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The Mort Report

Sex and the Jazz Musician: The Brutal Truth!

By Published: January 27, 2013
This man was born to paint! Ol' Mad said "I have an Idea"; everything always starts that way, as in Hannibal's march over the Alps with freakin' elephants or Hillary's ascent of Mt. Everest or Joshua Slocum's first day sail. Always "I have an idea." Even though my alter ego shrunk from the question formulating in my temporal lobe I asked, "What is it?" He then proceeded to regale me with plans, verbally and with pen and paper, showing me what he had in mind which was a Michelangelo-esque Sistine Chapel type thing from the floor up the walls to the ceiling and all over the ceiling down the opposite walls and into the next room, displaying huge paintings of naked men and women (using many different colors—paint, that is) engaged in all kind of erotic sexual acts imaginable as to make Parvati envious. It took three or four days to complete, as I recall, when I voiced a little concern, ol' Mad reminded me that I had told him that the owner said that "I could paint it any color that I wished." Seemed to make sense to me at the time, so he dropped a 25grm bennie, knocked off a half pint of Kamasutra, put about 15 peyote buttons in the blender with a mix and got it on. Oh yeah!

Exit the Mad Legionnaire and enter all of the musicians, actors, painters and wannabees of the Hollywood scene at that time, as the word spread among the hip community about this house of doubles that, in a way, was a monument to the creative and sensory perceptions of a free man in an oppressed world making his statement before God and all the world to see. Don't forget, this was the '60s for $55.00 a month. Hell, I took the dartboard down and put it somewhere. Talk about some rockin' and rollin' and non-stop parties, oh man! But that was back in the day.

As I have indicated, this was doing my AFUPP, and things we're getting worse for me as my life, was on a downhill spiral on its way to greater and greater depths of despair and regret. The electricity had been turned off for lack of payment, also the gas for the same reason. No lights or hot water, although it seemed that I always came up with enough money to get fucked up on.

One night I came (almost said home) back to the pad. I don't remember what started it (in my head) or triggered it off, but there was a hammer—a ball-peen hammer to be exact—and I took hold of it and started in systematically smashing it in to the walls. I was quiet, quite focused on what I was doing. After period of time (doing this physical and mental demolition) had passed I increased the intensity of the act, mumbling and semi-moaning with a low guttural incoherent yelling. Then the first window went with a loud crash accompanied by a quadruple forti yell of satisfaction, lacking any remorse or piety. These descriptions of the deed were in part told to me at a later date by the police and some of the poor terrified people that lived nearby.

After a bit, the intensity of what I was doing picked up and swelled to rougher more powerful swings and kicks at the dry wall that was coming down, showering everything including me with its whitish dust and debris. Yes, I could hear the sirens and distant voices some imagined some real which, as I can remember, only increased the fury and anger within and added fuel to whatever fires were burning at the time. When they came—oh hell yes, they came and there were many that did—what they found laying in the ruble, was a spent, half conscious being that had just finished laying to rest and extinguishing the fires that had almost consumed him. I used a hammer. Some of these people today use a saxophone, voice and a microphone.

A thought: if we knew that something beautiful and wonderful would never change or go Away, would it seem as wonderful and beautiful in the moment?

A passage. God it hurts!—Beauty often does.

A reflection. I've lived my life dedicated to the learning of—and the playing of—the music, and I must tell you that the rewards did not outnumber the heartbreaks, the failures and the earning of a decent living and all that Madison Avenue tells us of the good life that lies just over the distant horizon.

An observation. Free music is here. Not here to stay, but as the last vestige to communicate something of harmonic interest to another person using the human voice and or a traditional musical instrument to convey a story of beauty, heartfelt sorrow or to give someone the wings of joy to soar over the playing field of love, hate envy and fear.

In the not too distant future, all of the aforementioned feelings won't have any place within the business or the goings on of the brave new world yet to come. If needed or desired, all the emotions of times past will be brought into play by merely the touching of a button of sorts allowing one's entry to dangerous places, experiencing all of the feelings in imagery that brought those yet to come to the brink of realization and thought of a another step upward for all of mankind.


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