Annie Musical Quotes

You know, one of the tragedies of real life is that there is no background music.

Poetry, plays, novels, music, they are the cry of the human spirit trying to understand itself and make sense of our world.

One of the tragedies of real life is that there is no background music.

There are two kinds of artists left: those who endorse Pepsi and those who simply won't.

Nothing good is ever easy, Annie. Remember that.

Some endings are happier, some not so happy, but it's not just the happiness percentage that matters. It's the music of it. Most people's lives don't have enough music. I was

But if I close my eyes And wish it all away Pretend I'm someone else, Pretend I'm here to stay Gave us half a chance, Let my stupid heart decide There's no doubt in my mind, You'd be mine

A kind of joyous hysteria moved into the room, everything flying before the wind, vehicles outside getting dented to hell, the crowd sweaty and the smells of aftershave, manure, clothes dried on the line, your money’s worth of perfume, smoke, booze; the music subdued by the shout and babble through the bass hammer could be felt through the soles of the feet, shooting up the channels of legs to the body fork, center of everything. It is the kind of Saturday night that torches your life for a few hours, makes it seem like something is happening.

Life isn't filled with perfect harmony. The world is littered with bum notes, off-key moments and tuneless episodes. The trick is to find your own music, to ignore the discord and sing your own tune.

You got to think a musical instrument is human or, anyway, alive....You take a fiddle now, we say it has a neck, and in the human neck what do you find? Vocal cords like strings, where the sound comes from.

...hell was a great fiery-hot music hall, he thought, where untuned instruments scraped and shrieked in diabolical cacophany...

I play the fiddle....I'm not much to listen to yet, but we got no mice in our house.

She has no name for that feeling of utter abandonment, nor the feeling that comes over her on fair days, when she stands in the courtyard from the photo, and the voice of the loudspeaker booms front behind the trees, and the music and commercials run together in an unintelligible blur. It is as if she were standing outside the fete, separated from some earlier thing.

Quoyle experienced moments in all colors, uttered brilliancies, paid attention to the rich sound of waves counting stones, he laughed and wept, noticed sunsets, heard music in rain, said I do.

NPR faded from the radio in a string of announcements of corporate supporters, replaced by a Christian station that alternated pabulum preaching and punchy music. He switched to shit-kicker airwaves and listened to songs about staying home, going home, being home and the errors of leaving home.

Life has few guarantees, Annie. But one thing I know for certain, I will never stop loving you as long as I can still draw breathe into my lungs.

He had a feel for silence, for leading to an unsounded note the listener yearned for...

Annie had stopped listening to music. It was too evocative and she found it easier not to live with unexpected emotional stimulants.

Quoyle experienced moments in all colors, uttered brilliancies, paid attention to the rich sound of waves counting stones, he laughed and wept, noticed sunsets, heard music in rain, said I do. A row of shining hubcaps on sticks appeared in the front yard of the Burkes’ house. A wedding present from the bride’s father. For if Jack Buggit could escape from the pickle jar, if a bird with a broken neck could fly away, what else might be possible? Water may be older than light, diamonds crack in hot goat’s blood, mountaintops give off cold fire, forests appear in mid-ocean, it may happen that a crab is caught with the shadow of a hand on its back, that the wind be imprisoned in a bit of knotted string. And it may be that love sometimes occurs without pain or misery.

Sometimes they ask if you want to hook up your iPod for background music. Do not do this. It's a trap. They'll put it on shuffle, and no matter how much Beastie Boys or Velvet Underground you have on there, the following four tracks will play in a row; "We'd Like to Thank You Herbert Hoover" from Annie, "Hold On" by Wilson Phillips, "That's What Friends Are For, Various Artists, and "We'd Like to Thank You Herbert Hoover" from Annie.

With the Walkman, for the first time music entered the body. We could live inside music, walled off from the world.

There is a soughing in the beech trees and the ash, and the small music of the hens.

Still, I'm drawn to him. Annoyingly drawn. Like a bruised and wayward moth flying into a flickering light bulb.

And that, boys and girls, is the story of how stone-cold Annie Mathers found her lady parts.

So, she sings like an angel, plays like the devil, pitches championships, and slays amusement park games. Is there anything you can't do?

Thank you,' said Annie. 'Second thing : Juliet is brilliant. Don't lump the music in with the rest of it.' 'Have you been taking any of this in ?' 'Yes. You're a very bad man. You've been a useless father to four of your five children, and a useless husband to every single one of your wives, and a rubbish partner to every single one of your girlfriends? And Juliet is still brilliant.

I’m Annika Volkov, by the way. You can call me Anni or Anne. Just not Nika.” “I’m Ava Nash. A cellist. I study classical music at the School of Arts and Music.” “Cecily Knight. Psychology major.

It was a roaring spring morning with green in the sky, the air spiced with sand sagebrush and aromatic sumac. NPR faded from the radio in a string of announcements of corporate supporters, replaced by a Christian station that alternated pabulum preaching and punchy music. He switched to shit-kicker airwaves and listened to songs about staying home, going home, being home and the errors of leaving home.

...(in the past I would listen to a record three, five, ten times running, waiting for something that never happened). A book offers more deliverance, more escape, more fulfilment of desire. In songs one remains locked in desire. (The lyrics are not that important, only the melody matters; so I understood nothing of what the Platters or the Beatles were saying.) There are no places, no scenes, no characters, only oneself and one’s longing. Yet the very starkness and paucity of music allow me to recall a whole episode of my life and the girl I used to be when I listen to I’m Just a Dancing Partner thirty years later. Whereas the beauty and fullness of The Beautiful Summer and In Search of Lost Time, which I have reread two or three times, can never give me back my life.

Bagpipe Music' It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw, All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow. Their knickers are made of crêpe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python, Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with heads of bison. John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa, Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker, Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey, Kept its bones for dumb-bells to use when he was fifty. It's no go the Yogi-Man, it's no go Blavatsky, All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi. Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather, Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna. It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture, All we want is a Dunlop tyre and the devil mend the puncture. The Laird o' Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober, Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over. Mrs Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion, Said to the midwife 'Take it away; I'm through with overproduction'. It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh, All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby. Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage, Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage. His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish, Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish. It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible, All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle. It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium, It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums, It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections, Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension. It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet; Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit. The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall for ever, But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather.

If you write anything meaningful over there, June, keep it far away from this city. They will turn a story about glue-addicted gypsy children in the Balkans into an animated musical about a tribe of pixie-sized fairy-dust-loving flamenco dancers who live happily ever after with their dancing bears.

In front of the house was a huge old ash-tree. The west wind, sweeping from Derbyshire, caught the houses with full force, and the tree shrieked again. Morel liked it. "It's music," he said. "It sends me to sleep." But Paul and Arthur and Annie hated it. To Paul, it became an almost demonical noise.

Everything at the party seemed to slide and smudge together. The driving beat of the music, people dancing, and the constantly changing light show of the pool. Body heat, sweat and perfume, and the sweet smell of mangoes saturated the air. Everyone who was wading in the in-ground pool—which stretched from indoors into the outdoors—was being baptised in the intoxicating elixir that was Tate’s farm.

And it did not matter that all of this would pass, that’s what occurred to me. It didn’t matter this time and place would be gone, that these feelings would go to the place of all feelings once pure and complete. It didn’t matter that Sophie and Charlie and Ronnie Troy would slip out of my life, and Christy and Annie Mooney, and then Ganga and Doady, that all of them would be gone but be like remembered music or the amassed richness of a lived life. Because at that moment I understood that this in miniature was the world, a connective of human feeling, for the most part by far pulsing with the dream of the betterment of the other, and in this was an invisible current that, despite faults and breakdowns, was all the time being restored and switched back on and was running not because of past or future times but because, all times since beginning and to the end, the signal was still on, still pulsing, and still trying to love.

Caleb and Camille liked two kinds of music—esoteric, impenetrable things like John Cage and the apocalyptic folk of Current 93, and then the dumbest, loudest music possible, punk rock. When they were little children, their parents had sung Black Flag’s “Six Pack” to them before bed as if it were a lullaby. “I was born with a bottle in my mouth,” their mother would sing, and then their father would chime in, “Six Pack!” At the end, before kissing Annie and Buster on their foreheads, Caleb and Camille would whisper, “Six Pack! Six Pack! Six Pack!” and then turn off the light.

I know it sounds absurd Please tell me who I am. —Supertramp “One thing more,” she said. “I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve done. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in loving a person and saying so.” It was not true. The shame of her surrender, her letter, her unrequited love would go on gnawing, burning, till the end of her life. [. . .] After all, it did not seem to hurt much: certainly not more than could be borne in secret, without a sign. It had all been experience, and that was a salutary thing. You might write a book now, and make him one of the characters; or take up music seriously; or kill yourself. —Rosamond Lehmann, from Dusty Answer

He spent a little time with me on the stairs and told me his vision of what he wanted to do with the studio. He dreamed of amassing musicians from all over the world in Woodstock and they would sit in a field in a circle and play and play. It didn’t matter what key or tempo or what melody, they would keep on playing through their discordance until they found a common language. Eventually they would record this abstract universal language of music in his new studio. “The language of peace. You dig?” I did. I can’t remember if I actually went into the studio, but Jimi never accomplished his dream. In September I went with my sister and Annie to Paris. Sandy Daley had an airline connection and helped us get cheap tickets. Paris had already changed in a year, as had I. It seemed as if the whole of the world was slowly being stripped of innocence. Or maybe I was seeing a little too clearly. As we walked down the boulevard Montparnasse I saw a headline that filled me with sorrow: Jimi Hendrix est mort. 27 ans. I knew what the words meant.

- Brother Jimmy, said Joey the Lips. - I'm worried. - About Dean. - Wha' abou' Dean? - He told me he's been listening to jazz. - What's wrong with tha'? Jimmy wanted to know. - Everything, said Joey the Lips. - Jazz is the antithesis of soul. - I beg your fuckin' pardon! - I'll go along with Joey there, said Mickah. - See, said Joey the Lips. - Soul is the people's music. Ordinary people making music for ordinary people. - Simple music. Any Brother can play it. The Motown sound, it's simple. Thump-thump-thump-thump. - That's straight time. Thump-thump-thump-thump. - See? Soul is democratic, Jimmy. Anyone with a bin lid can play it. - It's the people's music. - Yeh don't need anny honours in your Inter to play soul, isn't tha' wha' you're gettin' at, Joey? - That's right, brother Michael. - Mickah. - Brother Mickah. That's right. You don't need a doctorate to be a doctor of soul. - Nice one. - An' what's wrong with jazz? Jimmy asked. - Intellectual music, said Joey the Lips. - It's anti-people music. It's abstract. - It's cold an' emotionless, amn't I righ'? said Mickah. - You are. - It's got no soul. It is sound for the sake of sound. It has no meaning. - It's musical wanking, Brother. - Musical wankin', said Mickah. - That's good. - Here, yeh could play tha' at the Christmas parties. - Instead o' musical chairs.

As Mae followed her, she had to remind herself that Annie had not always been a senior executive at a company like the Circle. There was a time, only four years ago, when Annie was a college student who wore men’s flannel housepants to class, to dinner, on casual dates. Annie was what one of her boyfriends, and there were many, always monogamous, always decent, called a doofus. But she could afford to be. She came from money, generations of money, and was very cute, dimpled and long-lashed, with hair so blond it could only be real. She was known by all as effervescent, seemed incapable of letting anything bother her for more than a few moments. But she was also a doofus. She was gangly, and used her hands wildly, dangerously, when she spoke, and was given to bizarre conversational tangents and strange obsessions—caves, amateur perfumery, doo-wop music. She was friendly with every one of her exes, with every hookup, with every professor (she knew them all personally and sent them gifts). She had been involved in, or ran, most or all of the clubs and causes in college, and yet she’d found time to be committed to her coursework—to everything, really—while also, at any party, being the most likely to embarrass herself to loosen everyone up, the last to leave. The one rational explanation for all this would have been that she did not sleep, but this was not the case. She slept decadently, eight to ten hours a day, could sleep anywhere—on a three-minute car ride, in the filthy booth of an off-campus diner, on anyone’s couch, at any time. Mae

Dave Stewart: In 1982, Annie and I went to Australia with the Tourists, but the band broke up and we ended up in a hotel in Wagga Wagga. I had a little black and yellow Wasp synthesizer and was making didgeridoo sounds. When Annie started singing along, we thought, ‘Maybe we could make weird and experimental electronic music?’ On the flight home, we split up as a couple but kept on with the music, carting the gear in a second-hand horsebox.

And while we’re at it, you may have guessed that I also love Ambien; NyQuil (none of this melatonin shit); wine; tequila; piña coladas; margaritas (vodka is for people who want to punish themselves); CBD gummies (I’m solely there for the gummy); a rogue pill a friend has left over after a surgery; half-and-half with a splash of coffee, two Splenda, and three pumps of peppermint; candy; Cinnabon; Wetzel’s Pretzels; Annie’s Pretzels; furry slippers and fuzzy robes; trashy magazines; garbage television; unconfirmed gossip; spas; lasers; luxury; healers of all stripes; extravagant gifts; surprise parties; choreographed dances with friends at any age; karaoke; musicals; Christmas decorations that include a “table tree;” naps; joining gyms I will never go to; hiring trainers I pay up front and then never go to; starting radical diets I never follow through on . . . I overspend, I overeat, I overdo.

Sawyer, PLEASE," she begged. "Just open up. Can't go hurting yourself over a dumb argument. Can't handle your problems that way." But I can. "Sawyer?" Quiet now. Hush, and panic. A wink spasmed at the corner of my mouth. This was fun. "Sawyer?" Annie called. I like to hear her weak and afraid she'd be the one to push me to my limit. It makes the pain go away. To imagine her explaining HER behavior in the aftermath of my untimely death. "Sawyer?" The quiver in her voice was music to my ears. "Sawyer?" Say my name. Say my name forever.

In other words, Berlin conceived shows as events more than as works. As a result, Berlin’s shows do not exactly represent the most enduring oeuvre in the American theater: only Annie Get Your Gun, the show that least obviously addresses its time, has enjoyed an unbroken string of productions that stretches from its premiere to the present. Yet by engaging with the here-and-now, with no apparent thought of posterity but mainly of the “mob” before him, Berlin distilled and packaged musical comedy conventions that resonated in the theater deep into the twentieth century even as they held to comedy’s ancient ideals. Above all—and this I think manifests the engine that drives all of his work—Berlin seems to have understood and embraced the idea that American musical theater is always, inescapably, about itself. He probably would have scorned the term metatheater, but the boot fits. All of his stage shows and films are in some way about theater, about putting on a show, about performing in public, and about the place that tested his mettle and nourished his craft: New York City. This is the case even in shows that are not chiefly set in New York. Annie Get Your Gun may be widely considered one of the “Western” musicals of the Oklahoma! age, but it is above all a show about “show business,” and it all takes place east of (or near to) the Mississippi River and ends up in New York, with plenty of swinging tunes that resonate more with postwar Manhattan than with Annie Oakley’s earlier America in Darke County,

End-man–style banter with an authoritative interlocutor remained fundamental to Berlin’s theater, even when the more obvious trappings of minstrelsy are absent. It resurfaces, for example, in Groucho Marx’s put-ons of Margaret Dumont (in The Cocoanuts) and the brash, benighted challenges that Ethel Merman’s homespun characters present to show business professionals (in Annie Get Your Gun) and to foreign dignitaries (in Call Me Madam).

All right, but, I say, I want the handsomest set of furs you have in the place to send home to England as a Christmas gift. Perhaps I had better look at them now.” The American opened his eyes, and Richard felt annoyed that the colour rose in his own face. “Don’t be a fool,” he said in that hot way of his. “There’s nothing in that. They’re only for a poor little music governess who lodged in the same house with me in London. She has the best heart in the world, and likes all sorts of pretty things, though she is rather uninteresting herself.

There’s no politics in our music,” John Taylor told the New York Daily News in 1981. “We think it’s irresponsible to preach to young, impressionable people who, if you told them to go throw a brick at Parliament, would. Music should be entertaining.

There's no a bar o the rale Tschaikowsky music that hasna as muckle meanin in't as a story by Annie S. Swan.

I still couldn't believe how creative Annie was in coming up with the different flavors and embellishments for each cupcake; the finished products looked like huge jewels that sparkled appealingly in the counter display and on the black lacquer trays passed by the waitstaff. Annie had had her nose to the grindstone for days, as focused as I'd ever seen her, dicing apples and pears until they looked like nuggets of gold- as well they should, considering what that fruit cost!- and tasted like pure, sweet, warm explosions of flavor baked into the cakes. Annie's dexterity, precision, and speed with a knife had been a sight to behold. My contributions to the cupcakery's opening night were decidedly more mundane: I'd interviewed and hired the night's waitstaff, overseen the completion of the various construction and design projects, and ordered all of the noncooking supplies the shop needed. Treat glowed with sexy, low-lit energy; laughter and music filled the space; hip, beautiful people bit into cupcake after cupcake. If the shop had been in the Marina instead of the Mission, it was just the sort of place I would have visited frequently. But there was no use crying over that spilled buttercream.

The double handful of farmers, laborers, and town folk who spent their evening here appreciated my music in the way that I used to appreciate a breeze on a spring day, pleasant but unnecessary.

How we spend our days," author Annie Dillard writes, is "how we spend our lives." Rather than waiting until we're happy to enjoy the small things, we should go and do the small things that make us happy. After a depressing divorce, a friend of mine made a list of things she enjoyed--listening to musicals, seeing her nieces and nephews, looking at art books, eating flan--and made a vow to do one thing on the list after work each day. As blogger Tim Urban describes it, happiness is the joy you find on hundreds of forgettable Wednesdays.

In New Orleans—if you could get to New Orleans—would the music be loud enough?

A memory of her father flitted through her consciousness. The time he played a slow, melodic tune on the saxophone in the misty rain of the yard on a summer’s night, surrounded by the patio’s twinkling lights. She remembered peering out the window and feeling like she was catching a glimpse of another world. One that was timeless and majestic. She touched his saxophone after that as if she were touching the hand of God, wishing to hold onto that feeling forever.

Thomas Hansen, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Hinckley, carried a gun in the trunk of his car, and wrote letters to one of the stars of the musical Annie, pleading with the girl to return his love, warning her to stop drinking (he’d seen a newspaper photo of her next to a bottle of champagne, celebrating her eighteenth birthday), and informing her that he would commit suicide if she didn’t permit him to visit. Hansen had been tracking the girl for six years—since the time she was twelve—following her across the United States.

Pochi uccelli Stephen preferiva ai succiacapre, ma non era stato il loro canto a farlo scendere dal letto. Rimase fermo, appoggiato alla ringhiera, e poco dopo Jack Aubrey, in un padiglione presso il campo di bocce, ricominciò a suonare con grande dolcezza nel buio, improvvisando solo per sé, fantasticando sul suo violino con una maestria che Stephen non aveva mai conosciuto in lui, sebbene avessero suonato insieme per tanti anni.[...] In effetti suonava meglio di Stephen, e ora che stava usando il suo prezioso Guarnieri invece del robusto strumento adatto al mare, la differenza era ancora più marcata: ma il Guarnieri non bastava a spiegarla del tutto, assolutamente no. Quando suonavano insieme, Jack nascondeva la propria eccellenza, mantenendosi al mediocre livello di Stephen [...]; mentre rifletteva su questo, Maturin si rese conto a un tratto che era sempre stato così: Jack, indipendentemente dalle condizioni di Stephen, detestava mettersi in mostra. Ma in quel momento, in quella notte tiepida, ora che non vi era nessuno da sostenere moralmente, cui dare il proprio appoggio, nessuno che potesse criticare il suo virtuosismo, Jack poteva lasciarsi andare completamente; e mentre la musica grave e delicata continuava a diffondersi, Stephen si stupì una volta di più dell'apparente contraddizione tra il grande e grosso ufficiale di marina, florido e allegro [...] e la musica pensosa, complessa che quello stesso uomo stava ora creando. Una musica che contrastava immensamente con il suo limitato vocabolario, un vocabolario che lo rendeva talvolta quasi incapace di esprimersi.

La “Crisi Esistenziale” di chi ama l’amore e ha il coraggio di amare. Nell’epoca dove tante cose sembrano andate perse, e dove molti valori sembrano pian piano scomparsi, si trova spazio e l’ispirazione di far nascere una nuova canzone, con la quale si vuole comunicare i tanti disagi che il mondo attuale si appresta a vivere, le tante problematiche che spesso attanagliano l’essere umano, sempre preso da se stesso, e molto spesso distratto da tutte le cose che il mondo e la vita offrono. E' cosi che nasce “Crisi Esistenziale” il nuovo brano che dà il via al nuovo album di Savio De Martino, cantautore dalle mille risorse artistiche, un brano scritto dallo stesso Cantautore, sia per la parte letteraria, che per la parte musicale, un brano voluto, un testo ricercato, una canzone necessaria, una sorta di protesta, un modo di gridare e poter dire, BASTA !!! Questo stesso brano è stato anche proposto alla candidatura per le nuove proposte di Sanremo Giovani 2015, proprio perche’ i giovani possano valorizzare la propria vita e il futuro, trovando stimoli nuovi, trovando aiuto in chi ha potere, costruirsi un domani fatto di sogni da poter realizzare, Savio De Martino ancora una volta riesce a regalare nuove emozioni, il suo essere cosi poliedrico, rende questo artista, seppur giovane, capace di mettersi sempre in gioco e in discussione con vari generi musicali. Le sue tendenze variano dal Pop al Jazz, dal Blues alla buona Musica Leggera, in tanti anni di gavetta e di carriera è sempre riuscito a dire la sua, regalando al pubblico che lo segue con affetto e stima, tante emozioni e soprattutto tanta energia positiva. Lui innamorato della vita, innamorato della musica, e speranzoso che le cose e il mondo puo’ cambiare, una crisi cosi mondiale, dovrebbe far riflettere molte persone, e sensibilizzare chi ha il potere di essere a capo di tutto, ecco perché nasce questo nuovo brano per il 2015, dal titolo "Crisi Esistenziale". Genesi di Crisi Esistenziale di Savio De Martino Testo, Musica e Produzione sono di Savio De Martino attraverso la S.D.M. Production, la distribuzione avviene grazie alla Zeus Record S.R.L., gli arrangiamenti sono di Giuseppe Balsamo e Savio De Martino, le riprese video di “Pino Baylon Video” e la registrazione e mixaggio sono stati effettuati presso lo studio SG SOUND MUSIC ITALY di Savio De Martino. Il video è già disponibile su YouTube.

Wyatt James! Put me down!” “Pulling out the middle name, too, ACDC? Too bad mine isn’t after a band who sang what I’m pretty sure was the background music when a lot of women became baby mommas. Yours included.” “Ew! Don’t remind me!” Annie wanted to complain again about him carrying her like a sack of potatoes, but if she were being honest with herself, all thoughts of complaining flew out the window as soon as she realized how great the view of his ass was as she got up close and personal with it.

There is no right way for things to turn out. Some endings are happier, some not so happy, but it's not just the happiness percentage that matters. It's the music of it. Most people's lives don't have enough music.

General Sherman praised the shows as "wonderfully realistic and historically reminiscent." Reviews and the show's own publicity always stressed its "realism." There is no doubt it was more realistic, visually and in essence, than any of the competing Wild Wests. There were four other Wild West shows that year: Adam Forepaugh had one, Dr. A. W. Carver another; there was a third called Fargo's Wild West and one known as Hennessey's Wild West. Cody criticized all their claims and their use of the words "Wild West." He had copyrighted the term according to an act of Congress on December 22, 1883, and registered a typescript at the Library of Congress on June 1, 1885. The copyright title read: The Wild West or Life among the Red Man and the Road Agents of the Plains and Prairies-An Equine Dramatic Exposition on Grass or Under Canvas, of the Adventures of Frontiersmen and Cowboys. Additional copy was headed BUFFALO BILL'S "WILD WEST" PRAIRIE EXHIBITION AND ROCKY MOUNTAIN SHOW, A DRAMATIC-EQUESTRIAN EXPOSITION OF LIFE ON THE PLAINS, WITH ACCOMPANYING MONOLOGUE AND INCIDENTAL MUSIC THE WHOLE INVENTED AND ARRANGED BY W.F. CODY W.F. CODY AND N. SALSBURY, PROPRIETORS AND MANAGERS WHO HEREBY CLAIM AS THEIR SPECIAL PROPERTY THE VARIOUS EFFECTS INTRODUCED IN THE PUBLIC PERFORMANCES OF BUFFALO BILL'S "WILD WEST" Although the show's first year under enlarged and reorganized management had not been a financial success, at least one good thing had come from it. Also showing in New Orleans that winter had been the Sells Brothers Circus. One of its performers who had wandered over to visit the Wild West lot was Annie Oakley. The story of Annie Oakley's life was so much in the American grain that it might have come from the pen of Horatio Alger Jr., the minister turned best-selling author, who chronicled the fictional lives of poor boys who made good. Ragged Dick: or, Street Life in New York, Ragged Tom, and Luck Moses then married Dan Brumbaugh, who died in an accident shortly afterward, leaving another daughter. When she was seven, Annie frequently fed the family with quail she had caught in homemade traps, much as young Will Cody had trapped small game. In an interview she once said: "I was eight years old when I made my first shot, and I still consider it one of the best shots I ever

I want to watch Shloe’s movies and I want to see Mark’s musicals and I want to volunteer with Joe’s nonprofit and eat at Annie’s restaurant and send my kids to schools Jeff has reformed and I’m just scared about this industry that’s taking all my friends and telling them this is the best way for them to be spending their time. Any of their time.

The photographer will ask you what kind of music you want to play during the shoot. Remember that whatever you choose will be blasted through the loft and heard by an entire crew of people who are all so cool that the Board of Ed. officially closed school. Just murmur, “Hip-hop,” or make up the name of a hipster-sounding band and then act superior when they’ve never heard of it. “Do you guys have any Asphalt of Pinking? [disappointed] Really? [shrug] Whatever you want, then.” Sometimes they ask if you want to hook up your iPod for background music. Do not do this. It’s a trap. They’ll put it on shuffle, and no matter how much Beastie Boys or Velvet Underground you have on there, the following four tracks will play in a row: “We’d Like to Thank You Herbert Hoover” from Annie, “Hold On” by Wilson Phillips, “That’s What Friends Are For,” Various Artists, and “We’d Like to Thank You Herbert Hoover” from Annie.

I think that with music school and art school, or school in any form, there has to be some system of grading and measurement. The things they can teach you are quantifiable. While all that is good and has its place, at some point you have to learn all you can and then forget everything that you learned in order to actually start making music."[16]

The strange, jangly music made its way out of the speakers and it wasn’t long before Buster emerged from the hallway, tapping his foot. Annie waved him over and they stood in front of the speaker, nodding their heads, singing along, “Contort yourself, contort yourself.” If Annie could not drink, if Buster could not overmedicate, then dancing to abrasive, atonal jazz-punk would have to do. The music screeched and spilled over the edges of normal rhythm, but Buster and Annie did not miss a step, dancing the only way they’d ever known, poorly, but with great enthusiasm. If there was a name for this dance, it would be The Fang.

Da molti anni non mi chiedo più Quale posto è la mia casa E ho scoperto che la mia casa È insieme a me dovunque vada Cammino senza legami Ho solo il vento che mi insegue E il tempo non mi riguarda Perché il tempo mi appartiene.

Moreover, Berlin’s songs, in some important respects, stand apart from the show, often exhibiting a sophistication foreign to the characters who sing them—a criticism especially applicable to many of Annie’s songs.

Swados’ sound was no more ingratiating in the more commercial Doonesbury (1983), which Swados wrote with Garry Trudeau, the creator of the familiar comic strip. The comics have been singing on The Street for a century—Victor Herbert and Harry B. Smith turned Winsor McKay’s Little Nemo into a musical in 1908, and Maggie and Jiggs of George McManus’ Bringing Up Father provisioned a series of shows in the following decade and into the 1920s, though few were seen in New York. George Herriman’s Krazy Kat went not to Broadway but Town Hall, as a ballet-pantomime, with scenery by Herriman, in 1922. More recently, Li’l Abner, Peanuts, and Little Orphan Annie have had notable success as musical theatre. Doonesbury, which lasted three months, was seldom theatre and never musical. This pop material might have worked as a television series or a comedy disc; nothing of what made the strip amusing was transformed into what makes musicals amusing. Li’l Abner came to Broadway in 1956 in the form of a fifties musical with fifties musical-comedy talent, the whole made on Al Capp’s characters and attitudes. Doonesbury played Broadway but never came to it in any real sense.

It is almost as difficult for a Scots intellectual to get out of the Kailyard as to live without an alias. The dilemma is not just an intellectual's one... the whole thing is related to the much larger field of popular culture. For Kailyard is popular in Scotland. It is recognisably intertwined with that prodigious array of Kitsch symbols, slogans, banners, war-cries, knick-knacks, music-hall heroes, icons, conventional sayings and sentiments (not a few of them 'pithy') which have for so long defended the name of 'Scotland' to the world. Annie S. Swan and A.J. Cronin provided no more than the decent outer garb for this vast tartan monster. In their work the thing trots along doucely enough, on a lead. But it is something else to be with it (e.g.) in a London pub on International night, or in the crowd at the annual Military Tattoo in front of Edinburgh Castle. How intolerably vulgar! What unbearable, crass, mindless philistinism! One knows that Kitsch is a large constituent of mass popular culture in every land: but this is ridiculous!

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