Cacophony

=Cacophony=

We wait in line, edgy, before our performance trying fruitlessly to drown out the sounds of other bands as we make our show come alive in our heads. But flams and diddles from snare drums blend unevenly with the underlying long and low tones of the brass, breaking our focus in a dramatic crescendo

Like the ebb and flow of tides, all leads to a crescendo then a diminuendo. Bands preparing for perfomance clash like waves on rocks as the varieties of tones mingle in the air, birthing discordant sounds. And all the while, the reliable beatings of bass drums supply rhythm while the guards make flags come alive.

Rising with the flags, I belligerently soar, alive, floating carefree on the swell of every crescendo heart pumping in one accord with the drums. I move and absorb the unrepeatable performance, new every contest, but familiar from the sounds of confusion molded by peculiar tones.

Peculiar, yet peaceful and comforting tones dance in the wind, thankful to be alive, offspring of coincidence. Beethoven's joyful sounds stirred in with melancholy Barber crescendo with Elfman into an erotic performance as tempo's constant companions are the drums.

Inscrutable, but realized, like African drums and dance, we cleanse our minds in the bath of tones as we eagerly, anxiously, await our performance, wondering in earnest if we are still alive. Magic and surrender dive freely from every crsecendo. Our ears have long since given up sorting sounds.

Sliding iconoclastically down the rainbow of sounds; from the deep purples and greens of drums to the swirl of yellows at every crescendo, the theory-defying, sacriligious tones restore vitality and vibrancy to half-alive music. All as we wait for our performance.

Pitiful crowd, you will never hear the sounds of a crescendo coming alive, clashing over drums. No, you only hear the orthodox tones of our performance.

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