I have noticed a great silence, following the release of my Classical music. At first I was angry, because I had worked so long, and shared so much. The work is fine, calculated against its own measure and balanced in the manner of the great masters. The top half dances across the bottom half, like a marionette of an ice skater in the hand of a child, theof its blades touching down in stretches and swirls above the providence and planning of a somber, paternal frame. It is Music. It is all-piano. It is Classical. I know this to be true.Then it struck me: Classical music is never appreciated until long after its creators are dead. Beethoven went insane in his own time, never seeing a penny, dying in a cold apartment with only oats and their gravy in his stomach. Mozart--plopped into the anonymous gutter of souls, only so that his corpse would not attract vermin, not so that it could be honored. Schubert, with his venereal diseases.To pep myself up again, I give you the first release by FRAN.CE, my digital band. I imagine them to be of European extraction, in their crisp white coveralls, golden silk gloves on their fingers as they stand on a glass stage at their "Digital Audio Workstations." Their hair is fluffy, and of the fashion. All dance, all are entranced, as the steady beat and whirling, unrelenting melodies snake into their veins. There is man-made fog. The pleasure is note-to-note, in the moment, and vanishes quicker than the smoke and sugar-fed bodies...