balladeer traditional

februpony 7, most despicable evil hated charact.. sorry, got a bit carried away. poor ol thorax, look at those crocodile eyes. They don’t work on me sonny boy! I still don’t trust ya!

The worst line in “Run For Your Life” is actually a quote from “Baby Let’s Play House” written by blues musician Arthur Gunter (”I’d rather see you dead little girl, then to be with another man”). Like many blues artists, Gunter wrote songs about violence and vengeance that can be traced back to the murder ballads tradition of early folk music. As a huge fan of early twentieth century blues, I can tell you that that there are three plots you hear revisited over and over by writers like Gunter: “my lover done me wrong so I’m going to kill him/her,” “my lover done me wrong so I’m going to kill his/her new lover,” and “my lover done me wrong so I’m going to kill myself.” (Both genders because female blues musicians would sometimes target men in songs as well.) Violence (and sex) are a crucial to entire subgenres of the blues, used for imagery, symbolism, politics and catharsis (and just because vengeance makes for a gripping story). But like rap many decades later, those things became an easy excuse for white people to target predominantly African-American genres. 

But I’m not surprised that the OP waluigitheanti is ignorant of any of that. In addition to being confused and ascribing several songs to the wrong songwriters, I awoke this morning to spam messages from her in my inbox calling me a “dumb ass n*gger.” (Amazingly, the fact I’ve had anon messaging turned off for years so I can see their usernames doesn’t seem to matter - but of course Tumblr’s abuse team never does anything with screenshots of racist messages.) I find it funny that the people who often portray themselves as the most angry social justice warriors in public on their blogs are the quickest to search my blog for personal details and let the racism and homophobia fly in private. 

Originally posted by rainhagretchen

I was allowed, indeed ordered, to attend the Holy of Holies, the piano masterclasses. They were quite different from any classes I had been to up till then. One was not taught how to play well but how to become a part of one’s instrument until the soul of the interpreter became the messenger of music, restoring it in all its original clarity.
Only a few ‘grown-ups’ aged twenty-five and more came to these
classes. They were virtuosos, with a technique far outstripping my
hesitant beginner’s effrontery, who came along to perfect their already considerable mastery under the eye of Istvan Thomán, who made an indelible impression on me. He had been a pupil of Liszt’s and was subsequently the revered teacher of Bartók and Dohnányi. He had been appointed to the top class at the Academy late in life and was its Tree of Life – an authentic, first-hand purveyor of the teaching of Franz Liszt.
I can still hear his voice roaring like an old lion’s after a pupil
had played Liszt’s Grande Polonaise and Chopin’s Fourth Ballade. “I once played these pieces to Liszt in this very room.” What Liszt had told our master was handed on to us as if it was something completely new, a password for generations of young interpreters.
—  György Cziffra

Imagine Lenalee having a playlist of music on her iPod for all of her close friends. Each one is individually mixed with that person’s favorite music. Whether it’s raving to EDM with Lavi or belting show tunes with Alma, when she goes on long car rides with them, they have fun! 

And then there’s Komui’s playlist, which is full of all the traditional Chinese ballads he grew up listening to his mother sing. (The first time he heard it, he cried so hard they had to stop at a gas station until he could calm down enough to drive safely.)