"Experimental Music" by Chris Van Dyke

by Chris Van Dyke

         I've decided to change my major. I know, I know, they say the average college student changes his major an average of 15,000 times, and part of me mourns leaving the small elite group of focused students and joining the large mass of common confused college students, who are so unfocused that they routinely see four security guards bust up their parties, when in reality there is only one slightly angered squirrel. Of course, this sort of unfocusedness is the result of imbibing roughly 33,000 cc of rubbing alcohol grade vodka rather than the unfocusedness caused from the uncertainness of one's future, but trust me, when you wake up on the roof of the art building wearing nothing but a medium sized rubber chicken for a hat, the future is pretty vague. Anyway, I'm changing my major. It isn't for any of the regular reasons; I haven't suddenly had a startling flash of insight and realized that majoring in Medieval studies means I will spend the rest of my life scrubbing out toilets in 7-11's. I'm perfectly content knowing that I will most likely not be able to find a job. Besides, I'm at a liberal arts college. It isn't like any of the other majors offer any chance of employment either.

         But I'm sure by this point you are literally screaming to yourself "Blustering blunderbusses, just tell us what your new major is!" Or perhaps you have drifted off to sleep, and are gently snoring with your head nestled between your darling little arms, your forehead marching a trail of "z"s across the top of your screen. For those of you who are still awake, I advise all of you to make the same life decision I did -- major in Experimental Music. Experimental music is the one profession which requires no skills whatsoever -- or, as a friend of mine put it, all you need to get a good grade is "heavy drug usage." I came across Experimental Music when I was in the library, and I met this same friend photocopying what appeared to be blank sheets of paper. Upon closer inspection, I realized that there were about two dozen apparently randomly placed small, black lines dotting the page. I was about warn my friend that there was something wrong with the Xerox machine, but then I noticed that there was a title on this senseless jumble of lines -- "December 1942." Now, I don't know about all of you, but I am unaccustomed to seeing a title on nothing. I mean, the normal procedure is that you have something which requires a title (a book, a work of art, an aardvark), and then to fill this lack of title you give this said object a title. But this page had nothing on it. So I casually asked this friend "Hey! What are you doing?" I meant to say "What are you doing you complete raving moron? Can't you see you're Xeroxing absolutely nothing?! Dear God, the rain-forests are depleting at a phenomenal rate and all you can do is make poor copies of air?" But somehow I restrained myself. That was when I got the answer which changed my life. The photocopies weren't of nothing. That chaotic jumble of random lines was actually a musical score: it was music! How, you might ask, was this ridiculousness to be played? My Plexiglas, cut out the lines, then cover the Plexiglas with clear plastic. After hooking contact mics up to a paintbrush and the Plexiglas, she was going to "play" the piece by painting the Plexiglas on stage, then tearing off the plastic covering and bending and warping the sheet to make "music."

         My first reaction was that this was the single stupidest idea that I had ever heard, but a second later I realized the sly brilliance behind it. Someone had to have written this music, someone who was well known enough to have this "score" ordered by a liberal arts college. This was a job. You could make money by doing absolutely nothing. My mind reeled: anything I did was a musical score. Place a spoon in a glass of water and tell a musician to play it. It's their problem if they don't know how; you don't need to worry about that, you just have to be the "genius." Instead of throwing away my scratch paper for Latin homework, I've begun publishing them as musical scores. So far I have made $15,000 in the last week, and I will be appearing on Letterman next month, where I will conduct the London Symphony Orchestra in a rendition of my magnum opus, "David Letterman's Audience." Trust me -- Experimental Music is where it is at. The less qualified you think are, the better you will be, because your incompetence can be marketed as "unique inspiration" and "refreshingly revolutionary." But act now, because no matter how gullible the art community is, they will have to catch on sometime, and then the cash flow is going to stop. I've got to go: I'm performing this essay on stage in ten minutes.

Chris Van Dyke is an ex-Medieval Studies Major who has never been quite the same since the incident with the fish. Despite his deathly fear of molasses, hair follicles, and cement, Chris has managed to lead a relatively normal life by avoiding natural sweeteners, waxing his entire body, and walking about in a giant sized hamster wheel. Although this makes going through doors quite difficult, it has not encumbered Chris' budding career as an Experimental Musician. After performing his ground breaking "Man On Stage Receiving Money From The Fools In The Audience For Just Standing There," he has been touring the East Coast with his hand picked bands of con-artist/musicians. His shows "We're Not Just Making This Up," "Blank Sheet Music," and "%$&!!@: A tribute to e.e. cumMiNgs" have played to crowds of nearly two dozen, some of whom were not three-sheets to the wind. In a recent interview, Chris said "Bite me -- I'm making money and you're just jealous."

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