Sometimes I have been travelling long distances, on divided roadways especially, and heard music coming from the tiretreads and passing vehicles. The sound of wind whistling through the no-draft (those little triangular windows were popular through the ’50s set just ahead of the front windows. They were supposed to redirect the airstream) singing in the night. When nearly closed they whistled in a mournful manner. If you crack your power windows slightly you might get this effect on the interstate today, but I doubt it is as sad as those days of innocently belching 8-cylindar Chevys. Now I remember the singing of my VW van crossing the Blue Ridge in North Carolina, the little air-cooled aircraft engine sounding like the breaking of tiny chains. Someone proposed a series of ridges on certain highways spaced to make music as tires passed over them at the correct speeds. I think “The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You??? was a favored tune. Oh, well. Music comes from the wind, though, for me in the twilight over long distances, the meditative hum of the beginning of night could be the sound of my theremin now, in the tune I call Aeolus.
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