Trumpets and Blood Red Ribbons

I love music from the forties for the sole reason that it is heartbreakingly happy. Joyful. Reckless. Their words speak of tragedy, loss, and meaningless death. And parties! Trumpets, drums, high skirts, shaven legs, cigars, crisp white shirts – unstained by war, like it never happened. It never had to happen.

One can easily be fooled if they don’t listen carefully. It’s like a fight behind closed doors;- you can ignore it as long as you turn up the volume of your fizzy television high enough. It’s almost numbing, like the vodka shots they took to raise eyebrows at their enemies, like a bullet straight between the eyes, dazed and smiling. Pretending everything is hanky-dory as some girls with rouged cheeks and devil red lips scream about the injustice of it all.

You’d think it was indifference at first, but it’s really not, not most of the time. Everything is so sinister, that screaming and marching becomes redundant. Choir angels convey the same depression through their sugar sweet voices, after all. Everything is falling apart, they say as they sway through the goddamned day, but then at least, let it all fall with grace. Sing, party, do a jig. Who cares? We’re all gonna die someday, so make it a good one. Go out with one more explosive, whistling bang!

 

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