Upon further review, I believe that John Lithgow is to blame. He is the reason why ISIS chose to attack Paris. In the big book of "too soon," this may be, but pardon me while I try to exorcise the demons of this past week in the way I tend to: with humor.
Have you ever read the lyrics to "La Marseillaise?" They sound a little like a revolutionary anthem. Which it was, at the time. Calling for the children of the fatherland to rise against the mercenary phalanxes exhorting those listening to "let impure blood water our furrows." Ouch. That's pretty fierce. Our national anthem, by mild contrast, is more about rockets red glare and bombs bursting in air, which sort of makes sense for a country that likes its drones and bombs. Anthems. Songs that rally us all, bringing us together to rally around our flag.
That's the thing about ISIS. They don't allow music. It's against their law. This anti-music stance may explain why one of the targets of last week's terrorist attack was a music hall where an American rock band was playing. It wasn't a comment on the music of the infidels as much as it was a convenient way to double down on innocent victims. Hundreds of unarmed civilians packed into a night club and they were there to listen to music. No irony intended, the crowd was there to see Eagles of Death Metal and were gunned down for this sin.
Suddenly, my head is filled with visions of the Blue Meanies attacking Pepperland. While the quartet practiced in the park, the citizens were turned to stone. Silence replaced the once tuneful streets of this make believe city. A win for the bad guys, until the Beatles showed up, and as it turns out all you really need is love. In Pepperland, anyway. On the streets of Paris, the day after everything went Blue-y, someone found a piano in the wreckage, and sat down to play. He sat down and played "Imagine." That is the kind of magic that we come to expect from music. It brings people together like very little else will.
Which brings me back to John Lithgow, who isn't really to blame, but he once played a man of God who wanted to ban dancing in his town. And music. And fun. All in the hopes that it would keep the children of his town from sinning. Or destroying farm equipment. In the end, of course, Kevin Bacon wins, and music returns. As it always has.
The people of Paris will dance again. And there will be music. Just like always.