Exactly seventy-two times a day, a super cool non-music major passes the ASU music building and remarks, “Dude!  You guys go to classes in freakin’ birthday cake!”  After indulging in a few super cool “har, har”s, he chalks up several points for originality and swaggers off.  

If you are one of these people, cut the cute stuff.  You are about as original as a banana peel in a slapstick comedy. Certainly, the music building is round and layered and, yes, a festive orange-y pink.  But come on, folks—the confection comparison is so obvious that music students refer to themselves as “cakemen” (har, har) and treat the word “frosting” as a punch line staple.  (Can you solve that one?  Neither can I.) 

Of course, I exaggerate. On Planet Music, soprano jokes are actually far more common than quips ending, “. . .then let them eat cake!”.  This state of affairs would, I think, please Marie Antoinette and cause evil genius Frank Lloyd Wright to writhe in his grave. 

Since his death in 1959, Frank Lloyd Wright has served as ASU Head Devil. Our beloved university proudly bills itself as Arizona State University: Home of Cereality and Grady Gammage Auditorium—Desined by our own Frank Lloyd Wright!   Translation:  “Here at ASU, we consistently hobnob with the greats and have nary a need to make ridiculous claims to fame.  We also support the very original notion of eating breakfast for lunch, which—due to awkward sentence structure—we apparently attribute to our good friend Frank as well. Adishunally, we canot spell.”  

I wish to state here and now that I consider myself a true blue (or rather, maroon and gold) Sun Devil.  Far be it from me to criticize poor grammar, silly signature restaurants, or Master Frankie (whom I actually admire very much, despite his love of bizarre architecture and his obvious malice toward ASU music students).

Still. What the heck was that guy thinking when he allowed his students to build a building shaped and decorated like a birthday cake?  We all know that Frank liked to say “form fits function” a lot—especially in front of his architecture students and grandchildren.  (“Form fits function, Frankie III!  And never accept candy from strangers.”)   Frank pounded this phrase (not the one about candy) into the heads of his students until their brains had little room for, say, common sense and rational thought. 

His minions drew up plans for the music building over milk and brownies.  Architect A said, “Let’s make the building completely circular so that directionally-impaired students will wander through the same hall indefinitely.”  Architect B said, “Let’s make the stories exactly identical so that directionally-impaired students will wander from floor to floor indefinitely.”  Architect C said, “Let’s install the slowest, most obstinate elevators on the face of the planet.  Wa, ha, ha!”  Architect D said, “These brownies aren’t very filling.  Let’s pretend the building is a giant birthday cake whose form fits a gastronomic function. We can paint it pink.”  And Architect E said, “Yummy, yummy!  Peace, man.”

Other factors also came into consideration.   The third floor practice rooms were built so that vocal majors could have the pleasure of hearing their enormous vibratos bounce off the walls and pop the eardrums of innocent passersby. The fifth floor practice rooms were constructed so that the afternoon sun would effectively scorch and fry diligent pianists.  The Atlantis-like basement floors were designated as the music theater/percussionist underworld so that these people and normal musicians (oxymoron?) would not have to mingle.

Yes, architects certainly are an odd bunch.  So are musicians.  But—dude!—what do you expect from people who attend classes in a freakin’ birthday cake designed by brownie-eating hippies?   (Har, har.)