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- Mad At Miles By Richard Stevenson
- Zoot By: R D Armstrong
- Dizzy Gillespie by Peter La Barbera
- Art Pepper by Peter La Barbera
- Chet Baker by Fred Moramarco
- Bill Evans by Peter La Barbera
- Stan Getz by Peter La Barbera
- The Drummers by Peter La Barbera
- Sketches of Spain By Gerald Locklin
- Oneness...Space Funk Do It To The Blues By Trudi (Blue T) -BlueT5@aol.com
- A Poem for Buddy Rich by Anna Pecorino
- A Swingin' Affair by Eric L.Wattree
- Miles on Stage by Peter La Barbera
- Jazz at the Promontory, Thursday Night - Grand Piano Sex By Barbara Bonney
- Well You Needn't & Ornette by Dan
Shapiro
Dizzy Gillespie
With a voice you never forget
sounding so much like his horn
he sends a message from Africa
for all to hear
then he cuts into his humorous thing
but when the bell points to heaven
he's not laughing
express trains rushing past stations in the night
while my brain pauses to rest on each note
that little leftover goatee under his lip
he use to say "Wee Pee," instead of " Pee Wee"
Diz had a sound I never forgot
Art Pepper
Smooth beauty flowing through gardenias
boulevards rushing to San Pedro and the Pacific Ocean on endlessly
straight Los Angeles roads
he sounds the Fifties
something golden about a State,
backed by Shorty'smuted French Horns
something cool something California
Art's lady is beauty from Figueroa to Watts
riding surfs at Howard Rumsey's Lighthouse on malted Sunday afternoons
the California Los Angeles I remember
Art smooth post Kenton riffs away from the Parker tradition
He merely wanted to be the greatest Jazz Musician ever!
a kaleidoscope of his life and our shared time on earth.
It's the same face you see on the "Let's Get Lost" album,
that you see in Carole Reiff's famous 1955 photo
of a young man with a horn blowing it into the smoky air
of a jazz club, but the first has the deep etchings
of a worn-out life, one lived lurching beyond limits, getting
lost and loving it, finding in the barrel of the gun pointed at him
nothing but the fascination of a world unexplored and beckoning.
Then there's another photo of a young man in a cap
and overcoat against a backdrop of Times Square, face smooth as
a bubble, eyes dazzled by the New York lights - - all those
etched lines yet to come, only the hopes of boyhood behind him,
and everything, absolutely everything, waiting to be done.
Bill Evans
pouring his entirety into ivory, telling
a story in a language that sits on the edge of a wave
awaiting to be washed to
shore, leaving the result in the smooth sand.
He interprets his pain in a minor key
and the sound swirls around the night
bringing the mood to rest inside the figure of the bass:
Scott La Faro - an ever part of the man's pain swirls
through the music
created by the slumped figure at the piano.
The Night We Lost Stan
Getz
Late at night in New Windsor New York...getting ready to go to sleep...after a rotten day...with doubts about my life and the direction it's going...the usual shit someone fifty six years old goes through...I set the clock radio to the Jazz station, WBGO...he says in a solemn tone...I'm sorry to report but Stan Getz has died...I'm in my underwear...shocked...not able to move or immediately react...I remember...I was fourteen years old hearing the original Four Brothers recording...Early Autumn...that incredible group that played Storyville with drummer Tiny Kahn...The Brazilian fusion...The sets with Dizzy and Lionel, Max and Sonny...Chick Corea, Gary Burton...Airto and Jobim...Brookmeyer and Kenny Barron...The beauty that flowed from his horn...he may be remembered as the greatest white jazz musician ever...I feel he did Lester proud...carrying the banner better than anyone...A handsome man with features that were reflected into his playing...and he could swing with a vengeance ...I stood in my room listening in disbelief to his music coming across as a tribute to his genius...Losing him is like losing a piece of myself...never to be replaced again...there is too much sadness in this miserable world...how do we continue?...we're destroying much of the beauty of our planet...and now a memorable sound will be silent for a little while...
Like a Stan Getz Solo
By : Peter La Barbera
It's like the moonlight. It's like love on a special night.
It's like something cherished that you'll never want to forget.
It's like life is good and things are going in the right direction.
It's like unison and harmony and improvisation that connects with the listener.
It's all the things beautiful and harmonious.
It's like a lot of the nice things we seem to have forgotten about through the years.
It's like loving that first flower in May.
It's like celebrating the Sunrise.
It's like People Time.
It's like that feeling when you first catch the scent of the salt air.
It's like softly as in a morning's sunrise.
It's like that special feeling when you're literally lifted off the ground with joy.
It's like Dear Old Stockholm.
It's like all things smell good and taste good and feel good and sound good.
It's like you and me and all of those wonderful memories embedded into the inner soul of our being.
It's like being alive and enjoying every minute of the ride - even the hard times when it seems that nothing is ever going to work right.
It's like accepting things the way they are and forgetting about trying to change them.
It's like East of the Sun and West of the Moon.
It's like bathing in scented water
It's like bathing in scented water with you
It's like bathing in scented water with all of you
It's like being alive and screaming with joy if only just for that one reason.
It's like not caring about the trivial matters that try to dampen our every day.
It's like celebrating the joy of living.
It's like a good pesto sauce on a hot July afternoon with a chilled bottle of dry, white wine.
It's like a Stan Getz solo.
Jesus, do I miss him.
The Drummers
The Drummers
Listen to the sounds of the drummers
As they search the night
With their rhythms
Feel the pulsations of changing tempos
As the beat enlivens our breathing
Dance, Jump, respond to sticks against skins
movement - movement - movement
She searches you with her magic smile
You're too weak to resist
Too caught up in the frenzy
Of drummers, lost in the cosmos of their
Poly-Rhythyms
For this is life and passion
And pain, forcing you beyond limits
Until you drop to the ground.
_____
The hands of the drummers, flying
Blurred and raging through pain
Expressing the gutter and alleys of their experience
You echo this expression in your movement toward her
But your hands seem to go through her glistening bronzed body
She's transparent - as a dream that's unobtainable
And the drummers stop playing
And you're left with the noises of the street
An almost inaudible sob - a distant siren
Nothing's changed; you continue going your way
The rhythm locked up somewhere
In a place where you never had to go.
To The Top
By Peter La Barbera
He comes out on the stage
The last person to appear
That's the way its supposed to be
He's always dressed up
one way or other
A face so fine like sculptured lines
on blocks of dark chocolate
He motions to his musicians
I think he's chewing gum
While raising his eyebrows at the young percussionist
The young guy laughs and Miles waves his finger at him
in mock gesture
There it is!
A cacophony of sounds
going full circle and finding melody
The music starts
Miles plays five notes
And my life is changed forever
Sketches of Spain
"It was hard, " miles said, to get the musicians to realize that
they didn't have to play perfect. it was the feeling that counted. "
-nat hentoff: the jazz review
I. concierto de aranjuez
more acid has been squeezed from
breasts, than milk from oranges.
state the melody, say it, tell us
what it is you want to tell us.
no, you need not be-bop us; you know
you never had to bullshit us.
you never had to bullfight us.
the matador is never dead.
his love is not in mourning.
he has no love. his line is
matrilineal and sliding.
three flutes sound as one,
as three,
as trumpetvines.
when miles plays low, the
others stop to listen.
because of castles that were once
a youthfully impetuous refrain.
because the king is dead.
because the queen now does flamenco
drag, cut-rate, on back streets of
the costa brava.
because in a ditch somewhere outside
granada, the bones of garcia lorca
still stink like the sun.
a people dies; a people does
not ever die.
they sever the tongues
of all the citizens,
and the song of the citizens
rises like leviathan.
the song of spain
was pure and has been purified.
this beat cannot be counted.
2. will o' the wisp
yes, you may smoke all you like.
i abhor what i call, "the anti-
smoking fascists." oh, you have
known other fascists! and most of
them smoked! well, that was true
in those days. today, some still
do but many do not. today it is
not what they smoke but what they burn.
3. the pan piper
as hemingway knew, who loved them,
the spaniards' humor is the cruelest.
thus, says hentoff, "the melody was
played on the penny whistle by
the local pig castrator who was
whistling up business."
all blues! an end to blues!
a musical joke! who's laughing
at whom?
Short and sweet, and
the melody lingers on,
on this, the feast of
the nativity.
4• saeta
the parade passes.
pippa passes.
the arrow of song
stands still.
he came to save the women.
he came to save the women
and the children.
it was the men who crucified him.
although a man of sorrows, he
may have been a little gay.
a gay god?
oh what the hell: nothing
shocks me anymore.
5• solea
i have known so many pseudo-existentialists.
i try to point out there is no such creature
as he existential hero," that existentialism
is (or was) not a prescriptive ethics but a
description of the condition of chronic
uncertainty under which all choices must be made.
sartre as existentialist did not tell us
how to choose, although sartre as marxist,
having made his leap across the void into
commitment, may have tried to. i advise
them to stow their berets and shades, extinguish
their gauloises and jimmy dean self-images,
and study existentialism is a humanism.
still, there is such a thing as soledad.
bukowski says he never sought escape
from it, and maybe jeffers didn't either,
but few of us can say as much.
i saw a rabbit, white as snow, upon
the snow on christmas eve. i'd never
seen a rabbit in the valley. it seemed
there should be thousands, but i had
been told there were none. the coyotes?
hunters? a habitat devoid of food and
drink, swept by desert winds and desert
snows, a iackrabbit white as the wind
with ears as tall as timber pine.
tympani upon the tundra. wildlife
retreating as "that busy monster
manunkind" retreats, we call our
children to the window.
ron koertge caught these sliding chords
in tucson, arizona, 1963, green dolphin
tavern, grace-note of high-plains flamenco.
life is not simple, but
what else is it?
day is not night, except
Sometimes,
at three o'clock in the dark night
of the soul it is always solea.
at whichever of the canonical hours,
with or without a prayer upon our lips,
we go alone.
so we make music of the journey, step
the slow step towards eternity.
Oneness..Space Funk Do It To The Blues
By, Trudi (Blue T) BlueT5@aol.com
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Wowza wowza howza hot
heartbeat red fed fire heat
heartbeat doin' da beat
tee tah beat thump the pump
palpitation gyration imagination
'round the go round sound
symbol silence the sax
blue the note..I be back
plunky string comin' on in
the sing with a B string
ringin' ringa ling jim jam
thank you mame
poundin' soundin' my heart N
startin' it up and fillin'
spillin' the fillin' cup
of cups ups and away
you say Lady Day..de dah day
feelin' on out saxin'shout
here, there, & everywhere
blowin' the wind out of town
New York, Kansas, Chi-town
Chicago blues yous guys got
the soft shoe shuffle trot
steppin' into me my ya sing
da ding dang dong ding
piano man now done gone
off on his keys
of space jungle
jungle funk
oneness
plunk
key.
B
L
U
E.....T.
copyright 11/98
A Poem For Buddy
Rich
by A. Pecorino
I never finished telling you how vibrant you are
or
why you're magic, whats you're spell
and
Who made you a star.
-
What ever mysteries cloud your mind
are
there for me to see
for
everything you do and say
becomes a part of me
-
How dare I play your verbal games
how
bold of me to try
I think I must be going mad
from
A different kind of High
-
No one can put you in your place
for
You are everywhere
A
Different Drummer deep inside,
A different man is there!
Zoot can be found along with poems by Gerry
Locklin, Mark Weber, Todd Moore, Linda Lerner and many others in EYES
LIKE MINGUS -- a Jazz Poetry Anthology (48 pages) available from Lummox
Press (POB 5301 San Pedro, CA 90733-5301) for only $6 (postpaid).
Coming next year, BLUE HIGHWAY -- a Blues Poetry Anthology (submissions
sought).
Zoot
By: RD Armstrong
I thought I saw the ghost of him
floating over the boulevard
at half past ten last night.
His tenor called to me
down the long corridor of
the Harbor freeway,
distant and haunting
like the final notes from
Micheline's Hohner
lost in the screech of
brakes at ride's end.
I've got it bad.
I thought I felt a strand of
moonbeams or was it
a string of notes, gently
wrapping themselves
around my legs, sending
me tripping across
Hawthorne nights.
Sending me, darling,
into a velvet fog so
cool and wet that neither
A Train nor Strayhorn
could guide me
swinging low
back home
to your
lush
life.
And that ain't good.
Check out: Zoot Sims Humor
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I
was told as a child
Blacks had no worth,
Not a nickel's worth of dimes.
I believed that myth
'Til Dex rode in
With his ax
In double time.
His
horn was soarin',
The changes flyin',
His rhythm right on time;
My heart
Beat with the pleasure
Of new found pride,
Knowing,
His blood
Flowed through mine.
Dex
Took the chords
The keyboard played,
And danced around each note;
Then shuffled 'em
Like a deck of cards,
And didn't miss a stroke.
B minor 7 with flatted 5th,
a half diminished chord,
He substituted a lick in D,
Then really began to soar.
He tipped his hat
To Charlie Parker,
And quoted
Trane with Miles,
Then paid his homage to
Thelonious Monk,
In Charlie Rouse's style.
Took
a Scrapple From The Apple,
Then went to Billie's Bounce,
The rhythm section, now on fire,
But he didn't budge an ounce.
He
dug right in
to shuffle again,
This time
A Royal Flush,
Then lingered a bit
Behind the beat,
Still smokin'
But in no rush.
He then
doubled the time
just like this rhyme
in fluid 16th notes,
Tellin'
Charlie and Lester
"your baby boy, Dexter's,
on top of the
bebop you wrote."
And
wailin' like a banshee,
this prince of saxophone,
His ballads dripped with honey,
His Arpeggios were strong.
Callin' on his idles,
Ghost of Pres'
within in the isles,
smiling at his protege,
At the peak of this new style.
His tenor
Drenched of Blackness,
And all the things we are--
Of pain, and pleasure,
And creative greatness
Until his final bar.
Eric L. Wattree
Mad At Miles
So now I'm the subject
of some feminist diatribe… .
Wonderful! Some hard luck mama
wants all you sexy women
to boycott my concerts,
burn my records until I'm
straight on the women question.
Great! What women question?
I'm supposed to be some sexist prick
because I've admitted in print
I slapped Cicely silly one time
or call my women bitches?
Because I've got a salty tongue
and say a lot of dumbass things?
Man! That's such bullshit!
I love women! I love everything
about them: the way they walk,
the way they talk, the way they dress … .
If I had a nickel for every bitch
that rode my horn, I wouldn't
need to play one, would I?
You don't think women come on to me?
I'm just using my little boy looks,
my wealth and fame to lay pipe
like the friggin' Waterworks Department?
Gimme a break! I didn't invent the road!
I didn't buy into society's monogamous program!
You just want this nigger on a leash!
You think because I create beautiful music
I gotta be this button-down, skinny tie,
ivy league cat in black sunglasses:
a jazz spade who snaps his fingers
and doesn't wig when you replace the beret
with whatever other lid contains that cool,
existential thing. That's it, isn't it?
You want me to be your live evil prince,
your badass junkie pimp who
doesn't give a shit. A monkey in a suit
who'll jig for change to the tune
of your mad hurdy gurdy machine.
Well, fuck that! I like to fuck
so do the women who play my horn.
I've never been no kind of husband, true.
I've done a lot of things I shouldn't have
including hitting Cicely. But I don't hate
women. I don't use their bodies to
butt out my smoldering cigarette dick.
I love the women I'm with, and they love me.
It's real as long as it lasts. I'm real.
So what if my dream muse is some
Nefertiti in a bar who looks like Ma,
and I'm playing ring toss with
the blue smoke circles of my Galois
personality. I've made no secret of the fact
that this trumpet is my Lucelle. She's sturdy.
She'll see me through the third act graciously.
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Well You Needn't
Thelonious shouted, "Coltrane! Coltrane!"
caught up in the irregular heartbeat
that pulsated, feeding blood to genius.
It seemed to spark Coltrane's tenor,
forcing him to look for the answer
that sat under Monk's slanted hat.
Saxophone lines became serpentine,
glisses aroused with newfound bliss.
Purrs turned to roars, arising from shined brass.
Later, a bystander described what had happened,
telling of Monk's wake-up call to Coltrane,
an urgent cry competing with the snip of Delilah's scissors.
Coltrane had been sleeping, not at all soundly,
wrestling with the shelter of Monk's open spaces.
He filled his own till they overflowed.
---
Ornette
They booed you off the bandstand
for taking away their chords.
Could they have feared you were
Prometheus with a plastic horn?
They might've been the imposing Sierras,
but you and Don were scrappy as rabbits
racing each other through the desert
laughing at all who feared cactus needles.
You ventured toward the peaks,
but the air grew too thin.
The mountains snared you
in their crude booby trap.
Serendipity would emerge
on the flat earth, licking its chops,
knowing better than to rely on the static.
Flesh in flux was always a better choice
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