So we were heading to the Sheep Meadow to have a day reading under a tree. By the time we passed Balto, we could already hear it.

Thump! Thump! Thump! ZxzzzxxzzztThump! Thump….

Some company that sells super caffeinated sugar-water drinks had set up tents to advertise. They had a speaker blasting what sounded like a recording from an industrial factory that had seen better days.

zzzzZZZZZZThump!THUMPTHUMPthumpzzzzzZZZZZThump!….

My first guess was that it was the military testing new anti-personnel weaponry. This was disproved by noticing the indigenous populants sucking down the greenish swill had every appearance of enjoying their torture.

The whole Sheep Meadow was bouncing up and down to what we might call the “rhythm” of the noise. At 100 yards the music was loud enough to loosen a childhood filling in a back molar. Since I hate dentists, we retreated to a far corner of the park where the sounds of the traffic and sirens were a blessed relief.

Now it turns out that the punishing electronic uproar was by some famous black “artist”—though some of us might prefer infamous. Artist in the modern sense, of course, a person who purposely foists ugliness on his victims to great acclaim of our cultural leaders.

Walking down the Bowery, there was a black guy holding what we used to call the “boom box”, though this one, thanks to modern technology, was svelte while still being able to put out an ear-bleeding level of sound. The music itself was inconsequential next to the lyrics, which which would make a St Louis gynecologist blush. The singer, if I might abuse that term, at least had the ability to enunciate clearly. That quick walk by earned me a Bachelors degree in gross anatomy. I do not exaggerate. The man holding the contraption had that I-dare-you-to-say-anything look that will be familiar to anybody coming into the city.

Black music didn’t use to be soul-destroyingly awful. Not every note of it now is, either. But that which is celebrated is whatever is worse than horrible.

You can say “White music is bad, too!” And who could not agree that much of the popular variety certainly is. But it only reaches bottom where it emulates black music.

Don’t bother with any that’s-racist retorts, especially if they are used as a way to claim putrescent music isn’t putrescent. I could be as racist as Nebal Maysaud, but that would not make what is bad good.

Nebal Maysaud? He bills himself as “a queer Lebanese composer based in the Washington D.C.” Mysaud says “It’s time to let classical music die.”

He doesn’t like classical music because it’s white.

Which it isn’t. White, that is. It started that way—the vast majority of notable composers were white—but if we’re going to go by numbers, classical music is now more East Asian than white.

Incidentally, queer, says the thesaurus, is: abnormal, absurd, affected, anomalous, artificial, bastard, bereft of reason, bizarre, bogus…and so on. Skip that.

Maysaud says “My fellow musicians of color: it is time to accept that we are in an abusive relationship with classical music.” It’s not clear what color Mysaud thinks he is, but he looks white.

Western classical music is not about culture. It’s about whiteness. It’s a combination of European traditions which serve the specious belief that whiteness has a culture—one that is superior to all others. Its main purpose is to be a cultural anchor for the myth of white supremacy. In that regard, people of color can never truly be pioneers of Western classical music. The best we can be are exotic guests: entertainment for the white audiences and an example of how Western classical music is more elite than the cultures of people of color.

Dance, Bo Jangles, dance.

This paragraph is what is known as gibberish among Reality researchers. But it is pleasant sounding gibberish. The winds of culture are now blowing anti-white, and so strong are these gales that even whites and white-looking individuals want to get in on the blowing. Hence Mysaud’s repeated emphasis in his article about enjoying perverted sex, which to him means less white.

He has a point. A white man with a wife is the epitome of evil, a second Hitler. But a white man who enjoys having his anus penetrated really does become less white. If he’s loud enough about his proclivities, he color shifts in the eyes of others. Houdini could not perform a better trick.

Mysaud’s approach, which is common, of identifying the True, Good, Beautiful, Worthy, Real, and Desirable, such as is classical music (and grammar, math, reading, etc.), with white is bound to fail, of course. At least because once you destroy all good things in order to rid yourself of the stink of white, you’ll have nothing left over.

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