Happy Birthday, Ludwig

Born in 1740, today he would have been 240 years old.  I barely remember seeing him in concert, once — he was quite old, and I was very young.  By the time his band toured again, he’d been replaced by some session man.  Nicky Hopkins, probably.  But after Lud was gone, nobody cared about The Eartrumpets any more.

I had some of their hits on vinyl — 78s, believe it or not — but they’re gone now.  I looked all over on-line for re-recordings, even in pirate versions, but no luck.  I’d really like to hear a rockin’ “Chamber Pot Stomp” again.  My oh my, that man could play keyboard.  And what a showman.

Happy 240th, Lud.

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8 Responses to Happy Birthday, Ludwig

  1. Schroeder says:

    You’re even worse than Lucy.

  2. i'm a deist says:

    Hah! I crap bigger than him.

    • Kent Standit says:

      I wonder if “i’m a deist” is too dumb to spell “Amadeus,” or trying to be funny. Judging by the comment itself, I’m thinking Door Number One.

      • Missing Lincoln says:

        Perhaps “i’m a deist” was simply searching for the only living human who was breastfed grapefruit juice as a child.

        Judging from your powers of deduction, I think we’ve got a winner.

  3. Alex DeLarge says:

    Ludwig Van makes me horny.

    • Kent Standit says:

      You’re into centuries-old corpses? Wow that’s so sick it’s actually impressive.

      Squathole — What is it about Beethoven that’s bringing out these oddballs?

  4. ya'gotta'guessit' says:

    Listened to the 9th, the Missa Solemnis, and a couple of piano sonatas – Sirius/XM devotes pretty much the entire day to old Ludwig Van.

    “Then, brothers, it came. O bliss, bliss and heaven, oh it was gorgeousness and georgeosity made flesh. The trombones crunched redgold under my bed, and behind my gulliver the trumpets three-wise, silver-flamed and there by the door the timps rolling through my guts and out again, crunched like candy thunder. It was like a bird of rarest spun heaven metal or like silvery wine flowing in a space ship, gravity all nonsense now. As I slooshied, I knew such lovely pictures. There were veeks and ptitsas laying on the ground screaming for mercy and I was smecking all over my rot and grinding my boot into their tortured litsos and there were naked devotchkas ripped and creeching against walls and I plunging like a shlaga into them.”

    • Squathole says:

      Excellent. And another depressing instance of how the genius and productivity of Anthony Burgess is pushed off the stage by a hack with a camera who will be forever associated with Clockwork Orange instead of its author.

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