If your instrument does not exist yet you build it. Then you fuck around.

This is Moondog with his Trimba, which he built himself. Moondog is a blind homeless man on the streets of New York City. It is 1953 (I think) and he dresses like a viking because vikings are rad.

“I am essentially not an instrument builder, but a composer. I am a philosophic music man who long ago was seduced into musical carpentry. As a composer and a musical philosopher I make my living by selling records of my music. I am both the manufacturer and the retailer. And I distribute the records very largely by mail.” — Harry Partch, 1958



Harry Partch's Spoils of War (1955)

Moondog’s “Wind River Powwow” once made me cry because I don’t know why.
It has no words. It was pretty weird. Werd. Earlier today I thought, wouldn’t it be
funny┬áif cops gave you a ticket for a “weird turn.” The answer of course is no.

If you can’t cry & don’t know why
try watching it with your visualizer
& think around the day your dog died.

Don’t worry though. This cat is okay.

JK, these cats are all dead.