“Art is everywhere,” I quipped into the mic, ever the professional. “Even in the freezer aisle.”
Audience Favorites

Despite the chaos—or perhaps because of it—this week’s broadcasts have been a resounding success. The audience seems to thrive on the unpredictability, with several fans writing in to express their delight. One particularly memorable comment read:

“Countess, your shows are like life itself—messy, funny, and occasionally profound. Don’t change a thing.”

And so, I won’t. Goddamn Media has always been a place where the unexpected thrives, where art and anarchy coexist in delightful disharmony.
Closing Thoughts

As I sit here, sipping my vodka and orange (five-a-day, naturally), I reflect on the beauty of it all. Yes, there were berets flying, cats misbehaving, and the occasional ad for plumbing. But there was also music, laughter, and a sense of community that no amount of feline sabotage can diminish.

Tomorrow, we broadcast again. What will happen? I can only imagine. For now, I shall retire to my bath and dream of a world where cats respect guitars and poets can have their moment unmolested.

Until next time, my dear world, I remain your Countess of Chaos and Creativity. Stay fabulous.

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Countess Diaries Ch 19 The Countess Goes to Alcatraz #countessoffbrightonandhackney

Countess Diaries Ch 19.

Diary Entry: The Countess Goes to Alcatraz.

Oh, what a day, my dear world. I write to you from my bath—a sauna masquerading as a sanctuary tonight—after an adventure that tested my patience, my dignity, and my eyeliner. Today, I made my first foray into Alcatraz—or, as the locals call it, Lewes Jail.

The day began with chaos. Knowing I had to leave the palace before noon—a time I consider unholy—I set my alarm for nine, only to toss and turn in a fit of nerves until dawn. The Baron, my incarcerated son, had requested some essentials, including boxer shorts. Simple enough, one might think, except Brighton Arts Club operates on an unspoken socialism of shared everything. As luck would have it, the second pair of boxers on his list were currently being worn—by me. Naturally.

And then there was the ID debacle. My passport, like my alter ego, exists under a different name. Combine that with a missing bank card (left at the gallery the night before), and I was a picture of disarray as I sprinted across the park in five layers, sweating profusely under an unseasonably warm sun. The eyeliner was the final insult—dull, blunt, and utterly unsalvageable. By the time I left for Lewes, I looked more prisoner than visitor.

Lewes, my dear readers, is a town that defies logic. Shops close with the whimsical irregularity of a Dickensian novel. We needed change—prison rules demand shrapnel, not notes—but every place we visited was either shut for half-term or out of coins. After an endless trek through jaywalker-unfriendly streets, we stumbled into a pub that promised sustenance, only to abandon it 30 minutes later when no sandwiches appeared. By the time we reached the jail, I was famished, frazzled, and faintly homicidal.

The prison itself is a marvel of bureaucracy and indignity. As a Countess, I’m accustomed to deference, so being herded like livestock was quite the humbling experience. Perhaps next time I’ll dress as a solicitor; they seemed to glide through the process with an air of untouchable efficiency. Meanwhile, I found myself fumbling through security, trying to convince a stern-faced officer that no, I did not have contraband tucked into my Victoria sponge.

Once inside, the emotional toll hit me. The waiting area was a microcosm of pent-up tension, brimming with nervous mothers, tearful sisters, and a sprinkling of overly aggressive visitors who seemed one step away from starting a fight over queue etiquette. The highlight—or perhaps lowlight—was seeing a man whose visitors never arrived. He waited for nearly an hour, his hope slowly eroding until it was unbearable to watch. My heart broke for him, though I made a mental note to tell The Baron never to expect Victoria sponge in his care packages.

Finally, I saw The Baron. The relief was immediate, the joy palpable, and yes, I may have shed a tear or two. Despite his polyester-sheet predicament, he was in good spirits, regaling me with tales of prison politics and his plans to reform the canteen menu. It was a bittersweet meeting, but one I wouldn’t trade for anything.

The return journey was a blur of hunger and poor decisions. A tasteless sandwich at a service station followed by McDonald’s back in Brighton left me questioning every life choice that led to this gastronomic low point. Tomorrow, I resolve to detox with something green, fresh, and decidedly non-processed.

Back at the gallery, I discovered my latest flyer—a photograph of a rope-suspended model—had ruffled a few feathers. Apparently, her “blueish hue” upset a fellow rope enthusiast, who felt compelled to lecture me on technique. “Darling,” I wanted to say, “I’m a photographer, not a knot connoisseur. If you think you can do better, tie yourself up and let me take your picture.”

And so, another day in the life of the Countess concludes. My bath is finally cooling, the Marlboros are calling, and Midsomer Murders awaits—because even in chaos, one must have their comforts. Until tomorrow, my dear world, I remain yours in exhaustion and eyeliner smudges.