Shimmering behind Bill's subtle reharmonies of the Gershwin tune LaFaro's pungent doublestops and even that asshole girl's phony laugh at the climax is your intelligence I've never heard nor ever will hear the like it's only Sunday night at the Village Vanguard but I feel it's the garden of Eden Years later it actually was or you made us think it was again when you wrote that primeval drone four notes the tenors moan in unison you obstinately not keeping the beat and three electric guitars jangling like cicadas in our noonday dream of that time before time Who taught you to write like that for that matter who taught you to write at all a skinny Armenian kid born in Philly you started on guitar escaped Providence into the Navy then hid out in the jade visions of the Evans trio or so you thought with your Paistes and your Zildjians and that loosey goosey tuning But you shoulda known better your mind could no more hide behind a drum kit than the genius of Mingus or Bud could be kept in the mud by the goons of our trite white society yeah so they died snarling obscenities against it but you made good and goddam sure their tunes would not die off and out of their tortured singing your electric bebop band crashed and bashed and fashioned a thing timeless and wholly new and marvelous for us your flabbergasted fans man did you ever swing Who taught you that I'll never know but I do know one thing wherever you've gone or not gone and you hear me good now we'll keep loving you Paul you crusty fucker.
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