In the court of syncopated chaos, one night in Bengal,
Where saxophones sizzled and basslines brawled,
Came Richie the Maharaja, hedge-blessed and bold,
With trimmerhands twitching for rhythms untold.
He snipped through the velvet, he pruned past the guards,
His blades hummed in harmony with jazz avant-garde.
“Live music!” he cried, “Not dead, not canned!
My shrub-sculpting soul demands Miles and Herbie first hand!”
The crowd gasped in 7/8 time, the drummer missed a beat,
As Richie moonwalked in mulch, trimming roses with his feet.
The vibraphonist wept, the flautist fled,
While Richie trimmed a bonsai on the bassist’s head.
He soloed with snippers, a metallic ballet,
Each hedge he shaped sang Coltrane’s “Naima.”
The conductor fainted, the trumpet grew moss,
And Richie declared, “Let no groove be lost!”
He carved a topiary of Ella Fitzgerald’s face,
Then sculpted a shrub that could scat with grace.
The audience roared, the garden bloomed,
As Richie’s trimmers jazzily zoomed.
But just as the encore began to ignite,
He vanished in fog like a jazz-loving sprite.
Leaving behind a hedge in the shape of a note,
And a whisper: “Live music’s the only antidote.”
“Where shrub meets sax and madness grins,
The Maharaja trims while the trumpet spins.”
In this photograph secretly clicked by the Pink Flamingo for the Nonsense Chronicler, we find Maharaja Richie donning a terrifyingly visage, his hedgetrimmer hands raised in jazz-fuelled ecstasy, his mask grinning with carnivorous delight.
Maharaja Jon has dropped a beat and perhaps a heartbeat in fear.
Meanwhile, the jazz band plays on, unfazed yet slightly unnerved, as the Maharaja snips in syncopation, a surreal fusion of shrubbery and swing.
That fateful evening, whilst the storms raged outside his Ogmore hideaway, it is rumoured that Maharaja Rich the Rooster had pulled the Emergency Jazz Lever....
It is rumoured that after his famous photograph, the Pink Flamingo was to jump onto the next wormhole and quickly file his expose in the Nonsense Chronicle, it all happened a day earlier as for Pink, time and space was circular.
🦩 “The Jazz Trimmings of Maharaja Rich Hedgetrimmerhands: A Topiary Treatise on Sonic Resistance”
Filed under: Ornamental Outbursts & Rhythmic Rebellions
By The Pink Flamingo, Keeper of the Cut and the Crescendo, Nonsense Chronicles
The Hedge as Hymn: Aesthetic Philosophy of the Maharaja
Richie’s hedge-trimming was no mere landscaping—it was 'landscorping', a fusion of corporeal jazz and botanical sculpture. His trimmerhands, forged in the fires of funk and fertiliser, became instruments of protest against the sterilisation of sound.
• Shrub as Score: Each snip was a note, each hedge a stanza. The garden became a manuscript of improvisation.
• Mulch as Metaphor: His moonwalk through mulch symbolised the reclaiming of earthy, analogue textures in a world of digital flatness.
Syncopated Chaos: The Bengal Jazz Court as Sonic Battleground
This was no ordinary gig. It was a sonic insurgency staged in the court of syncopated chaos—a mythic venue where time signatures duel and chord progressions flirt with entropy.
• 7/8 Time Gasp: The crowd’s collective inhalation in an odd meter was a ritual of awakening.
• Bonsai on Bassist’s Head: A symbol of restraint and wildness coexisting, discipline in form, rebellion in placement.
Trimmerhands as Avatar of Live Music’s Last Stand
Richie’s cry, “Live music! Not dead, not canned!”, was a rooster’s crow in hedge-form, a declaration against the algorithmic flattening of musical experience.
• Miles and Herbie: Not as jazz legends, but as presence, as breath, as risk.
• Metallic Ballet: His solo with snippers was a choreography of resistance, each movement a refusal to be background noise.
Botanical Icons and Sonic Shrines
• Ella Fitzgerald’s Topiary Face: A living monument to vocal improvisation, scat-sculpted in chlorophyll.
• Shrub That Could Scat: A surreal hybrid of flora and phrasing, proof that jazz can bloom in any medium.
The Vanishing and the Whisper: Mythic Closure
Richie’s fog-bound exit was not disappearance, it was diffusion. He became mist, myth, and mulch. The hedge-note left behind was a glyph, a reminder:
“Live music’s the only antidote.”
I have also seen another article on the Nonsense Chronicles by the Pink Flamingo describing another moment of Rooster rage at the threat to live original independent music.
ReplyDeleteI am reporting it here as I found it.
“The Rooster’s Raga: A Scholarly Exegesis on Sonic Sovereignty”
By The Pink Flamingo, PhD (Plumage, Harmonics, Dissent)
Abstract:
Maharaja Richie the Rooster’s terrifying avatar, beak ablaze, wings flared like vinyl sleeves, was not a descent into madness, but a deliberate invocation of Bhayanak Rasa, the aesthetic of righteous terror. His rage was a ritual, a requiem, a rooster’s crow at dawn for a dying art: live and independent music.
I. The Feathered Fury: Symbolism of the Avatar
• Terrifying, not tyrannical: Richie’s form was not monstrous but mythic, his talons inked with gig posters, his comb a metronome of rebellion. He embodied the Asura of Algorithm, the spectral force that replaces jam sessions with metrics, improvisation with monetization.
• His scream? A sonic Agni: Not a cry for attention, but a fire offering to the gods of groove. Each crow was a waveform of grief, echoing through abandoned venues and silenced sound checks.
II. The Death of the Gig: A Cultural Autopsy
• From Café to Content: Where once Croissantstein’s Monster wept jazz into café corners, now autoplay drowns the soul in curated playlists. The stage has been flattened into a scroll.
• The Algorithmic Cage: Independent musicians, like paratha physicists and chutney chamberists, are now trapped in loops of virality. Richie’s rage was a protest against the tyranny of “engagement.”
• Venue Vanishing Syndrome (VVS): A condition afflicting cities where live music spaces are replaced by artisanal laundromats and silent discos. Richie diagnosed it with a crow so loud it cracked the QR codes on every ticketing app.
III. The Rooster’s Ritual: A Call to Rewild the Soundscape
• He pecked at the gates of Spotify, not to destroy, but to demand tribute to the jam gods.
• He laid eggs of vinyl in forgotten record shops, each inscribed with the names of lost bands and unsung buskers.
• He danced the Tandava of Tempo, a furious stomp that summoned Maharaja Miku’s requiem and Croissantstein’s ghost to the barricades.
IV. Conclusion: The Rooster as Relic and Rebel
Richie’s terrifying avatar was not a descent. Rather, it was an ascent. A rooster risen from the ashes of auto-tune, bearing the banner of the live music’s creed:
“Let no chord be quantized,
Let no gig be ghosted,
Let every flake of sound be folded with love.”
I do believe that Pink had just returned from his periodic Vedic retreat when he wrote the above article
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