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Love... Sorrow... Jazz... and Death

Mort Weiss By

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When we think of an art form, the tendency is to look in every and all directions except inward—wherein all answers lie, although shielded and hidden from one's self and any that choose to be within your sphere of understanding and passion. Why must it take years of self- study and searching the myriad avenues and paths that lead directly to one's innermost feelings of hope, love, fear and despair? And reaching that destination, only to find that every hope and dream that you dare dream is not enough—not enough to quench the thirst of your passions that any & all logic denies!

I held her hand gently and slowly pulled her a little closer—we looked deeply into one another's eyes—I grasped her hand with a little more—just a little more—my love—my passion knew no bounds of conquest and the complete serene fulfillment of two as one—two-as-one for an eternity of—Love... Sorrow... Music... and Death.

It comes as a black wind of sadness—sweeping all things of beauty and joy asunder—it pierces ones soul like the call of the sirens each of us had heard of but never thought would be like this—all things gray—no things of beauty and happiness—all thoughts and passages leading down—down to a level of despair and sadness unmatched for its unforgiving embrace. Is there no way out—or back to a plane of understanding and function—or must I accept its verdict to exist in the dark and lonely corridors of a heart that has been broken and destroyed beyond any and all recompense.

Ba-doom da-boom boom doom—Oh yeh! It was swingin hard, man—the bass, piano and drums were locked tight and so fuckin heavy into the groove, man! Cha pa dolya boom d'boom kpa—the cats were layin down some righteous shit and the people were grooving behind all dis shit man! And life was good (it always is when it's in the pocket) ya dig? Ha ha! Uh-huh! Been diggin them chicks at the corner table, blonde has eyes. Yeh man!

My chorus. Sway, deya ladoob a dy'a ba dobbbie ya a kway! No thoughts, ideas flowing outa my head into the horn—and out! Drummers kickin it in the ass—cat don't do that shit unless everything's cool. Fuckin bassist digging in hard! Piano players layin down some nice comps—not too much, but just right, like Red Garland's left hand. Up there where we belong (uh huh) on the stand, we are all feelin so good—it's warm (not hot ) but warm in the spot light that embraces us, and all us cats are as one—as one, and in touch with all the haps and vibes in this room—this room of life! And the band played on! Oh yeh, she had eyes man!


Born crying—died laughing. A completed life.

How are things in your town? Thus—

Afterthought: When others write about these things, most are observations—I write remembrances. To me, a stage, even an empty one, is a sacred place, the final destination to those of us who, after years of work and sacrifice, have leave to display our wares to those of you that would seek them.


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