When we think of an art form, the tendency is to look in every and all directions except inwardwherein 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 enoughnot enough to quench the thirst of your passions that any & all logic denies!
I held her hand gently and slowly pulled her a little closerwe looked deeply into one another's eyesI grasped her hand with a little morejust a little moremy lovemy passion knew no bounds of conquest and the complete serene fulfillment of two as onetwo-as-one for an eternity ofLove... Sorrow... Music... and Death.
It comes as a black wind of sadnesssweeping all things of beauty and joy asunderit pierces ones soul like the call of the sirens each of us had heard of but never thought would be like thisall things grayno things of beauty and happinessall thoughts and passages leading downdown to a level of despair and sadness unmatched for its unforgiving embrace. Is there no way outor back to a plane of understanding and functionor 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 doomOh yeh! It was swingin hard, manthe bass, piano and drums were locked tight and so fuckin heavy into the groove, man! Cha pa dolya boom d'boom kpathe 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 hornand out! Drummers kickin it in the asscat don't do that shit unless everything's cool. Fuckin bassist digging in hard! Piano players layin down some nice compsnot 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 goodit's warm (not hot ) but warm in the spot light that embraces us, and all us cats are as oneas one, and in touch with all the haps and vibes in this roomthis room of life! And the band played on! Oh yeh, she had eyes man!
Born cryingdied laughing. A completed life.
How are things in your town? Thus
Afterthought: When others write about these things, most are observationsI 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.
The first jazz record I received
as a visiting gift from my
Japanese uncle at his
international division of
Toshiba EMI Tokyo was a
sample copy of Miles Davis'
Bitches Brew. A game
changer redirecting my
browsing habits and collection.