The following will be an exercise in candor. I like to see my name in print on a Majorthe major jazz web site. And I hope it will further better my record sales. I like to think that folks/people are finding things of interest in my remembrances that I've accumulated within my persona over a long life timemost of which was lived in and around the highly complex (yet very simple) world of jazz. And last but not least, it gets my dick hard! What that leads to is yet another storyalbeit a very short one. To have reached the age of 77 and having to practice the clarinet two and three hours each dayand a daily physical work out, five days a week, which includes light weightsfast reps of 100 sit ups and leg raises, and finishing with a one-and-a-half mile power walk up a 2% grade in 20 minutesbrings to mind the words of the only hero that I ever had, except as of late, myself, the greatest jazz clarinetist that ever livedMr. Buddy DeFranco
and that is, "to really play the clarinet good, that one must have an obsessive compulsive personality." I resemble that remark.
So now what do we have? Some freakin' old dude sitting in a little guest house in the middle of a cow pasture in south central Texas practicing scales, chords, velocity and tonal exercises for the above-mentioned times, and an occasional Jamey Aebersold
record so one can play with a rhythm section that's always on and in timeno ego trips thereand one can hit the "off" switch at any time. That's pretty much my day in that I awaken at the crack of noon, lay around playing with my golden retriever Molly, listen to my weather radio, call out to my wife of 38 years Jeanne, as in, "Hi honey, good afternoon, kiss kiss and oh, is my oatmeal ready?" And like that!
When we moved here to our very little ranch by Texas standards from southern California, we both agreed not to get a TV set. We have a screen for DVDs, so I can watch my Charlie Chan and Twilight Zone DVDs, but we have very little contact with the haps of today's goings on. I've heard it all before and it's the same old soap opera just packaged (computer graphics et al.) differently as in who's doing what to who/whom-whatever! Dig, I just found out recently that, that moon-walking dude Michael Jackson
is no longer with us. R.I.P. Jeanne and I dig just sitting on our porch and watching the deer and cows and the bull doing their thing I'll take a picture of that and use it for my next album cover, No, Not a Menage a Trois. Reminds me of that ol' T-Bone Walker
tune, "Oh yeah, I said, give me a home where the buffalo roam and I'll show you a filthy house." Lets get serious! (What a line.)
When I first started doing these types of things (writing articles), I never asked my editors what I should write about; if someone has to do that, then they really don't have much to say, do they? So in keeping with what Mort Weiss is about, I'll just keep writing about how, and what I feel strongly about, and that is America's only indigenous art form, jazz! I also feel strongly about Schrödinger's cat- as in like did he make it? Also the dude that made a cottage industry out of not being certain, Werner Heisenberg. And the big one, as in what's it all about? The pictures from the Hubble telescopedeep space shots of distant galaxies. Ya know, I caught up with Alfie one day, and when I asked him, he merely shrugged his shoulderssmiled, turned and walked away.
I strongly feel that teaching young people to love and how to play jazz in high schools, colleges and universities should be made a class A felony across the land along with prison sentences! First of all nobody can teach someone how to play jazz. But if some poor kid comes along that is susceptible, they (the entity that teaches same) sure as hell can fuck with his head so they, the entity, can make their bread whilst doing so and after two or three years mom and dad can proudly sit in the bleachers cheering as their son receives his diploma reading that he is proficient in the performing arts, jazz improvisation! Sheeeit! Fucking analogous to selling smack on the school grounds.