An Imp is haunting popular music - the Imp of ukuleles. All the powers of old-popular-music (the Grammys, the FCC, Casey Kasem, RCA police-spies, Tipper Gore) have entered into a hallowed matrimony to expel this Imp.
Where is the ukulele sound that has not been discredited as retrogression (or kitch) by its opponents in power? Where is the ukulele sound that has not tossed back the smirching disapproval of ukulele diapason into the faces of the most advanced adversaries, as well as against its own 'radical' celebrity?
It is high time that ukulele players openly, in the face of the world, perform their ditties, publish their views, open windows, act, release their recordings, dream, radiate, and meet this nursery tale of an Imp with a Manifesto of Ukuleledom itself.
Yes, Ukulelian, Die Ukulele Spieler, fellow Leaf in the Whirlwind of Time, you are part of this. You have nothing to lose but your v-Chip.
Do not allow social science to replace history and art as the mode of discource for talking together about ourselves.
Acknowledge one another in daily life. Share stories that teach history. Speech and action, Darling, will make you most fully human. Utilize the Ukulele to create public space.
Dear One, always remember, even if you win the rat race, you're still a rat.
Dear One, always remember, instead of asking "How can we work less," ask "How can we put everybody to work?"
If you think of anything today, Baby, surmise why uniqueness of fingerprints came to be (i.e. why do fingerprints exist?)
If you dream of anything tonight, Baby, understand human interaction before gunpowder, or at least before telegraphs.
If you have a go at anything this week, Baby, torment yourself with the topic of categorization. How do you tell a good one from a bad one?
Dear One, always remember, it is worse to be invisible than it is to be materially deprived.
Beware of parody.
Glass is a liquid.
Ice cubes are icebergs.
