Sitting In.

November 28, 2008 at 9:00 pm | Posted in links, music, writing | 18 Comments
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(scratching his head and lighting a cigarette) backlit olden days, we had to learn to sit in. I mean gigs were hard to get and you couldn’t learn a living with twenty minute solos. Touring artists who couldn’t afford to bring their own band, I saw Jimi squeezing the lizard into a light blue tux, Bootsy said, chuckling and handing me his sunglasses.

The best gig I ever had was in Berlin, sitting in on short notice with Bertolt Brecht, the arch conniver with a heart like Mother Courage. I looked over George Grosz shoulder as he sketched the audience, ha, and then who should step up to the microphone…

The leopard next to him arched its claws, relaxing in a way that accentuated their sharpness. Here, he said, take these, and handed me his sunnies, you’ll need them. Tell F. about Ozymandius and then go and play, that Herbie Hancock Riff


“Sunrise Impro” by Naked Hairy Man

August 25, 2008 at 6:58 pm | Posted in writing | 20 Comments
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“When a culture is faced with an end it disregards it,” mutters Carl Jung. Huh, Mamu looks down at the pianoplayer, passed out on the beach again. He wonders why he takes it so hard, folds like waves into seaweed sandwiched between the small boat and the sand. Seagulls are somewhere on a balcony handrail where the old man sips his whiskey and turns, “Well my love, another satisfactory sunrise,

Squires! Are you staring out that window naked again, gambolling like some Pan in a verdant garden. “T’was not of his own creation, this verdant garden” recites Sir Ian in the cafe whilst dull American tourists pass by unnoticing, hurrying back to the safety of surburbia from their night in the valley.

“I do not believe,” says Carl Jung. “I can only say that I know what I know. It is not a question of belief.” And ducks as the crowd hurled fruit which woke the piano player draped over Mamu’s shoulder. He blinks into the dawn and opens his eyes to see Brighton, 2010, bobbing past like a faded poster peeling from some crazed rickshaw.

plain voice

May 27, 2008 at 6:53 pm | Posted in antihaiku, prosepoemthingy, writing | 8 Comments
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part one :-> the lesson of takeshi kitano and keith jarrett, trans’n’dance, a moment in time which transcends the human or what mr N was talking about wherein the image dissappears into the idea which is an empty structure, that is to say a jazz musician doesn’t just grab a random handful of notes out of the air and throw them down on the piano like an empty sound, a passion moves through it like some slick unattainable essence then there is a convolution by necessity beyond volition accompanied most often by the echo of drums in the ear, unsourceable, ricocheting around mamu like an evolution of orchids,

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