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November 10, 2001 the smell of music Singing with my choral group is a sensual experience.  The sound of complex harmonies, the sight of eyes averted from my own, the feel of sheet music I cannot read, the bitter taste of tepid decaf and the smell of two fellow baritones, one with body odor, the other with halitosis.  I am, invariably, sandwiched between them during rehearsals and performances. After considerable study which, alas, has been forced upon me, I have concluded that the body odor is the normal kind of stench associated with an inexplicable refusal to apply deodorant following a bath.  In other words, it is not intractable or insurmountable stink caused by some disease process like gangrene.  It is malodor with malice aforethought; or, at least, it is negligent pungency.  The man intentionally stinks or, by virtue of inexcusable neglect, he has fallen below the minimum standard for modern, non-European, human scent.  Either way, he should either correct the problem or move to France. The other effluvium is trickier.  The halitosis is clearly incurable and, quite likely, life-threatening;  if not to my co-singer, then to me.  It is obviously the unfortunate byproduct of an illness which he cannot help.  An illness like the putrefaction that follows death in a Louisiana swamp in August.  For all I know, the fellow could be dead already.  A zombie-singer or something.  Either that or he frequently enjoys frozen afternoon popsicle-type snacks composed, primarily, of Smegma. It is especially difficult to follow music with tear-filled eyes.

©  2001 by the beastmaster