Tuba Quotes

Your questions regarding that gentleman are very delicate, very subtle, very much like being smacked in the head with a mallet...it's a tuba among the flutes.

The thing with the new world,” the tuba had said once, “is it’s just horrifically short on elegance.

I don't play the tuba. The tuba plays me. My tuba is not actually a tuba, because it has never produced a musical sound. It is actually a giant frog pretending to be a tuba.

Inej cleared her throat. “You do look a bit …” “Enchanting,” said Matthias. Nina was about to snap that she didn’t appreciate the sarcasm when she saw the expression on his face. He looked like someone had just given him a tuba full of puppies. “You could be a maiden on the first day of Roennigsdjel.” “What is Roennigsdjel?” asked Kuwei. “Some festival,” replied Nina. “I can’t remember. But I’m pretty sure it involves eating a lot of elk. Let’s go, you big goon—and I’m supposed to be your sister, stop looking at me like that.” “Like what?” “Like I’m made of ice cream.” “I don’t care for ice cream.” “Matthias,” Nina said, “I’m not sure we can continue to spend time together.” But she couldn’t quite keep the satisfaction from her voice. Apparently she was going to have to stock up on ugly knitwear.

This is an apology letter to the both of us for how long it took me to let things go. It was not my intention to make such a production of the emptiness between us playing tuba on the tombstone of a soprano to try and keep some dead singer’s perspective alive. It’s just that I coulda swore you had sung me a love song back there and that you meant it but I guess sometimes people just chew with their mouth open so I ate ear plugs alive with my throat hoping they’d get lodged deep enough inside the empty spots that I wouldn’t have to hear you leaving

And the people next door oppress me all night long. I tell them, I work all day, a man's got to have some time to learn to play the tuba. That's oppression, that is. If I'm not under the heel of the oppressor, I don't know who is.

These better be my size,” Nina said grumpily. She was tempted to strip down in the middle of the tomb, but she thought Matthias might keel over from the sheer impropriety of it all. She grabbed a lantern and marched into one of the side catacombs to change. She didn’t have a mirror, but she could tell the dress was spectacularly dowdy, and she had no words for the little knitted vest. When she emerged from the passage, Jesper doubled over laughing, Kaz’s brows shot up, and even Inej’s lips twitched. “Saints,” Nina said sourly. “How bad is it?” Inej cleared her throat. “You do look a bit …” “Enchanting,” said Matthias. Nina was about to snap that she didn’t appreciate the sarcasm when she saw the expression on his face. He looked like someone had just given him a tuba full of puppies.

The Violins waltzed. The Cellos and Basses provided accompaniment. The Violas mourned their fate, while the Concertmaster showed off. The Flutes did bird imitations…repeatedly, and the reed instruments had the good taste to admire my jacket. The Trumpets held a parade in honor of our great nation, while the French Horns waxed nostalgic about something or other. The Trombones had too much to drink. The Percussion beat the band, and the Tuba stayed home playing cards with his landlady, the Harp, taking sips of warm milk a blue little cup. “But the Composer is still dead.

Sprinkled across the black waters below were at least a hundred small boats set out to greet the Leviathan, their navigation lights like shifting stars. Among them loomed a glittering cruise liner, her fog horn bellowing in the night. The low groan grew into a chorus as the other great ships in the harbor joined in. Perched on Volger's desk, Bovril attempted to imitate the horns, but wound up sounding like a badly blown tuba. Alek smiled. "But they're already singing our praises!" "They are Americans," Volger said. "They toot their horns for anything.

They'd been played. By a tuba!

That's a big trunk," James said, as we jammed in the leathery old case that looked so much like the black heart of some leviathan. "It fits a tuba, three suitcases, a dead dog, and a garment bag almost perfectly." "That's just what they used to say in the ads," I said...

I was still carrying the tuba, for no reason other than that, in my current circumstances, it passed for good company. That's another way of saying it was all I had.

Anyway, you know what they say about wolves," said her father. "If the wolves come out of the walls, it's all over." "Who says that?" asked Lucy. "People. Everybody. You know," said her father, and he went back to practicing his tuba.

In the smoky firelight the two old men nodded off like a pair of ancient kings passing the aeons in their tumuli. Made a musical notation of their snores. Elgar is to be played by a bass tuba, Ayrs a bassoon.

Being an outsider doesn't necessarily indicate any sort of social failing. We do not view a tuba player as musically challenged if he cannot play the violin.

I like my morning coffee so strong it will wake up the neighbors. And if that doesn't work, I'll start playing my tuba.

Nina was about to snap that she didn't appreciate the sarcasm when she saw the expression on his face. He looked like someone had just given him a tuba full of puppies.

You want to know the story? I'd be happy to tell you. I think I have just enough caloric energy stored up to make it through the telling of the tale. It's short. I am monstrously fat. I am a glutton. My wife was disgusted and repulsed. She gave me six months to lose one hundred pounds. I joined Weight Watchers . . . see it there, right across the street, that gaunt storefront? This afternoon was the big six-month weigh-in. So to speak. I had gained almost seventy pounds in the six months. An errant Snickers bar fell out of the cuff of my pants and rolled against my wife's foot as I stepped on the scale. The scale over there across the street is truly an ingenious device. One preprograms the desired new weight into it, and if one has achieved or gone below that new low weight, the scale bursts into recorded whistles and cheers and some lively marching-band tune. Apparently, tiny flags protrude from the top and wave mechanically back and forth. A failure--see for instance mine--results in a flatulent dirge of disappointed and contemptuous tuba. To the strains of the latter my wife left, the establishment, me, on the arm of a svelte yogurt distributor whom I am even now planning to crush, financially speaking, first thing tomorrow morning. Ms. Beadsman, you will find an eclair on the floor to the left of your chair. Could you perhaps manipulate it onto this plate with minimal chocolate loss and pass it to me.

That moment, the music screeched to a halt. There was an ungodly collision of brass, reed, and percussion—trombones and piccolos skidded into cacophony, a tuba farted, and the hollow clang of a cymbal wavered out of the big top, over our heads and into oblivion.

Sinking invalids blew kisses to him from windows. Aproned shopkeepers cheered ecstatically from the narrow doorways of their shops. Tubas crumped. Here and there a person fell and was trampled to death.

But eventually everything was back the way it had been before, except for Lucy's father's second-best tuba, which had sustained severe jam damage. So Lucy's father sold his second-best tuba and bought a sousaphone instead, which he had always wanted.

Like one of his heroes, Tom Waits, whenever Yorke feels like his songwriting is getting too comfortable or stale, he’ll pick up an instrument he doesn’t know how to play and try to write with it. This is yet another trait of amateurs—they’ll use whatever tools they can get their hands on to try to get their ideas into the world. “I’m an artist, man,” said John Lennon. “Give me a tuba, and I’ll get you something out of it.

A blanket could be used to make sweet, sweet music with the love of your life. Hopefully that person is me, because I’ve been practicing my tuba, and I’m ready for a duet.

You hit me with a tuba,” he said, looking at me with an air of hurt surprise. “I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.” A sheet of paper came whistling up and flattened itself against my

It was like seeing someone open their mouths to speak but hearing tuba sounds instead of English words.

They don't play the trombone like the tuba anymore. I blame it on canned tunafish.

Orion’s butt used to be a tuba,” said Rigel, “and that’s why it makes those noises.

race seemed less and less a defining characteristic when one was six years out of college, and those people who still nursed it as the core of their identity came across as somehow childish and faintly pathetic, as if clinging to a youthful fascination with Amnesty International or the tuba: an outdated and embarrassing preoccupation with something that reached its potent apotheosis in college applications.

There’d been an epidemic, the man had told him. Thirty people had died incandescent with fever, including the mayor. After this, a change in management, but the tuba’s acquaintance had declined to elaborate on what he meant by this. He did say that twenty families had left since then, including Charlie and the sixth guitar and their baby. He said no one knew where they’d gone, and he’d told the tuba it was best not to ask.

Ella's supersonic voice followed her all the way to Bleecker Street and then dissolved amid the noisy profusion of shops, cafes, and restaurants and the crush of people that made the West Village of Manhattan unique in the world. In a single block you could buy fertility statues from Tanzania, rare Amazonian orchids, a pawned brass tuba, Krispy Kreme doughnuts, or the best, most expensive cup of coffee you ever tasted. It was the doughnuts, incidentally, that attracted Gaia.

En lo profesional, mi vida es un asco. En lo psicológico, no puedo decir que esté «sana». En lo musical, debería contratar a una tuba para que me siguiera a todas partes. Sin embargo, en lo de que me inviten a comer, llevo una racha inmejorable.

Seattle. I’ve never seen a city so overrun with runaways, drug addicts, and bums. Pike Place Market: they’re everywhere. Pioneer Square: teeming with them. The flagship Nordstrom: have to step over them on your way in. The first Starbucks: one of them hogging the milk counter because he’s sprinkling free cinnamon on his head. Oh, and they all have pit bulls, many of them wearing handwritten signs with witticisms such as I BET YOU A DOLLAR YOU’LL READ THIS SIGN. Why does every beggar have a pit bull? Really, you don’t know? It’s because they’re badasses, and don’t you forget it. I was downtown early one morning and I noticed the streets were full of people pulling wheelie suitcases. And I thought, Wow, here’s a city full of go-getters. Then I realized, no, these are all homeless bums who have spent the night in doorways and are packing up before they get kicked out. Seattle is the only city where you step in shit and you pray, Please God, let this be dog shit. Anytime you express consternation as to how the U.S. city with more millionaires per capita than any other would allow itself to be overtaken by bums, the same reply always comes back. “Seattle is a compassionate city.” A guy named the Tuba Man, a beloved institution who’d play his tuba at Mariners games, was brutally murdered by a street gang near the Gates Foundation. The response? Not to crack down on gangs or anything. That wouldn’t be compassionate. Instead, the people in the neighborhood redoubled their efforts to “get to the root of gang violence.” They arranged a “Race for the Root,” to raise money for this dunderheaded effort. Of course, the “Race for the Root” was a triathlon, because God forbid you should ask one of these athletic do-gooders to partake in only one sport per Sunday.

Although it was only nine o’clock he had already gone once around the pharmacological wheel to which he’d strapped himself for the evening, stolen a tuba, and offended a transvestite; and now his companions were beginning, with delight and aplomb, to barf. It was definitely a Crabtree kind of night.

The most diplomatic statement you can use for the person you hate: "If I would have water, and you would be on fire,... I would drink IT.

I think an inspirational quote can get you through hard times.

The wild notes of tuba and trumpet and trombone rattled and hummed through the trees. In the first group of musicians, there were kids as young as fourteen playing the tuba and one kid who probably couldn’t drive banging a bass drum. They stomped together in rhythm to the music. Two ladies had dressed up in what looked like princess outfits. They wore white gloves and socks with tassels.

However, race seemed less and less a defining characteristic when one was six years out of college, and those people who still nursed it as the core of their identity came across as somehow childish and faintly pathetic, as if clinging to a youthful fascination with Amnesty International or the tuba: an outdated and embarrassing preoccupation with something that reached its potent apotheosis in college applications.

Thus a redemption of a different kind was affected: By routing the savage “Arab,” by murdering his leaders, by confining him to the Bantustans of Tuba, or the reservations of Gaza, or the ghettoes of Lydd, Jewish national honor was restored in the traditional manner of Western European powers. The “mass mutation” into whiteness was advanced, and “IDF,” “Mossad,” and “Shin Bet” all became synonyms for righteous manly violence.

If you want to get better, you simply have to practice. There’s no way around it. Even though Prasad, Sona, and Rex all had beneficial early experiences with music, each has had to spend thousands of hours in practice to acquire their musical prowess. Rex told me, “If people could’ve lived my life and all the hours I’ve spent practicing the tuba alone in some little room someplace, they probably wouldn’t label me as being particularly talented.”[6]

High school marching band was its own little microcosm of the world. More a study in sociology than in woodwinds and brass: There were the band geeks, pimply and a tad too greasy, making out with one another every chance they got. There were the no-nonsense go-getters, eager to fill a line on their college applications, marching without rhythm or passion. There was the percussion section, hipsters-to-be whose arms would be full of tattoos in a few years’ time. And there were the tuba players, chunky and asexual, as if they were slowly morphing into their instrument of choice.

Surely an instrument is neither male nor female—they’re just things that make sound—strings and bows, brass and wood, mallets and cymbals and drumskins and little metal triangles. And yet all you have to do is look around at these musicians to see the way that even sound is gendered. In the middle of the orchestra is the brass section—tubas, trombones, trumpets, French horn, every last one of them played by boys. It’s not all that different in the woodwinds—where the boys play bassoons and clarinets, but all the flutes are played by girls. The strings are even more ridiculous—the deeper the instrument, the more likely it is to be played by a boy. So all the basses? Boys. Most of the cellos? Boys. The violas split half and half. All but one of the violins? Girls. Then there’s the harp, which I guess federal law requires be played by a girl. And the percussion and kettle drums, which are usually played by boys. How weird is this? Most of us decided to play our instruments in third grade, a bunch of little kids who made our choices without even thinking about them. But even at eight years old, we were already running the gender maze that the world had set for us, without even realizing it.

Di’ / l’ottuso terriccio litiga forse con l’orgogliosa foresta che ha nutrito / e ancora nutre / più bella di se stesso> Nega forse la supremazia di boschi verdi> Oppure l’albero è invidioso della colomba perché tuba / e ha ali candide con cui vagare e trovare le sue gioie> Siamo tali alberi di foresta / e i nostri bei germogli sono spuntati / non pallide colombe solitarie / ma aquile dal piumaggio di oro / che torreggiano sopra di noi nella loro bellezza / e devono regnare quindi a buon diritto \\ Infatti è legge eterna che primo in bellezza sia primo in possanza \\ // \\ // \\ // \\ Ricevi la verità / e sia il tuo balsamo

So Germany can’t pay France and Britain and France and Britain can’t pay America because the Gold Standard says money = gold and America already has all the gold. But America won’t forgive the loans so Germany starts printing dumpsters full of money just to keep up appearances until one U.S. dollar is worth six hundred and thirty BILLION marks. There’s so much cash, kids are building money forts it is tragic/pimp as hell. Britain does convince America to go easy and lower the interest rates on the loans but in order to do that America has to lower ALL THE INTEREST RATES so everybody back in the U.S. is like “SWEET FREE MONEY BETTER USE IT TO BUY STOCKS” and they just go nuts the whole stock market goes completely bonkers shoe-shine boys are giving out hot tips hobos have stock portfolios and the dudes in charge are TERRIFIED because they know that at this point the market is just running on bullshit and dreams and real soon it’s gonna get to that part in the dream where you’re naked at your tuba recital and you never learned to play the tuba. There are other people who are like “NAW THE MARKET WILL BE GREAT FOREVER PUT ALL YOUR MONEY IN IT” but you know what those people are? WRONG. WRONG LIKE A DOG EATING MAYONNAISE. The market goes down like a clown and a bunch of people lose a bunch of money. It happens on a Tuesday and everybody calls it Black Tuesday and then it happens again on Black Thursday also Black Monday. Everyone is so poor they have even pawned their creativity.

I wish I could blame the solar storm that blitzed the earth with electromagnetic rays, rerouted several commercial airlines, and caused all the geese to mistakenly fly west, the secret compass needles in their heads playing spin the bottle over a rowdy Pacific. Satellite communications were disrupted, electric eels in Peru forgot how to sing, and for a few seconds all the iPhones in the world flickered to black, during which time everyone raised their eyes and noticed moths shivering like tiny chandeliers. The truth is your glance shortcuts every traffic light in my heart and now no one’s in charge, I’m accelerating down the expressway of a tuba’s gold dream. With one outburst from your hair, I sputter like a firefly drowning in champagne. Just imagining the charged particles of your lips colliding with mine and I’m watching the northern lights, those bodies flaring across midwinter sheets of sky

Followed like a goat on a halter, hungry dog closing on his just-filled dinner bowl, water-bottle and towel carrier behind the tuba section of a marching band.

The path to orthographic expertise begins with practice practice practice but leads to more more more. Only a limited amount of spelling can be taught, and instruction typically ends by fourth grade. Orthographic expertise is not acquired through the years of deliberate practice required to become an expert at playing chess or the tuba. We don't study orthographic patterns in order to be able to read; we gain orthographic expertise by reading. In the course of gathering all that spelling data, a person can also enjoy some books.

Now that is a big trunk. It holds a tuba, a suitcase, a dead dog and a garment bag almost perfectly. That's just what they used to say in the ads." ~ Michael Chabon, Wonder Boys

Several other curtains swept back to reveal a number of battered but patently alive, angry and considerably reinforced bandsmen. Reinforced in numbers, that is, and in the general strength of the weaponry they carried such as rapid-fire harmoniums, maraca-grenades and tuba-bazookas. ‘You

Baron Boghosian is the sole founder of Dieselgenix Inc., and an international patent is pending for a proprietary catalyst which converts plastic waste to diesel fuel. Mr. Boghosian’s findings were published in the Journal of Sustainable and Renewable Energy. He received his Bachelor of Science in Chemical Engineering from Cal Poly Pomona in 2021. Since a young age, he has played brass instruments including the tuba, baritone, and trombone.

What a strange instrument a tuba is. I wonder how many different shapes they twisted that metal into until they realized that a tuba's shape was the exact one they needed to make that exact sound.

O riso tem também uma característica perigosamente democrática, dado que, ao contrário de tocar tuba ou realizar uma cirurgia ao cérebro, qualquer pessoa consegue fazê-lo. Não é necessário qualquer conhecimento especializado, qualquer ascendência privilegiada nem qualquer destreza escrupulosamente cultivada.

uyumazsam dayanamam nihayetinde insansın, dayandın ağlayabildiğine inandın aynı yerlerde aynı otlar bitiyor kimse kimsenin karşısına böyle çıkmayacaktı.

duvarın bütün çatlaklarından geçtim biri beni söksün diye buradan

her sabah uyanmana görülmeyen kılcal çatlaklara yüzündeki et parçasını yirmiyedi yıldır orada durduğunu hatırlat.

kaptan yokmuş kürek ben değilmişim tekne kâğıttan bir kayıkmış.

Grant read my book, and he said it was good! A tiny parade marches through my chest, filled with baton-throwing, tutu-clad dancers, people on floats throwing confetti, a full marching band with tubas and bass drums, and not a clown car in sight. Those are creepy and nothing about this moment feels the least bit creepy. Grant read my book. A sigh of contentment softly blows through my nose, and my grin feels like the first taste of summer after a long year of sitting in a stuffy classroom. Grant read my book. I sigh. Is this what swooning feels like?

Tuba ve Göktürk devleti zamanında; hükümdar, bir keçe üzerine konularak, güneşin seyir yönünde dokuz defa döndürülürdü. Bu bir devlet töresiydi.

Aydın Engin: "İkna edici uslûbuyla milliyetçi kesimi bile etkilemeyi önemseyen Hrant, solcu olduğunu iddia edip de kimlikler ve aidiyetler sorununa uzak duran sosyalistlere veryansın etmekten kaçınmazdı. Ona göre, sadece sınıf mücadelesinden söz ederek ve emekçileri savunarak solcu olunamazdı. Başta azınlıklar, Türkiye'nin ayrımcılığa uğrayan bütün kesimlerinin sorunlarına sahip çıkmaz gerekirdi. Çünkü Hrant için solculuk her şeyden önce bir vicdan meselesiydi.

Ben gittiğimde eşimi kaldırmışlardı. Kanını gördüm kaldırımın üstünde. Sonra hep üzüldüm, niye uzanıp oraya, yanına yatmadım diye. Sonra hep üzüldüm... Çıkarken Agos'tan, baktım ki orayı sabunla suyla yıkıyorlar. Temizlemeye çalışıyorlar. Sanki temizlenirmiş gibi. Suyla sabunla temizlenir mi dökülmüş kan? Allah'ın sözü diyor ki: İnsanlar sussa, kan hakkını arar. Adalet yerine oturmadıkça kanın sesi susmaz.Hiçbir zaman susmaz. Ne şimdi, ne gelecekte, ne de geçmişteki kanlar... Hiçbiri susmaz." Rakel Dink

Belki de önemli olan gidilecek yer ya da güzergah değil, gitme fikrinin kendisi. Daimi göçebelik. Bir öte diyar fikri bakidir içimizde.Kimileri cennetteki Tuba ağacı misali. Kökleri var, var olmasına da toprağa bağlı değil, havada, yukarıda. kimilerinin kökleri göçebe.

A woman needs a man like a tuba needs a cucumber.

Ben o sıralar okulu bırakmış, Beyoğlu'nda Kayzer Fotoğraf Stüdyosunda çalışmaya başlamıştım.Baktım, bir gün Hrant elinde o koca sazla çıkageldi. Cebinden Rakel'in bir vesikalık fotoğrafını çıkardı. O fotoğrafı büyüttürdü bana. Arka duvara o fotoğrafı koyduk. Önüne de geçti, sazıyla birlikte. Öyle poz verip fotoğraf çektirdi. Âşıklar gibi. Âşık Veysel'e öykünür gibi." - Hosrof

If you go through life caring what everybody else thinks, you’re just going to be miserable. All that matters is what you think." - Tuba

In the end, what it boils down to is that a great teacher will help you carve years off your practice time by showing you strategies and techniques that you probably won’t discover on your own, like the breathing trick tuba legend Arnold Jacobs used to avoid passing out. When Jacobs had to move a lot of air, he’d take CO2-rich breaths near the mouthpiece or breathe back through the tuba. He said, “When I get into these huge, massive blowing episodes, like The Great Gate of Kiev at the end of Pictures at an Exhibition, I will deliberately take the air back through the instrument to forestall hyperventilation.”[8]

A guy had too much to drink at a party and, the following morning, he woke up on the sidewalk. The last thing he remembered about the party was that there had been a golden toilet. Determined to find out exactly where he’d been, the fellow knocked on the door of every home on the street, asking the homeowners if they had a golden toilet. Everyone said no and quickly shut the door. Finally, he got to the house at the end of the block. “Excuse me, sir, but would you happen to have a golden toilet?” he asked. The man at the door got angry. “I remember you! I threw you out on your ear last night, after you took a shit in my tuba!

Ueck’s job was protect Bob Kuban, and the band that was playing in left field. They took a break. Roger Craig said, ‘Ueck, why don’t you grab a tuba?’ He dropped his glove, grabbed the tuba, and caught about five balls in it. I remember [Cardinals general manager] Bob Howsam sent him a bill for $116 after the World Series for damage to the tuba.

They’d never seen anything like it.” Uecker recalls the incident, which was captured in photos. “I was better with the tuba than I was with a glove,” he said. The jokes about his career flow easily, but Uecker is proud of his time as a player and the respect that he has earned from players of his era and today.

heartful.   PR: You really did it. Music is an amazing art, to me. I love to recount to myself the number of human beings it takes, each skilled in a different area, to make possible a symphony concert. The composers, and those who copied and preserved the compositions, the instrument makers, skilled at their crafts—tubas, trumpets, timpani, woodwinds, strings—the music teachers who taught the performers, the performers who studied their instruments and practiced and rehearsed, all the builders who erected the concert hall—carpenters, electricians, etc.—the architect who designed it, the conductor who studied, who learned the language of music, the languages of all the instruments, the members of the audience who bought tickets, got dressed, came to the concert hall to be transported, to be informed, by sound, came for an experience that had nothing to do with physical survival. Most amazing. Always makes me certain absolutely without doubt that something is going on with the human species, something good. Two heroes to me are my middle school music teacher and my son’s middle school music teacher. What courage! All those twelve- and thirteen-year-old children, each with a noise-making instrument in his hands and these two enormously courageous teachers are attempting to teach them how to make music together. At my son’s first sixthgrade band concert, the music teacher turned to the audience of glowing, proud parents and said, “I’m not certain what’s going to happen here, but I’m just hoping that we’ll all begin at the same time.” It brought tears to my eyes, literally. And they did it! One step forward, in my opinion, in understanding what it means to be human.

You can’t believe I would knowingly get involved with a drug user. <> I knowingly got involved with a guy who plays the tuba. Finish the story.

The tuba was a golden blur. The horn player seemed to be winking at me. And then there were the other partnered girls sailing by us in silk dresses, gardenias tucked like stars into their hair.

Enzo is lying sound asleep beside me. The sound wasn’t enough to wake him. Although to be fair, I could be playing the tuba right next to him, and he would sleep right through it.

Baron Boghosian - Founder Of Dieselgenix Inc. Baron Boghosian is the sole founder of Dieselgenix Inc., and an international patent is pending for a proprietary catalyst which converts plastic waste to diesel fuel. Mr. Boghosian’s findings were published in the Journal of Sustainable and Renewable Energy. He received his Bachelor of Science in Chemical Engineering from Cal Poly Pomona in 2021. Since a young age, he has played brass instruments including the tuba, baritone, and trombone.

You either have it, or want it Nothing else will fly. Do you know any songs? What can you play? Can you sing? Do you have a piano, tuba, or strings? . . . The musicians began vamping, What can this Rabbit cat do? Is he going to blow hot air Or fart in the rain? Rabbit turned his back to the band Like that genius Miles Davis Pulled out his stick He made a horn with his hands. This stick is so special, bragged Rabbit. As he turned back to the jam No one else has one like this. You’ve never heard it before. It’s called a sax-oh-oh-phone. Rabbit’s newborn horn made a rip in the sky It made old women dance, and girls fall to their knees It made singers of tricksters, it made tricksters of players It made trouble wherever it sang after that— The last time we heard Rabbit was for my cousin’s run for chief. There was a huge feed. Everyone showed up to eat. Rabbit’s band got down after the speeches. We danced through the night, and nobody fought. Nor did anyone show up the next day to vote. They were sleeping.

Recordings resulted in a skewed, inaccurate impression of music that wasn’t already well-known. It would be more accurate to say that early jazz recordings were versions of that music. Musicians in other towns, hearing what these drummers and bass/tuba players were doing on the recordings, sometimes assumed that that was how the music was supposed to be played, and they began to copy those adaptations that had initially been made solely to accommodate the limitations of the technology. How could they know differently?

Recordings resulted in a skewed, inaccurate impression of music that wasn’t already well-known. It would be more accurate to say that early jazz recordings were versions of that music. Musicians in other towns, hearing what these drummers and bass/tuba players were doing on the recordings, sometimes assumed that that was how the music was supposed to be played, and they began to copy those adaptations that had initially been made solely to accommodate the limitations of the technology. How could they know differently? Now we don’t and can never know what those bands really sounded like—their true sound may have been “unrecordable.” Our understanding of certain kinds of music, based on recordings anyway, is completely inaccurate.

As Henniger conducts a tour of his factory, he brims with pride. He points to the ventilation system that sucks air from fourteen welding tables through tuba-size funnels into a series of Willy Wonka pipes overhead. “Most welding shops are dirty,” he says. “Ours isn’t. I put in a whole system to pull out the dust so these guys have clean air to breathe.” He leans over and sweeps his index finger across the floor. It comes up spotless. Henniger smiles, and casts his gaze across a continent of polished concrete. “You can see it shining,” he says. “We have a Zamboni going around the floor all day.” One can only imagine what kind of Christmas morning moment must it be for a thirty-something guy to take delivery of his own Zamboni.

the unfolding waves of sound are like an underwater orchestra or the endless improvisation of a jazz band. On the Great Barrier Reef, the humpback whales sing the soprano melody. Fish supply the chorus: whooping clownfish, grunting cod, and crunching parrotfish. Sea urchins scrape, resonating like tubas. Percussion is the domain of chattering dolphins and clacking shrimp, who use their pincers to create bubbles that explode with a loud bang. Lobsters rasp their antennae on their shells like washboards. Rainfall, wind, and waves provide the backbeat. To get the best seat, you would have to attend the concert in the middle of the night at the full moon, when fish chorusing typically crests. But you wouldn't necessarily need to have a front row seat: mass fish choruses can be heard up to 50 miles away, and whale sounds resonate for hundreds of miles.

Who shit in your tuba?

…if the sounds of musical instruments could describe a place, Namba would have four—the rollercoaster slides of a trombone…the unexpected tinkle of a triangle…a tuba’s jovial oompah pah…and that suspended thrill in the firework booms of a bass drum.

Dunya Ma Sab Sy Tez Raftar Chiz Dua Ha Jo Dil Sy Zaban Tak Ponchny Sy Phaly Allah Ky Pas Ponch Jati Ha دنیا میں سب سے تیز رفتار چیز دعا ہے جو دل سے زبان تک پہنچنے سے پہلے اللہ تعالی کے پاس پہنچ جاتی ہے Tuba Ruu Ka Ghosal Ha Jatni Bar Kia Jay Ruu Ma Nikhar Paida Huta Ha توبہ روح کا غسل ہے جتنی بار بھی کی جائے روح میں نکھار پیدا ہوتا ہے Allah Ki Raymat Ki Phali Nishani Ye Ha K Ensaan Ku Apne Aayb Nazr Any Shuru Hu Jaty Han اللہ کی رحمت کی پہلی نشانی یہ کہ انسان کو اپنے عیب نظر آنے شروع ہو جاتے۔ Allah Ky Faysluu Pr Yakeen Rakhu Zindagi Bhot Asaan Hu Jay Gi اللہ کے فیصلوں پر یقین رکھو زندگی بہت آسان ہو جائے گی Ghamu Ki Raa Pr Bary Sakoon Sy Chalu Keu ky Ye Raa Allah Ku Kareeb Kr Dati Ha غموں کی راہ پر بڑے سکون سے چلو کیوں کہ یہ راہ اللہ کو قریب کر دیتی ہے Ma Roz Ghuna Krta Hu Wu Chupata Ha Apni Raymat Sy Ma Majboor Apni Aadat Sy Wu Mashoor Apni Raymat Sy میں روز گناہ کرتا ہوں وہ چھپاتا ہے اپنی رحمت سے میں مجبور اپنی عادت سے وہ مشہور اپنی رحمت سے Ju Allah Ky Diyay Huway Rizk Ko Kafi Samjy Wu Zindagi Ma Kbi Kisi Ka Motaj Ni Huta جو اللہ کے دیئے ہوئے رزق کو کافی سمجھے وہ زندگی میں کبھی کسی کا محتاج نہیں ہوتا Sabr 1 Sawari Ha Ju Kbi B Apny Sawar Ko Girny Nahi Dayti Na Kisi Ky Kadmoo Ma Na Kisi Ki Nazroo Ma صبر ایک ایسی سواری ہے جو کبھی بھی اپنے سوار کو گرنے نہیں دیتی نہ کسی کے قدموں میں نہ کسی کی نظروں میں For more urdu quotes and urdu poetry visit my WEBSITE urdupoetryweb.com

But another theme, another refrain, is equally marked, and this one is missed by the cynic. This is the refrain which sings the great gift of God. Under the sun, vanity is God’s scepter (5:18; 8:15; 9:9). For those who fear Him, He gives the gift of being able to actually enjoy this great big marching band of futility—the tubas of vanity bringing up the rear. God gives to a wise man the gift of watching, with a pious and grateful chuckle, one damn thing after another. All things considered, the furious activity of this world is about as meaningful as the half-time frenzy at the Super Bowl. But a wise man can be there and enjoy himself. This is the gift of God. The wise will notice how this point is hammered home, throughout the book, again and again. Slowly it dawns on a man that this is really a book of profound . . . optimism.

A Method proposed to restore the Hearing when injured from an Obstruction of the Tuba Eustachian a. By MR. ATHENA, Surgeon, in Devonshire Square, May 29, 1755.

After air has once been admitted, it stimulates the membrane to pour out a fluid secretion (capable of being heard by the stethoscope), which appears to carry off the dissolved fragments of mucus by way of the tuba Eustachian.

allowed.” “Well, he’s not a dog or a cat, but I suppose he is my pet,” reasoned Zoe. “Of course he is! And get this. The Ogre plays the tuba, I heard her practisin’. It’s awful! All the kids reckon she is only doin’ it because she wants to get off wiv the ’eadmaster.” “She so fancies him!” said Zoe. The two girls laughed. The idea of the unusually small teacher playing the unusually large instrument already seemed hilarious, let alone using the low-noted tuba as a method of seduction! “I have to see her do that!” said Zoe. “Me too,” laughed Tina. “I just need to show Armitage something downstairs quickly, then we can spend this evening working together on the new trick!” “I can’t wait!

I’m an artist, man,” said John Lennon. “Give me a tuba, and I’ll get you something out of it.

Yo no comprendo el deseo de los humanos de querer ponerse encima de piedras majestuosas una vez muertos, pero sí puedo entender que los humanos quieran dar un gran valor a esas piedras majestuosas. -Nana

hank you, Miss Midget, I mean Midge, for that beautiful tuba playing,” lied Mr Grave. It had been truly awful. Like a hippopotamus farting.