Big Band Leader

Biography:

Are the big bands really back? What a freakin’ pain in the ass …silence really is golden…like an 800-pound gorilla under a new moon–you sure can smell it, but you try to ignore it since you can’t see it…sooner or later it elbows its way into the periphery of your semblance -of-consciousness, much like this unsolicited email.

Admiral Ted Brinkley (semi-ret.) is soon to be no longer on Terra Firma. His ashen pallor, leathery scab-encrusted odoriferous flesh, and biohazard-grade halitosis all testify to his utter disregard, or at least obliviousness to, the supposed advances of Civilization (at least as manifested by the so-called modernists and post modernists alike in the endeavor of sonic emanation).

Idealists and geeks expound and pontificate, high-concept art forms labor upward, often somewhat ponderously…meanwhile, like an amphetamine-infused mole burrowing out in the yard, no-concept-happy-stupid music asserts itself semi-intrusively off to the side– figuratively and literally flipping the bird at people, things, itself, concepts, and the void. like any self- respecting civilized being , please close your drapes and ignore if you wish. report back about your high concepts with your data and your findings–we will (pretend to) listen sincerely and take it all under advisement.

Ted Brinkley’s music is gleefully nostalgic, and happily, dare-i-say militantly, devoid of any pretense of conceptual profundity. As Ted himself was heard to remark, after disembarking from the HMS Prince Hairy at Heather-On-The-Moor, “I am the musical equivalent of a guy who builds little dioramas out of popsicle sticks”. He is also suspected of saying: “In the chain restaurant that is culture, i am merely the sonic manifestation of a newly-hired and soon-to-be-fired ever-pubescent busboy.”