Saxophone Music Quotes

I never liked jazz music because jazz music doesn't resolve. But I was outside the Bagdad Theater in Portland one night when I saw a man playing the saxophone. I stood there for fifteen minutes, and he never opened his eyes. After that I liked jazz music. Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way. I used to not like God because God didn't resolve. But that was before any of this happened.

At the edge of madness you howl diamonds and pearls.

I never liked jazz music because jazz music doesn't resolve. But I was outside the Bagdad Theater in Portland one night when I saw a man playing the saxophone. I stood there for fifteen minutes, and he never opened his eyes.

Music is fluid, and sometimes I fill up my saxophone to the point where it overflows. Of course, sometimes my ducks splash and slosh it all over my shoes, but the other passengers in the elevator never seem to mind.

I'd fight a gang of wolves if they attacked my ducks. Like Mozart, you can call me Wolfgang.

Did you even know the saxophone could make duck farm noises? You know I'm a genius jazz performer because it sounds like I haven't played an instrument ever before.

Over time, ink fades like a duck quack in the wind. I have a baseball signed by Babe Ruth, but his autograph has gone invisible. That’s why it’s now ON SALE for ONLY $19.95.

What are words worth if you write like Wordsworth? Not as much as a man named Wordsandpicturesworth. That's so long, so I'd just call him Memesworth, and I'd use him to help me sell ducks.

Some people shape wind with their mouths, and it sounds like words, but there’s no mind behind them. Even an echo can speak without thinking, and if a canyon repeats the word quack, that doesn’t mean it can communicate like a duck.

Growing up, I was always filled with DoNotDisturbery, and I dance like a Slippery When Wet sign with legs. The jerky motion might remind you of a Pekin duck in flight.

I play the saxophone like a duck quacks. Tickets are ONLY $19.95. Lessons sold separately. No assembly required.

You don't need a vacation. You just need to dig a pond on your land and buy some ducks, and then you can enjoy moments of escapism without ever leaving your property.

It should be illegal to condense xylophone music and sell it in a can as imitation duck broth, but it isn’t, and so I do. One for $20, or 19 for ONLY $19.95!

It's too bad GIFs are silent, because I recorded some original saxophone music to accompany my newest masterpiece. It sounds like ducks quacking on the moon, and if you've got an empty elevator that needs space to be filled, it's now FOR SALE.

The saxophone is the cocaine of the woodwind family, the sax teacher continues. Saxophonists are admired because they are dangerous, because they have explored a darker, more sinister side of themselves.

Rob Thomas has two first names for a first and last name, and his name spells out a short sentence: Rob Thomas. Rob Thomas of what, his doubt? That Biblical ambiguity is what inspired me to name three of my ducks after him: Rob, Thomas, and Rob Thomas.

When slightly open, a door is ajar, but when slightly open, is a jar adoor? That reminds me: Ducks have no hands, so you'll probably need to unscrew the jelly lid before you feed them their favorite grape format.

The dandelion gives all of its future to ride on the wind for one beautiful moment. I'll bet my flightless Pekin ducks would trade their life away to become one with the breeze.

Geese are terrorists. But ducks, ducks are the heroes of the bird world.

When I make duck soup, I add an extra pinch of Simply Red’s hit song “Holding Back The Years.” It makes a better emulsifier than peeled carrots.

Liquid xylophone music with a hint of saxophone is too exotic to drink. But it's perfect for swimming ducks, and that sound really comes across in the taste later.

There's not much money to be made in duck farming. That's OK, because The Whisper Factory is now hiring! Report your grandma for suspicious behavior and get PAID!

Kevin Bacon has a name made for breakfast, and no one knows this better than Johnny Scrambledduckeggs. Ask me how to get FREE coffee in the morning after 3:33 PM.

People pay top dollar to eat my duck eggs. I wish they also paid bottom dollar, plus all the ones in the middle, because honestly, what am I gonna do with a dollar?

I love powdered saxophone music. That’s what I mix in my coffee to make it taste like fresh elevator.

I partly base my financial decisions on the annual migratory patterns of Bigfoot, because maps are the new charts, as taught by the esteemed Ponce de Leon School of Beauty, Youth, Wealth, and Duck Farming, but what do you say to a man who wants to be his own cartographer?

The reason I write music with one note occurring every 24 hours is that slow dancing is a lost art, and I'm trying to bring it back at an almost inaudible pace. Listen like a duck swims or you'll miss the best part of the song.

Both a rose and a cactus have thorns, and while the rose may say, "I love you," the cactus says, "Fuck off." I think that's important to remember, and it's the ideal way to farm ducks.

A stranger asked where I'm from, and I said I was from Jacksonville. His brow furrowed and he said he didn’t remember me. I thought to myself, “Oh, no! Have I just been caught editing myself out of his memory?" So, I grabbed the Duffel bag full of ducks and ran out of the room.

I make music for whales, dolphins, ducks, and deaf people. Using only sign language and silence, my songs are meant to swim in your ears using the same power that allows the moon to create the tides.

There are quiet places also in the mind,” he said, meditatively. “But we build bandstand and factories on them. Deliberately—to put a stop to the quietness. We don’t like the quietness. All the thoughts, all the preoccupation in my head—round and round continually.” He made a circular motion with his hands. “And the jazz bands, the music hall songs, the boys shouting the news. What’s it all for? To put an end to the quiet, to break it up and disperse it, to pretend at any cost it isn’t there. Ah, but it is, it is there, in spite of everything, at the back of everything. Lying awake at night, sometimes—not restlessly, but serenely, waiting for sleep—the quiet re-establishes itself, piece by piece; all the broken bits, all the fragments of it we’ve been so busily dispersing all day long. It re-establishes itself, an inward quiet, like this outward quiet of grass and trees. It fills one, it grows –a crystal quiet, a growing expanding crystal. It grows, it becomes more perfect; it is beautiful and terrifying, yes, terrifying, as well as beautiful. For one’s alone in the crystal and there’s no support from outside, there’s nothing external and important, nothing external and trivial to pull oneself up by or to stand up, superiorly, contemptuously, so that one can look down. There’s nothing to laugh at or feel enthusiastic about. But the quiet grows and grows. Beautifully and unbearably. And at last you are conscious of something approaching; it is almost a faint sound of footsteps. Something inexpressibly lovely and wonderful advances through the crystal, nearer, nearer. And oh, inexpressibly terrifying. For if it were to touch you, if it were to seize and engulf you, you’d die; all the regular habitual, daily part of you would die. There would be and end of bandstands and whizzing factories, and one would have to begin living arduously in the quiet, arduously n some strange unheard-of manner. Nearer, nearer come the steps; but one can’t face the advancing thing. One daren’t. It’s too terrifying; it’s too painful to die. Quickly, before it is too late, start the factory wheels, bang the drum, blow up the saxophone. Think of the women you’d like to sleep with, the schemes for making money, the gossip about your friends, the last outrage of the politicians. Anything for a diversion. Break the silence, smash the crystal to pieces. There, it lies in bits; it is easily broken, hard to build up and easy to break. And the steps? Ah, those have taken themselves off, double quick. Double quick, they were gone at the flawing of the crystal. And by this time the lovely and terrifying thing is three infinities away, at least. And you lie tranquilly on your bed, thinking of what you’d do if you had ten thousand pounds and of all the fornications you’ll never commit.

I like the circus, because they make a business out of being a clown show. But I hate The Chamber of Commerce, because they make a clown show out of business. In between those two extremes is my duck farm.

I'm wearing my Midnight Black Dancing Shoes. They are shaped like vintage locomotives, and I move like the memory of Branson in 1991—which fluctuates by minutes every day, just like the scene at my duck farm.

Music is so archaic. Why do we still listen to songs through our ears? Why can't music come in liquid format, and be mixed in with my morning coffee that I love to drink when I first wake up at 3:33 PM? Also consider the ducks. Wouldn't they love to swim in music?

I make music one note at a time, just like Mozart did. Tomorrow night you’ll get to hear the second note in my masterpiece symphony. If you could take the clicking noises that a whale makes, merge them with ducks quacking, and convert them to digital wavelengths, that's the vibe.

Branson has a few iconic water towers. But the best way to store a large volume of H2O is in a cloud, and I think floating architecture may be the way to go in the future.

It's not easy to be the best. But it helps if you're willing to buy your own trophies.

Changing the land is shaping the future. In a sense, a bulldozer is a time machine.

Steven Seagal makes movies only blind people could love. I'm glad he goes full Helen Keller and makes music you have to be deaf to appreciate.

John Daly is all the Caddyshack characters in one body. He's a caricature of a person, and that's why I'm a fan.

When not duck farming, I'm busy being mysterious. I'm like The Hardy Boys. Both of them. That's why I exclusively shop Buy One, Get One FREE.

Why is it called a flight of stairs? It should be called The Pekin Duck of stairs, because it's the kind of flying that's composed entirely of walking.

You can't do enough tomorrow to make up for not doing anything today. That's why it's best to have started yesterday.

When jerks ask me, “Hey asshole, what’s your deal?” I say, “Buy One Duck, Get One FREE.” But then I inform them that I’m out of stock, and they can only get Buy One, Get None.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I’m a moron. Fool me three or more times consecutively, and I’m a VOTER. Not even ducks are that dumb.

Sometimes my kitchen sink doubles as a duck pond. Problem is, I can't exactly move my diving board, so I have to relocate Greg Louganis Hour to another slot, like one on the toaster.

Water-flavored lollipops that flow upwards on a stick, that’s what cats want. I would make that, but I’m too busy making duck soup that’s so advanced I got the formula from the year 2244.

When something is thrown at someone, why do people shout, "Duck!"? I'll tell you why. It's because SwimmingFlying Birds are the world's greatest dodgeball players, and their name is synonymous with the quick athletic reflex needed to avoid getting hit.

What do you want to hear?" Bryce asked, opening her music library. Nesta and Azriel swapped glances, and the male answered a bit sheepishly, "The music you played at your pleasure halls." Bryce laughed, "Are you a club rat, Azriel?" He glowered at her, earning a smirk from Nesta, but Bryce played one of her dance tunes - a zippy blend of thumping bass and saxophones. And as the three of them walked into the endless dark, she could have sworn she caught Azriel nodding along to the beat.

Time flies, it's true. But what kind of wings does it have, butterfly wings, bat wings, or eagle wings? None. It has the wings of a duck, which is why I'm surprised nobody in history has noticed that time also swims.

No matter how fat your kid is, I’m going to call him Sport. “Hiya, Sport!" Then I'm going to tell him that Gatorade is a subpar energy drink, and if he really wants to chug something powerful, he should gulp down raw duck eggs.

Some of the best gifts are ones the recipient doesn’t even know you’ve given, so they don’t ever feel beholden, and they never know how valuable it was or how much it helped them, which means they never feel obligated to repay you. I do that for my ducks all the time.

You know how Asian kids practice their musical instruments with continuous gusto? Well, American kids don't practice at all. I was one of those American kids, and that's how I came to be a performer in an elevator. Enjoy as I coax duck farm sounds out of my saxophone.

In the movie White Men Can’t Jump, the final boss duo that the two street hustlers must defeat are called King and Duck. I felt that, because I’m The Duck King, and I didn’t have to win a basketball game for the title—I was elected via unanimous and cacophonous quack.

When I'm on a backhoe, I'm shaping clay. I am a sculptor. I am a farm artist.

Old men having an earnest conversation about college football, is there anything more American? Makes me want to VOTE and then send out some 18-year-old to die for my FREEDOM.

My ducks swim like they are water dancing. They do this because I play the saxophone like it's liquid music.

Music is fluid, and my ducks love splashing in it. When I fill my pool full of Vaporwave, they swim like they're dancing.

If I could time travel, I wouldn’t tell anybody, because who would believe me? I mean, obviously I can time travel, because how do you think I move forward in life?

The future is always on its way, but never here. That's why you never invite it for dinner.

I used to work at a pizza place. Instead of giving me a raise, my boss threw me a pizza party. He made me make all the food.

When losing an argument, why don't you try shouting at the other person? It's a strong debate tactic, and your opponent should respond favorably.

Compact trash into a cube. Then slice it into thin layers and BOOM—you’ve got pieces of modern art. Each sliver belongs in a museum, doing what it’s designed to do—launder money.

I predicted The Financial Crisis of 2008 way back in 2010. In about a month it will be 2024, and you won't believe what I see coming.

My life is a puff of smoke in a tornado. We are all furiously whirling into nothingness.

My heart has defined size, which means its volume can be calculated. Despite this, the amount of love for you it can hold is without limit.

Ducks are water gymnasts. Their fluid motion goes beyond dance and into art.

Holding a Pekin duckling is like hand cuddling a ball of sunshine. It's a power-charging station for the heart.

Ducks are melodic, not melodramatic. That, plus the gift of aquatic aviation, makes them the ideal soup ingredient.

Daisies are the Pekin ducks of flowers. They radiate joy like they are tiny shining suns.

I wear cargo shorts. I’m in the transportation business.

You bring the Tupperware full of Leftover Meatloaf, and I’ll bring the heckin’ dang. I’ll also bring an empty container (my stomach).

Nature is the best. I suppose you could say that that would therefore make unnatural the second best, but I prefer to think of it as the worst.

I thought people loved it when I played my guitar. Last time I performed Toby Keith, and everyone at the party started engaging in gay butt sex.

To me, moths are ugly butterflies. But these days, society probably considers them beauty queens.

I make music for people who dance like squids. Each song is fluid, and if you heard one you’d probably drown.

Your high school guidance counselor was right: A college degree is the path to success. The fact that everyone else has one also only makes it that much more valuable.

History is histrionic. Nothing much was happening, so historians had to fictionalize events to sell books.

I spilled a cup of coffee all over my shirt. It's now stained with one hour of productive wakefulness.

I'm a duck farmer. Am I the world's best duck farmer? Probably not, but there's no official ranking, and I'm a modest guy, so I claim the number two spot.

I'm a sculptor—on an excavator. I'm a Sculptavator. Or am I an Excavulptor?

Some people call me The Duck King, but that isn't true, because I was elected. That makes me The Duck President.

All the in-the-moment jokes you've told, where have they gone? Quipped in the language of the invisible, spoken word, they are now as easy to find as last summer's breeze.

Duck farming has taught me that my day-to-day thinking changes in a gradient that's subtle and unnoticeable when observed in 24-hour blocks, but becomes obvious when seen in longer time frames. In the past two years I've changed from pink to blue, but it was all purple to me.

Why is a talkative person called a Chatty Cathy? That phrase possesses brevity, when someone verbose should instead be called a Chattering Catherine. Cathy talks so much and manages to say nothing. She could learn from ducks, who speak only one word, quack, but say everything.

Old houses make funny noises. One time I stayed in a decaying place that made sounds like John Waite's 1984 radio hit "Missing You." Personally, I liked it, but the 13 ducks I was sharing a bathtub with didn't agree, so they made me take them to the luxury hotel known as Motel 6.

Ducks splash in water like an aqua saxophone swims in jazz. Elevators have space that needs to be filled with anti-silence, and I have a surplus of liquid music you can purchase or lease.

The skills needed to stay employable are changing daily, which is why I'm now offering a class called: "How To Sew Pants While Riding A Unicycle And Playing The Saxophone Like A Quacking Duck." What are the jobs of The Future? Nobody knows, but my class will train you to Get Hired!

A woman will fall in love with you if you make her laugh. Try tying her down and tickling her. Or, if you really want her to find you hilarious, tell her you believe we can VOTE for FREEDOM.

You should learn how to play the flute. Then you could ride in the passenger seat of my car and play instrumental versions of classic 80s pop songs while I drive around on the clock for Uber.

She realized now that she had been expecting old-fashioned instruments – pipes, fifes, fiddles and tinny drums. Instead there came the cocksure, brassy warble of a saxophone, the blare of a cornet and the squeak and trill of a clarinet being made to work for its living. Not-Triss had heard jazz with neatly wiped shoes and jazz with gritty soles and a grin. And this too was jazz, but barefoot on the grass and blank-eyed with bliss, its musical strands irregular as wind gusts and unending as ivy vines.

Music allows us to travel back in time through our ear canals. The top song of 1991, Bryan Adams' "(Everything I Do) I Do It for You", takes me back to Branson in its glory year, and that's like a FREE vacation.

My point is, I’m a fan of music, but jazz isn’t music. Jazz is some cockwomble in a beret, wanking himself off with a saxophone.”“Sax-a-phobic, are we?”“Don’t come that with me, Clarence from the E Street Band is a legend, but he’s not doing a twenty-minute atonal arse-clenching solo that sounds like someone sodomising a goose.

I am a confused Musician who got sidetracked into this goddamn Word business for so long that I never got back to music - except maybe when I find myself oddly alone in a quiet room with only a typewriter to strum on and a yen to write a song. Who knows why? Maybe I just feel like singing - so I type. These quick electric keys are my Instrument, my harp, my RCA glass-tube microphone, and my fine soprano saxophone all at once. That is my music, for good or ill, and on some nights it will make me feel like a god. Veni, Vidi, Vici... That is when the fun starts...

I just invented an Applause Machine. You turn it on by clapping. I figure I'll have no trouble securing Venture Capital funding, because VCs love congratulating themselves, and this time when they do, my machine will respond by adding to their self-kudos.

Instead of 200, what if man's pre-flood IQ was a thousand? Everyone was smarter, bigger, and lived longer. But what if animals had IQs of a hundred? Maybe interspecies communication was the norm, unlike now where only weirdos like me talk to cats, dogs, and ducks.

There was music from my neighbor's house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor-boats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On week-ends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before. Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer in New York--every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machine in the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a butler's thumb. At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several hundred feet of canvas and enough colored lights to make a Christmas tree of Gatsby's enormous garden. On buffet tables, garnished with glistening hors-d'oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold. In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that most of his female guests were too young to know one from another. By seven o'clock the orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair, but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos, and low and high drums. The last swimmers have come in from the beach now and are dressing up-stairs; the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors, and hair shorn in strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside, until the air is alive with chatter and laughter, and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other's names. The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music, and the opera of voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier minute by minute, spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same breath; already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp, joyous moment the centre of a group, and then, excited with triumph, glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and color under the constantly changing light. Suddenly one of the gypsies, in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail out of the air, dumps it down for courage and, moving her hands like Frisco, dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her, and there is a burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda Gray's understudy from the FOLLIES. The party has begun.

You say you know these streets pretty well? The city knows you better than any living person because it has seen you when you are alone. It saw you steeling yourself for the job interview, slowly walking home after the late date, tripping over nonexistent impediments on the sidewalk. It saw you wince when the single frigid drop fell from the air-conditioner 12 stories up and zapped you. It saw the bewilderment on your face as you stepped out of the stolen matinee, incredulous that there was still daylight after such a long movie. It saw you half-running up the street after you got the keys to your first apartment. It saw all that. Remembers too. Consider what all your old apartments would say if they got together to swap stories. They could piece together the starts and finishes of your relationships, complain about your wardrobe and musical tastes, gossip about who you are after midnight. 7J says, ''So that's what happened to Lucy; I knew it would never work out.'' You picked up yoga, you put down yoga, you tried various cures. You tried on selves and got rid of them, and this makes your old rooms wistful: why must things change? 3R says: ''Saxophone, you say? I knew him when he played guitar.'' Cherish your old apartments and pause for a moment when you pass them. Pay tribute, for they are the caretakers of your reinventions.

The conversation swings from the brothers Bush to the war in Iraq to the emerging rights of Muslim women to postfeminism to current cinema—Mexican, American, European (Giorgio goes spasmodically mad over Bu-ñuel), and back to Mexican again—to the relative superiority of shrimp over any other kind of taco to the excellence of Ana’s paella, to Ana’s childhood, then to Jimena’s, to the changing role of motherhood in a postindustrial world, to sculpture, then painting, then poetry, then baseball, then Jimena’s inexplicable (to Pablo) fondness for American football (she’s a Dallas Cowboys fan) over real (to Pablo) fútbol, to his admittedly adolescent passion for the game, to the trials of adolescence itself and revelations over the loss of virginity and why we refer to it as a loss and now Óscar and Tomás, arms over each other’s shoulders, are chanting poetry and then Giorgio picks up a guitar and starts to play and this is the Juárez that Pablo loves, this is the city of his soul—the poetry, the passionate discussions (Ana makes her counterpoints jabbing her cigarette like a foil; Jimena’s words flow like a gentle wave across beach sand, washing away the words before; Giorgio trills a jazz saxophone while Pablo plays bass—they are a jazz combo of argument), the ideas flowing with the wine and beer, the lilting music in a black night, this is the gentle heartbeat of the Mexico that he adores, the laughter, the subtle perfume of desert flowers that grow in alleys alongside garbage, and now everyone is singing— México, está muy contento, Dando gracias a millares… —and this is his life—this is his city, these are his friends, his beloved friends, these people, and if this is all that there is or will be, it is enough for him, his world, his life, his city, his people, his sad beautiful Juárez… —empezaré de Durango, Torreón y Ciudad de

After a few sips, he picked up his sax and started jamming with the storm. Most days, Rivers meditated twice, when he awoke and again in the evening before writing or reading. But he still found a special relaxation and renewal in solitary playing. Contemplation through music was different from other reflective experiences, in part, because his visual associations were set free to mutate, morph, and meander; while the other senses were occupied in fierce concentraction on breathing, blowing, fingering, and listening. Within the flow of this activity, his awareness would land in different states of consciousness, different phases of time, and easily moved between revisualization of experience and its creation. The playing dislodged hidden feelings, primed him for recognizing the habitually denied, sheathed the sword of lnaguage, and loosened the shield and armor of his character. His contemplative playing purged him of worrisome realities, smelted off from his center the dross of eperience, and on those rare and cherished days, left only the refinement of flickering fire. Although he was more aware of his emotions, the music and dance of thought kept them at arm’s length, Wordsworth’s “emotion recollected in tranquility.” . . . As he played, his mind’s eye became the fisher’s bobber, guided by a line of sound around the driftwood of thought, the residue of his life, which materialized from nowhere and sank back into nothingness without his weaving them into any insistent pattern of order and understanding. He was momentarily freed of logical sequencing, the press of premises, the psycho-logic of primary process, the throb of Thought pulsing in and through him, and in billions of mind/bodies, now and throughout time, belonging each to each, to none, to no one, to Everyone, rocking back and forward in an ebb and flow of wishes, fears, and goals. He fished free of desire, illusion, or multiplicity; distant from the hook, the fisher, the fish; but tethered still on the long line of music, until it snagged on an immovable object, some unquestioned assumption, or perhaps a stray consummation, a catch in the flow of creation and wonder.