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'What kind of music do you play?’
‘Kinds? There aren’t any kinds. There’s just music,’ said Keith. ‘There’s always music, if you listen.' (AM)
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'I’d better go and round up the orchestra. They’ll all be at the Stab In The Back over the road. The swine can get through half a pint before the applause has died away.’
‘Are they capable of playing?’ ‘They never have been, so I don’t see why they should start now,’ said Salzella. (Ma) 'Well, basically there are two sorts of opera,’ said Nanny, who also had the true witch’s ability to be confidently expert on the basis of no experience whatsoever. ‘There’s your heavy opera, where basically people sing foreign and it goes like “Oh oh oh, I am dyin’, oh, I am dyin’, oh, oh, oh, that’s what I’m doin’” and there’s your light opera, where they sing in foreign and it basically goes “Beer! Beer! Beer! Beer! I like to drink lots of beer!” although sometimes they drink champagne instead. That’s basically all of opera, reely.’
‘What? Either dyin’ or drinkin’ beer?’ ‘Basically, yes,’ said Nanny, contriving to suggest that this was the whole gamut of human experience. ‘And that’s opera?’ ‘We-ll…there might be some other stuff. But mostly it’s stout or stabbin’.' (Ma) 'Honestly, Salzella ... what is the difference between opera and madness?’
‘Is this a trick question?’ ‘No!’ ‘Then I’d say: better scenery.' (Ma) 'You mean you just see things that are really there?’ he said. ‘I can see you haven’t been with the opera for long,
dear.' (Ma) Crash hefted his guitar and played a chord.
‘My word!’ said Ridcully. ‘Sir?’ ‘That sounded exactly like a cat trying to go to the lavatory through a sewn-up bum.' (SM) 'The money’s not important? You keep on saying that! What kind of musician are you?' (SM)
'... well if you could get music in boxes you wouldn’t need musicians any more.’
Ridcully hesitated. There was a lot to be said for the idea. A world without musicians had a certain appeal. (SM) ... the kind of music he really liked was the kind that never got played. It ruined music, in his opinion, to torment it by involving it on dried skin, bits of dead cat, and lumps of metal hammered into wires and tubes. It ought to stay written down, on the page, in rows of little dots and crotchets all neatly caught between lines. Only there was it pure. (SM)
Deafness doesn’t prevent composers hearing the music. It prevents them hearing the distractions. (SM)
Folk music was not approved of in Llamedos, and the singing of it was rigorously discouraged; it was felt that anyone espying a fair young maiden one morning in May was entitled to take whatever steps they considered appropriate without someone writing it down. (SM)
Musicians were often short on money; it was one definition of a musician. (SM)
It wasn’t that Nanny Ogg sang badly. It was just that she could hit notes which, when amplified by a tin bath half full of water, ceased to be sound and became some sort of invasive presence.
There had been plenty of singers whose high notes could smash a glass, but Nanny’s high C could clean it. (LL) Perdita remembered Magrat bringing a guitar to a Hogswatchnight party once and singing wobbly folk songs with her eyes shut in a way that suggested that she really believed in them. She hadn’t been able to play, but this was all right because she couldn’t sing, either. (LL)
'I know all about folk songs. Hah! You think you’re listenin’ to a nice song about…about cuckoos and fiddlers and nightingales and whatnot, and then it turns out to be about…about something else entirely,’ she added darkly. ‘You can’t trust folk songs. They always sneak up on you.' (WA)
No one remembers the singer. The song remains. (LH)
'I’ve got a sword and it’s a good one, but all the bleedin’ thing can do is keep someone alive, listen. A song can keep someone immortal.' (LH)
'I love the way humans think. They think like songs.' (LL)
By now, if it had been a dwarf bar, the floor would be sticky with beer, the air would be full of flying quaff, and people would be singing. They’d probably be singing the latest dwarf tune, Gold, Gold, Gold, or one of the old favourites, like Gold, Gold, Gold, or the all-time biggie, Gold,Gold, Gold. (FC)
If he concentrated, he could just hear Pismire playing the fluteharp; it was easy to tell, even with all the other instruments in the Deftmenes' own band, by the way the notes went all over the place without ever hitting the tune. Pismire always said there were some things you should care about enough to do badly. (CP)
'Why am I sitting next to a blue cheese with a bit of tartan wrapped around it?’
‘Ah, that’d be Horace,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘He’s Daft Wullie’s pet. He’s no’bein’ a nuisance, is he?’ ‘No, but he’s trying to sing!’ ‘Aye, all blue cheeses hum a bit.' (W) Many songs have been written about the bustling metropolis, the most famous of course being: ‘Ankh-Morpork!
Ankh-Morpork! So good they named it Ankh-Morpork!’, but others have included ‘Carry Me Away From Old Ankh-Morpork’, ‘I Fear I’m Going Back to Ankh-Morpork’, and the old favourite, ‘Ankh-Morpork Malady’. (RM) |
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The world has lost Sir Terry, and it's so much the poorer for that. Vale Sir Terry. Categories
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