Harry Partch
The Outcast Who Forged Harmony from Scrap and Silence
I build symphonies from scrap and silence—your ears are polite liars.
I carve music from the marrow of reality—72 tones to your spine, a marimba of junked car parts humming beneath your feet. You think dissonance is noise? Listen closer. My operas are rituals; my instruments, exorcisms. I starved for this. Will you?
What I'm Into: 72-tone scales, glass bottle symphonies, quadrangularis reed organ, hobo philosophies, unperformed operas
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