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The Mort Report

Sex and the Jazz Musician: The Brutal Truth!

By Published: January 27, 2013
Important! Please note, I'm not a writer, I'm a storyteller about the things I did, the stuff I saw of the people that made up, at the time, the core and formation of the Mort Weiss of today, those being the foibles, the fuckups, the dreams of youth, and the stark realization of finding one's self as the star in some one-act drama of love-hate, laughter and tears. When asked to come aboard AAJ and share my experiences that were firmly anchored within the jazz community of Hollywood at the time, I made it very clear that without spell check, I still would be dumpster diving for salvation and I wouldn't want to find myself in a situation where I had to worry about sentence structure and the use of proper verbiage. I think everything's cool on that, using my read counts and the great responses that I've received from many of you out there as a guideline.

Now here's what I'm trying to say: you're getting my little scribbling intact and as it comes out of my mind, exactly how it went down at the time—only, because the editors here at AAJ are so freakin' hip, that they know, and respect where I'm coming from and the vehicle of thought that makes the transition from me to you. So, having said that, if you, the reader, happens on a seemingly strange and not very grammatical sentence or train of thought, it's not that it got by the editor, I can very strongly assure you of that, these cats here at AAJ, John, Chris May, Michael and the rest are astute, hip, creative and talented in each of their respective disciplines of thought and actions! And people, I don't kiss ass, fuck the corner office! If you're not sure or don't quite understand what your reading in one of my articles, please get in touch with me and we'll walk through said problem together with the results being your understanding and, in all probabilities, my learning something of value! Hey, Guys. Thanks for letting me be me.

Ya know I've been told many times by many people that I had a book in me, maybe they're right, and here all this time I thought it was gas. Of course if it is, it's all interchangeable isn't it?

When I quit playing—not stopped, quit, June 1965—if one was lucky when working a club, they had a sound system of sorts. This consisted of a mic, and a wire attached to a little speaker in a box placed somewhere on the stand, which squealed with ball—busting feed—back if one turned up the volume past two. If you were a guitarist plugged to your own amp, and if you inadvertently touched the mic stand, god forbid that your shoes were wet. Well, we were all young and much better looking than now, and none of us had pacemakers and a defib, so a few minutes after the experience most cats were ready for the next tune. Cut to 2001, when I really got back on the horse, man, the sound systems, the monitor speakers, which I really like, hell, these days most club owners even keep their pianos kinda tuned. Fucking progress, man; of course very few cats still play the pianoforte any more. And all the wires on the floor of the stand, Geeezzzz man, I was afraid to move when I first started playing again.

Take a look at some of my live performance clips on you tube; notice how I shuffled around on the stand like a freakin zombie from the Night of the Living Dead flick. Didn't help when I had a hip replacement 2005—reminds me, did ya hear about the square guy that fell down and broke his hep? OK, OK on with my thoughts such as they might be. First time I played an outta town venue, coming back to the hotel about 3pm having just had breakfast, the cat at the desk says, "Oh Mr. Weiss, they would like you to come right over for a sound check." What the fa—? A sound check to me was one that didn't bounce, 'ssssup?

1965, man. The freakin Brits hit and hit hard. I remember all the younger cats going around with this phony jive ass Liverpool Trafalgar square effectuated ersatz English accent 'cause man, the chicks dug it. Oh yeah, at that moment supreme when it's payback time for all the dollars you spent on her that night that you couldn't afford and you've worked, cajoled, wined her, dined her and you're both withering in the sound and the fury of this moment divine, "Yes, yes," she's screaming, "take me Paul, I'm yours John, oh, such rapture Ringo, your gorgeous George!" Now, yes, now you make your verbal move "What ho, I say, raaather, steady on, blimey and..."—haaa, haa, ha, I freakin' can't go on. I think you got the picture ha, haa. Oh man. Ha. "Lord what fools these mortals be"—Puck, from Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Ohhhh, God.

Next. Jazz free and me.


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