The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 14, Issue 8 (November 1939)
Lost in the Jingle
Lost in the Jingle.
It makes it difficult for a plain, ordinary citizen, whose music is almost entirely confined to the bath, and who has never actually been locked up in an insane asylum, to retain any confidence in his sanity.
On the other hand, it doesn't seem to help much even when the piece is described to you in advance. There is something wrong either with your ear or your brain—or both.
Some merciful person, noting that you have a very low brow and pickled-onion eyes, essays to give you the low-down on the composer's uplift. He describes the whole works in that goo-goo kind of voice which you expect, at any moment, to say: “… and so the king said to the beggar, ‘slay the dragon and you may wed my lovely daughter.’” He is patient with you and is probably a lover of dogs and other dumb animals, too. With the help of hip and thigh, Adam's apple, all his hands and the best part of his spine he gives you a hundred-per-cent. action story of what you are about to hear. But you don't. What he has described as the tragic love story of Aspedestra and Neurasthenia will persist in projecting itself on your dome as a picture of bulls at play in a bottle yard or stormy weather off Flushing.
You can't blame the music or the players. You may have an ear for music but what you need is a head to wear it on.