We Wish To Play Our Tiny Instruments For You

Salutations, new friends. What a warm night. My name is Garbage and I can tell from your wide eyes that I am the biggest rat you have seen in your whole life. While you wait for Train, please spare a moment to hear my desperate squeaks. My furry friends and I have one small and simple wish: let us play our tiny instruments for you.

As you can see, my fellow rats and one Possum have constructed wee instruments from Man’s Trash. We have foraged and gathered treasures from the dark and twisting tunnels of Subway Deep and have used them to craft diminutive instruments. Let us play for you, please. My best friend Rumbles plays the bass guitar. He has fashioned his bass from an old shoe and three shoelaces and his own tail. The Man from which we have found the shoe is a skeleton. Rumbles has the longest and also the dirtiest fingers. Play a lick for our guests, Rumbles.

I can see that Rumbles has disturbed all of you. I apologize. Perhaps the bass is not your favorite of our small, small instruments. Please do not cast us into the gutters just yet. Our only wish is to play for you a happy song on our tiny instruments. We have heard the Songs of Man play from the streets above our mangy hovels just as you, perhaps, have heard the squeaks and shrieks of my brethren in your walls. Skittles has made a piano from pen caps and a bird. Won’t you give her a listen?

Skittles appears to have made one of you cry and the rest of you have angry eyebrows. Skittles went to Juilliard until Man discovered her inside of a trombone and put her in a bag and then out of a window. A tale of woe. Sometimes Man is good and sometimes Man is bad. You seem good, but scared. This is why we rats three and Possum will please play beautiful music for you on our makeshift and very small instruments.

Perhaps there is a song Possum can hiss at you to ease your sweating? We only play the jauntiest and most jubilant songs, only smaller. One of our songs is called “Flowers at the Beach.” Another is called “I Will Not Eat You (My Cousin.)” Music matters now more than ever. Maybe our tune will force you to fall in love and we can play our fanciful melodies at your wedding. You could erect for us a stage from a bucket upside-down and I can play my washboard, which I have constructed from a small piece of metal that was maybe part of a child’s bicycle. I paw at it most furiously. It is truly thunderous. Behold?

If you will please stop shivering, I can explain to you that rats like we three do have weddings, but there is no music. There are smells in the darkness. Possum knows not what love is. This confusion makes his singing truly splendiferous. Hear how he sings the song of Lorde.

Now you are all very far away and getting smaller. Wherever you are running, I hope there you will find the music that soothes you to smiles. I cannot speak for Rumbles, Skittles or especially Possum but I will tell you that music has saved my little life. When I was but a blind pup, I was without purpose or function until I found a condom and wire insulation from which to fashion a small horn. Farewell, Mans so far far away. My sewer band and I, wet fur glistening in the moonlight, will keep searching for a humble soul for which to display a tiny tune from our most small and fragile instruments. Until then, we must practice our craft. Once more from the top, gang… and a-one and a-two and a-you-know-what-to-do…

Wow, truly harrowing.