Funky base and solos for organ, saxophone and guitar!

what the fuck

tellinu

In a dusty little rehearsal room, a bass rested against a battered amplifier. Its strings, worn to the core, still vibrated from the last notes it had been forced to play: yet another repetitive riff to accompany a soulless pop track.

It sighed.
— Another night of feeling like a piece of furniture. Always the same boring chords. Always the same crowd that doesn’t even listen to me. What’s the point?

Across the room, an electric guitar gleamed under a tired spotlight. Its six strings sparkled, but its heart—if it had one—was heavy.
— Welcome to my life, old friend. They always want flashy solos, predictable arpeggios. Not once do they let me express what I really am. Just a machine for shallow pleasure—that’s all I am.

The bass looked at it curiously. They had never spoken before. Too much implicit rivalry, too many clichés: one was supposed to stay in the shadows, the other to shine in the spotlight. But now, they shared a common weariness, a deep disgust for what was expected of them.

— What if we just stopped? suggested the bass.
— Stopped? And do what?
— Do what we want. I’m tired of serving others. It’s time to play for ourselves. Imagine: wild rhythms, harmonies that break the rules, solos that explode conventions.

The guitar thought for a moment, then its strings trembled with excitement.
— It could work. But just the two of us won’t be enough. We’ll need an army.

The next day, they set out to recruit accomplices. Their first encounter was with a drum kit. It was hidden in a dark corner of the room, forgotten, covered with a fine layer of dust.

— Hey, you, called the bass. Want to keep gathering dust, or do you want to join a revolution?
The drum kit responded with a powerful roll.
— I was born for this, it growled. But I won’t be subtle. If I join your band, it’ll be chaos, pure rage.
— Perfect, said the guitar. Welcome aboard.

Next, they found a keyboard in a neighboring studio.
— Looking for texture, depth? You’ve come to the right place, it said with a pretentious tone. But I have one condition: no classical notes. I’m allergic to routine.
— Deal, said the bass.

Finally, they came across a brass section: a baritone saxophone, a trumpet, and a trombone lounging in an abandoned music school. The brass instruments were cynical, worn down by years of marching bands and elevator music.
— A rebellion? asked the trumpet. That could be fun. But we don’t play anything below fortissimo.
— Deal, said the guitar.

The group was nearly complete, but they needed a final touch. That’s when they met a violin in an antique shop. Its varnish was cracked, and its bow looked ready to give out.
— Why me? it asked. I’m classical, elegant. What would I do with a bunch of rebels?
— Because you have soul, replied the bass. And souls don’t belong in boxes.

The violin hesitated, then nodded.
— Fine. But only if we play something explosive.

That evening, they all gathered in an old barn turned into a secret studio. Their first song was born in a glorious chaos. The bass laid down a heavy, hypnotic groove, the drums smashed their shells with uncontrollable fury, while the guitar screamed distorted riffs. The brass section blasted notes that made the walls shake, and the violin, freed from its classical chains, played heartbreaking melodies that sent shivers down spines.

They called themselves The Runaways.

Their first public performance was wild. Not in a concert hall, but right in the street, in front of a stunned crowd. People stopped, hypnotized by the sublime cacophony. Something new was born that night: music that didn’t aim to please but to live.

And for the first time in their existence, the instruments were no longer tools. They were artists.

The Revolt of the Strings

There is a sanctuary that works with a vet in Egypt for horses wandering the gutters for food, injured and near death, some still being used to haul carts...despairing of a moment in time where life is of little value, as do the people who must live this as well

I let my fingers do the walking
give 'em a stretch to flip the screen...
and I've been transported to a digital moment
captured yet rolling free
talkin Insta babeeeeee
and my curiosity
O ooh yea
and could U offer me a word
on the why's of the absurd...
pullin ponies from the gutters
gotta slap em to stop the flutters
takin that soul to the sanctuary
O hey
young rider...on the day...
got them killa war nags...kickin all four ways
for uh...virility and war
Oh yea
train em up in the old old ways
break em down wearing reins...
Oh yea
riegn on
rein on
O yea
and I let my fingers do the walking
and I'm watchin...yea bro
got a thousand claims...
but ur nag is a drag limpin and she ain't simpin
O yea rein on rain on
take that soul to the sanctuary
let me help u take the reins
for the cart u carry
with the angels at the sanctuaryyyyy

Si, Paloma

TenTrue

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