My Dad, the artist

This morning: Caravaggio exhibit, quick tribute to il Duomo.

My Dad's comment on Caravaggio, I mean you can tell he's an artist by the comment he makes. All of us, the people, the commoners, go "Ahhh, Caravaggio, the light, those eyes". He looks at the armors instead and goes: "Wow, I'm impressed by the way he renders the color black".


Caravaggio, "La cattura di Cristo" (the capture of Christ)

Ok. Daddy. Chapeaux. (Hats off).

Italian kings of strips (and strippers)

Before leaving NYC I spent a couple of ... minutes observing a fascinating phenomenon I was unaware of, one of paramount anthropological value nonetheless: the crowd of tweens and teens slouching along the aisles of Barnes and Noble (Lincoln center branch) flipping through the pages of mangas. All the mangas those shelves can carry. All the mangas their hands can muster. Avid, pudgy, sweaty fingers and all.

I made a mental note: to further explore the power of sex as sociological denominator for the young and innocents, in this moment in this place - possible subject for a book. And once in Italy I found myself in rapture at the local version of B&N (Librerie Feltrinelli): but of course, OUR kings of strips and strippers, how could I have forgotten when I too was a slouching (never sweaty tho) set of vertebrae and fingers, learning the way of the fumetto erotico?

Thus the change of my icon on AIM to



and a suggestion for all my readers: to abso-fuckin-lutely check out, if they haven't yet

1) Guido Crepax: his Valentina is the national standard for comics hotness, cosmic, regal, ruthless hotness. AND *** Crepax began to work as a graphic artist and an advertisement illustrator, producing also covers for jazz LPs, including Gerry Mulligan, Fats Waller, Charlie Parker, Louis Armstrong!!! ***

From Wikipedia:
"...Valentina's stories are a weird mix of oneiric, science fiction, fantasy, espionage and (especially later) erotic themes. They met a large success in Italy and abroad, especially in France..."

2) Milo Manara: his ladies make you wanna have sex on the spot (ops, maybe we don't need further encouraging?), they're like... always wet, stripping, masturbating. A lot of miseducation of Ducati goes back to those strips. "Il Gioco" (the game), m-mmmm. He who could draw silicone lips when no one had even invented plastic surgery. Those lips, parting, the tip of those tongues, flashing behind sets of perfect teeth.

From Wikipedia:
"...Like his compatriot Tinto Brass, he evidently has a fixation with the female buttocks. Many of his comics have themes of bondage, domination and humiliation, voyeurism, the supernatural, and the sexual tension beneath various aspects of Italian society. The works vary in their explicitness, but the general mood is playful rather than misogynistic..."

3) Hugo Pratt: Corto Maltese, his masterpiece. For the historic research, the trait, the squinting of those blue eyes, lost in horizons, aboriginal, metaphysical horizons. Trivia: Milo Manara was a pupil and late collaborator of his. Trivia: Crepax's Neutron (Valentina's beau) was protagonist of a long solo graphic novel published in the magazine Corto Maltese. Don't you love it when artists cross paths? It's like jazz: small/big combos like magmatic cells exchanging particles by osmosis.

Wiki, again:
"...Due to his rather mixed family ancestry, Corto had learned snippets of things like kabbalism and lots of history. Many of his stories are placed in real historical eras and deal with real events: the 1755 war between French and British colonists in Ticonderoga, colonial wars in Africa and both World Wars, for example. Pratt did exhaustive research for factual and visual details, and some characters are real historical figures or closely based on them, like Corto's main opponent, Rasputin..."

4) Diabolik, well, the ideal man for all of us Eva Kants (trivia: a bunch of male designers behind it, yet it's the brainchild of two ... sisters!) >>> see image above, Diabolik and Eva.

Read them. You'll like them. With all of your brain, and all of your senses.

to be fair

It has been brought to my attention that as a journalist i should be more accurate with my facts, particularly when I am the fact in question.

So, ok, I don't really sleep an average of 5 hours when in Nyc. Matter of fact, lately I've been sleeping even less. I know I'm not the only one. Does it make me feel any better?

Hell no.

eleven and counting

First night of sleep in my childhood bed: eleven hours, straight.

How come I only sleep an average of 5 hours per night when I'm in New York?

Yes, in case you were wondering, it was a rhetorical question.

And one more tribute for 2005

the year of musical thinking

Joan Didion will forgive - I hope - the poetic licence I take here.

Her "Year of magical thinking" is a tale of mourning and a tribute and I concede mine may not be a tale of mourning. A tribute though - THAT, yes. It is a tribute to music, to what it has done to me, to what it has been for me, in the past twelve months. Formative, informative, cut deep and healed (not too) fast - and the scars I have will last me a lifetime.

Do i regret any of them? No.

Do I blame her? No. I could never blame her for all the things in C she brought me: C-chord suites and solos, cyanide breakups, courtship, care, cunning chivalry, curioisity cum cat. A conundrum. A C-section: and here I am born. Not better. New.

Check it out.

So, music. Jazz, hip-hop, funk, classical, opera. My favourite things for 2005? I leave it to those who compile "best of" lists and delude they will last more than the time to refresh the page. But I WILL throw a few bones to my ... dawgs. Not necessarily made in 2005. But relevant - for me at least - in the year that is almost to RIP.

Christian McBride's Live at Tonic, due March - what I've heard of it, over a dinner with McBride himself and no side dish of sleazy comons (amen and hallelujah), is worthy. No doubt.
Ethiopiques (Either/Orchestra), Live in Addis -- with the partecipation of Mulatu Astatke; his soundtrack for Jarmusch's Broken Flowers is a delicacy. Jarmusch told me Archie Shepp used to live in his loft in the Sixties. Schepp, invention and cirumvention of musical canons, one of the most elegant cats ever. I see a line from Shepp to Astatke, elegance, exotic elegance, the fun of deconsruction.
Gold sounds, Ali Jackson, Cyrus Chestnut, Reginald Veal, James Carter - because it was about time someone made the Pavement a jazz suit. Not a suit, a t-shirt more like. And yes because Ali and Reginald hold a special place in my heart. And yes I was wrong on James Carter.
Jeremy Pelt, Identity: because his is one experiment in jazzatronica we don't want to kill ourselves for. For once. Listen to Scorpio (naturally it would be better if you had access to Mr. Pelt's own live recordings of the 12' composition: he would play them for you and illustrate how the piece progressed as the quartet developed an ... Identity. Precisely. Then he would do something like asking for some fresh Electronic music to check out and you would say ... Telefon Tel Aviv. And he would go on iTunes and buy it and promise a sure quick death if he doesn't dig it. Well, I'm still alive)

Telefon Tel Aviv. Anything. Really. I'll drink it and pour it all over my body.

RJD2 (Deadringer), Caribou (The milk of human kindness), Prefuse 73 (One word extinguisher, Extinguished), The GZA (Word from the Genius), Dangerdoom (The mouse and the mask), Gostface killah (Supreme clientele). El-P/Cage.

4 hero.

The Roots.

Bill Frisell (East West). Metheny/Coleman (Song X reissue). The staged discoveries: Town Hall (Diz and Bird), Carnegie (Monk and Trane), One down one up (Trane)

Chemical brothers' Push the button (BELIEVE, perfect sountrack for the perfect public restroom fuck *pubic testdoom fuck*, SURFACE TO AIR, perfect sountrack for when you feel you don't have it in your lungs to breathe, for whatever the reason, cigarettes, inedia, pain)

Fiona Apple - she and Michael Chabon should put a new spin on Mensa and inaugurate a buen retiro for geniuses who happen to be unfairly, supernaturally gorgeous looking too.

Wynton Marsalis, Live at the House of tribes. For reasons I don't need to explain.

Carla Bley/Charlie Haden, Not in our name. Hasta siempre la LMO, Liberation music orchestra. Not in our name, and little does it matter that it once was Cambodia and now it's ... you pick: New Orleans? Iraq? Bolivia?
Bley/Haden, same flavor, same fervor, same fever as in 1969.

Bley on the critics who found the new album "weak", compared to the 1969 debut: "So it's not as fiery? Maybe we should take machine guns and shoot everyone in the audience. That would make it more of a frisky record. Maybe we could get some guns and go after some of those reviewers. Then we'd be true revolutionaries".

Bley on music: "it's a calling. We do music like breathing. We have to. That's how we wonder what life's about"



At the NYC School of rock (the inspiration for the movie with Joe Black, and no they weren't credited for that, and yes there were roumors of a lawsuit there, for like... 3secs), speaking with Gracie, 5 years old. FIVE. She looks like Dakota Fanning, she's as sassy and witty (and has as raucous a voice) as Frances McDormand. She already knows she wants to be a drummer. And her favourites bands, for 2005 and ever are, and I quote:

"Ramones, AC/DC, Led Zeppelin".

5 years old ladies and gentlemen. And to know what she wants. And for that to be music.

In the words of jazz "Blessed is the child"

*Of course it helps that we live in a country where unlike, say, Iran, a large body of music hasn't just been banned (did you read the news? Nothing like that had happened since the Seventies). Then again we do have the case for Intelligent design. So maybe we'll get there. To the musical Torquemada (remember the Spanish Inquisition?)

What I want for Christmas

The Kenneth Cole AIDS Day t-shirt.



The gold-plated cokespoon01

And I'll have the first one shipped to whomever in the Vatican still believes using a condom is a mortal sin.
And the second one hung from the pinetrees around Turin -- the winter Olympics being the best way to call the attention to a local growing pain. Well, it's been a problem for the past 60 years or so: check the phonebook under, I don't know, "automobiles"?

By the way, cokespoon01 is the replica of the cap of the cheapest pen you can possibly buy in Italy. So blase'. Like drinking champagne out of plastic cups.

Makes me wanna throw up all the Krug and diamonds I just downed.

And this, I warn you, is as frivolous as my blog will EVER be. Now back to the usual gloom and jazz. Know you love it!

the game of all games

as far as the eye can see

there's not much of a difference...













... between one game and the other. where steadfastness is required, not as lack of change or mobility, rather as resolution and determination. Firm in belief.
Jazz and bball.
And Ducati. It's a one-person team and has a damn good game. I can do my thing and be resolute.
And be firm in belief.

(a firm butt would be nice too)

Pellucid

"New Orleans: A Creole mass, NO" - copyright Herman Leonard

Pellucid: admitting maximum passage of light without diffusion or distortion
Zona pellucida: the transparent more or less elastic outer layer or envelope of a mammalian embryo.

There. I AM a zona pellucida.

I admit the maximum passage of light. Light in all the conjugations of human feeling.
I am a more or less elastic envelope, I stretch, I crack, I am resilient, I am not.

And remember, in order to implant in the human endometrium, every embryo has to hatch from its zona pellucida and expose its inner surface, sticky with adhesion proteins.
The pellucida is that through which life is created. And gets lost in the process.

So is that it? Do I have to lose myself to regain the ultimate gift of life, creation, creativity?

Why can't I write? What am I waiting for? To get lost?
Get lost Ducati. No, really. What the fuck are you waiting for?

To be peeled off,
like the prints in Herman Leonard's New Orleans home.
The archive of so much Art of the Crescent City
lost without a sound to the tide
of the Mississippi.

Never ebb, just flow.

when?

e.e.cummings - a man who could write poetry as a musician would improvise in jazz, punctuation being his chord changes and his instrument (I always think of him holding a bass).

The following poem of his was once dedicated to me. Funny how only recently I came to unlock its message. And to wonder when it will happen again, the dedication, the magic, the tending, love and care.

When?

Let me cater to you:

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

circle of fire

I am a daughter of the blues, I said so at the beginning of my writings here. So it shouldn't surprise anyone that I have it. I have the blues.
I do.

Why shouldn't I?

I have it cause I can't feel anymore and to me it's all about the intensity.
There's a place inside of me, a place I used to fear and nurture, and now it's gone numb.
And so I mourn it.

Everything happens to (Monk and) me writes Brenda Marie Osbey, poet laureate of Louisiana, the best combination of verse and red nails I have ever seen.

And me, me, ME.

If you are reading these pages, you are STUPID and you didn't get the first thing about me. He wasn't half as important as you are. But I guess you missed me and I missed you.
And all systems are gone now.
And it would take more than the best line on death and life from the poet of the Faubourg Treme' to bring me back.
To you.

I hate it that you killed even the slightest chance we had to save something for us. I hate it that you should make that decision - to kill us in any shape of form - for me too.
And I hate it that despite all that I still worry about you.
I hope you're ok.
I hope you know who you are, who it is I'm writing this one to.

A hint.



It will take more than the best line on death and life from the poet of the Faubourg Treme' to bring me back.
To you.

And then it was London

Not 24 hours after licking gelato in my flip flops by Trevi fountain, I find myself teleported in cold - but sunny! - London. Realizing I will have to wear the same pair of pants and the same shoes (the warmest I have) throughout my stay doesn't concern me. But as I sway and curse, dragging my luggage and hitting repeatedly the subway's turnstile, completely unaware I have to swipe my metrocard AGAIN to get out, at the same time spotting ArcheoC, waiting for me as she shakes her head and cracks up at the sight of this sad show of mine, well it is then that it hits me.

I'm tired.
I'm not functioning properly.
I'm nervous.
It's time for a quick fix.

So, about ten cigarettes and three breakfasts later - Pookalu, this is in your honor, the multiple breakfasts thingy - I slouch in my chair and take time to let the brights colors in ArcheoC's gipsy-fengshui furniture soak in.


Her roommate paints, her roommate's boyfriend cooks, ArcheoC has the best collection of books on the Roman Empire - quick deja vu - Vivienne Westwoodesque clothes and great stories on men and common friends from Milan. I manage to talk to SexySA journo and we make a date for afternoon tea - but of course - at the National Gallery. I even receive the first txts from YumYum, via mobile and email - if I was ever doubtful on JT well it's time to back up. JT delivers.

Life is good. (if it wasn't for ArcheoC's toilet: it's out of order, to flush it you have to fill a bucket with water...)

About 24 hours and
** Leonardo Da Vinci's Virgin of the rocks and a side of Rembrandt
good reminiscing and planning for a trip to the Cape with the best guide you can wish for, possibly March 2006, or Fall of the same year
not so good Indian at a chain sort of restaurant and knock out good hot chocolate at a place called Carpe diem (deja vu again)
drooling over pates and compotes and jellies and jams and marmelades and pies and cookies and 100$ worth 1ml vodka sauces at Fortnum & Mason, right by the Ritz hotel
spending quality quiet time at Temple, a private labirynth of courtyards with fountains, statues, benches, perfectly groomed gardens, wrough iron gates, a Templar chuch, majestic oaks and a plethora of red bricked buildings bearing the insigna of the artistocratic (Sirs, Dame, Esq, Hon) lawyers - Temple sits right by London's Court of Law - living or working there.



Never have I seen so many Porches and Benzes and Bentleys parked in one spot**
As i was saying, about 24 hours and all the above later...all hell breaks loose.

Suddenly txting and actual calling between myself and YumYum runs riot. Her schedule keeps on changing and me and ArcheoC realize even our own schedule is so fucked up we will hardly have time to shave our armpits before hitting the road again, after going home and changing into hell knows what.
Back and forth back and forth while neither me or YumYum think of the consequences in terms of phonebills. The band just pulled into London and the guys are having a bite, maybe we can meet for coffee. Wait, no, they have rehearsal. Wait no, we are on the other side of town how about meeting up before the 6:30 reception but after the 6 bbc interview? Deal. Wait no, YumYum will skip the reception, we can meet up after 6:30. But we're late goddamit! Wait no, some other interview came up, poor YumYum is stuck!

Sigh.

Right after getting my tickets at will call, I run into tour manager SJ and suddenly I start relaxing. It is the first tangible physical evidence of the LCJO's presence here. I suddenly remember the reason why I'm here: to meet up with my girl, of course, but most importantly to hear the music. I start getting that spine tingling I always get when I hear musicians tune their instruments right before a concert. This is gonna be good.

It will be more than that.

All in 5 minutes prior to our entrance:
I spot YumYum, beautiful in what looks like a taffetas evening dress, with a stole, she waves as she hurries by with a camera crew
I spot AJ and CH, drum and bass, you can't go wrong right?
I hug WB, a cat with an Italian flair, wife and vocabulary (later he will proudly announce he even knows how to say "even", "perfino"): one hug from him and you feel like family. He promises to hook us up with backstage passes. I don't like to sneak in so I thank him and go find my seats instead.

30 seconds to start:
Royal Albert Hall is an arresting sight. In its gold and maroon it reminds me of La Scala Theater. But it's more open - stalls replace boxes, and the top gallery has a higher ceiling - and overall it exudes grandeur. It's an arena. Let's get ready for the bullfight.
YumYum txts me "I'm near the soundboard, where r u", I reply "I can see u, I'm on your left, stalls area", I see her read the txt, I tell ArcheoC "she's reading it, get ready to wave", YumYum looks up and left, we wave, finally CONTACT!
My chatter flows at lightspeed. I have the feeling the blond guy sitting in front of me can understand what I say. I'd better check myself.

All rise. All rise. All rise.
I wish the drums on Jubal step had been more powerful and the choir more commanding (especially the female solo on the title track). But save for that, it is everything I wished for, and more. What has been profusely described as a celebration of humanity, the trial-and-error process, the loss and rediscovery of faith, through the power of music across the genres and the continents, speaks tonight of a brand new message. I hear the choir sing "Save us", I hear the wild strumming of fiddle, the cymbals and brass call and response, the gospel and slow drag, the heartwrenching line and the second line upbeat and
all
I
see
and
hear
is
New Orleans.

It's like hearing the voices of the bodies floating on putrid waters and of the people outragedm, ammassed, scattered, impotent. As we go from movement to movement, that's all I can think of. And so I cry. And I cry more, out of joy and pride, when supposedly cold Brtis greet such beauty (maybe not the same beauty I found in it) with five curtain calls, standing ovations, bravos and a stubborn refusal to leave.
That is until Wynton Marsalis takes the stage and our hearts with a crescendo from whisper to shout of his signature encore, "Embraceable you". He plays with soul, so much I wonder if this arena is big enough for it. He sounds tired too, so much I wonder whether his lip is bothering him again.

Triumph it is, anyway.

Now, the afterparty:
- backstage: WB did find passes for me and ArcheoC and as we bump into YumYum in the corridor (HI! FINALLY!) she urges us to go look for him. So we're in.
Backstage the Italian connection rules.
Turns out the blond guy sitting in front of me does really understand what I'm saying. Me, loud, in Italian "ArcheoC, I have a feeling someone understands what we're saying". Blond guy, laughing, in Italian "I do!".
Turns out he's the founder of WM's Italian funclub and first official website. They're very good friends. We'll end up having dinner together. I tell him he's my hero. He wants me to contribute to the site, claims I'm his female alter ego. When we go over WM's discography we realize we not only like the same albums but also the same tracks. And we seem to share the same insight on his soul. Funny. He asks for my contact info: fastforward to 5 days later, he will call me to wish me a safe trip back to nyc. I have a feeling we'll meet again.
We say hi to FS, VG, VG2 and more. I put FS on my phone with YumYum. They're on their way to a gala dinner at the US ambassador private residence. WB doesn't want to go and asks me and ArcheoC to tag along. We haven't been invited, smells like groupie spirit and THAT is not my thing. So I decline. He's a sweetheart. We'll just catch up later!

-drinks at the hotel: After saying goodnight to Postmaster (and his parisian cousin) with whom we had dinner at a gay restaurant in Soho, we join the guys at their hotel. Highlights from the show: laughters, wine, cigarettes and munchies. CH is intimidated by the tip of my shoes, MP asks me to bear my feet, then offers to rub them as CH wonders if I have a French pedicure (since when do men know so much about feet?). I speak with VG and that is always an honor: we discuss possible common projects, the performance of his new Rapone & Cazzini tenor sax, which he claims still needs to be broken in, the new guys at Juilliard jazz program. I speak with WB and make a mental note: tell him, in private, how good he's become. WB and VG and TN, A+ perfromances back at the Hall. Hands down. DN a bit less, but he's still in the process. And I missed HR on drums. I also make a verbal note, to him: to learn a new Italian word, "ventriloquo". Reference to a scene: ArcheoC sitting in an armchair, WB kneeled by her, between them is a friend of his, some Italian weirdo whose age and sex orientation is something to debate, but overall funny and friendly. He's wearing a red silk shirt, is very petit. WB is kneeling by him, with his arm around his back. It's like a ventriloquist with his puppet.
More talking, with YumYum, hugging and kissing her (Ducati! You're gonna see me in two days!). And with EW.
I haven't talked about him yet and there's a good reason for that. He feels different. And I'm bracing myself. Also I haven't been thinking of .amp in the past few days, yet my inner radar still reads his presence, somewhere in between the folds of my self. I need to be careful and I need some me-time.

My horoscope mentioned "a new love, or the rekindling of an old one, starting Sunday night". And it IS Sunday night. Wait, no: it's already Monday morning, 4am. Time to go. I have another plane to catch and four hours to sleep.

All these emotions and all that jazz. I hope my heart has room to hold some more.

Roman holidays (and London calling for more jazz)

Let me bend over so you can better kick my ass.

I am guilty, of negligence and omissis. Too many days have gone by without me contributing to these pages and a lot has happened. Now I am faced with two options, either a) offering a detailed recount of my past adventures therefore succumbing before getting past day one or b) sketching an outline of what would fit nicely in a three acts opera

I choose the second one. In respect of the zest and juice of my jest in Europe, though, I will make an etching of it. Outline it, but with great care for the main lines, which will be indeleble.

1)Prologue: I leave nyc in a state of prostration. I get into a stupid argument with .amp and he won't talk to me again. I won't get into the dynamic, if not that of my own sanity, slowly slipping away. I can only sleep with valium or weed. I am one week away from a trip to Italy, to see my family, a circumstance which always taps into something buried to deep to stir (childhood! unresolved issues! immaturity! nostalgia!). So i freak out. I cry all my tears. I owe survival to a glass pipe, the molecular perfection of benzodyazepines and the big heart of those who came to the rescue - my friends Pookalu, YumYum, Beluria and Art.

2)Preparing for the tour: What was originally intended to be a "relaxing holiday at some Italian beach" has somehow morphed - see how I make it sound as if I had nothing to do with its morphing - into a frenzy. It's like a tour. I'm on tour, Double L "Eat Europe alive" 2005 tour. For booking check with my manager.
So it's Milan Rome London Milan. In 5 days. Or, in terms of mission/emotions, it's love work (crazy) fun love.
I spend an hour trying to find the least expensive combination of trains and ariplanes. I spend the rest of the day persuading myself I can make it without getting a nervous breakdown - and my perplexed parents that "this IS a good idea". I spend part of the night thinking how in the world I'll ever be able to hook up with YumYum in the UK. I'm going to Rome to work the people working with the Mayor. And to meet the Artistic director of Casa del Jazz, who is going to show me the venue. I have projects to propose. They suggest sitting in for two concerts in one night. This promises to be good. Even better is the masterplan for London. Staying at ArcheoC's place, meeting with sexy South African journo, whom I haven't seen in ages (we parted on a minor key). Most importantly, seeing All Rise at Royal Albert Hall, LCJO with London Philarmonic, conducted by Kurt Masur.

Personal top 3 by Wynton Marsalis (original compositions only). The majesty of the blues, All Rise, In this house on this morning (au pair with Black codes and Marciac suite). I can't miss it, are you kidding me? Only problem, YumYum is on the road and has barely had time to confirm she's going. I make a last minute decision. She has a US mobile, mine is Italian, ArcheoC and sexy SAJ's are UK. Coordinating will be one nutty ride.

3)Rome. Rome has always been a city where power was celebrated and fought and exchanged and conquered. The walls near the Coliseum feature a "slideshow" (a sequence of murals) of how the Roman Empire grew from a pimple on the world's ass to be the ass and the world itself. I find this crash course in power inspiring on my way to multiple meetings at il Campidoglio, an elevated palace overlooking i Fori Imperiali and housing Rome's mayoral offices and Rome's finest Art collections.


Highlights of my stay include two nights in a 5 stars hotel, comp'd. Strings have been pulled to find me a room - a suite, more like - including Napoleonic antiques, a gigantic fruit basket and fine china, a Jacuzzi for five, drapes, oriental rugs, a chandelier: all looking slightly dusty, worn out, uhm, decadent - so called "Prima repubblica" (First republic) style, a reference to a specific time in Italian politics, that is "once were luxurious" (and corrupt, at the expenses of taxpayers). Anyway, back to my hotel, it is the first time I ask a friend if he can recommend a nice hotel and end up, well, like this.


I won't even have time to dip the tip of my toes in my Jacuzzi. I'm busy discussing another Jacuzzi - the gold plated Jacuzzi Enrico Nicoletti had installed in his villa, in the Park of Terme di Caracalla. There was also an altar and more gold on doorknobs and window frames. And maybe money and body parts buried in the garden: Enrico Nicoletti was a member of Banda della Magliana, a notorious gang that took over Rome's crime scene in the 70s-80s. Following his fall, the villa was confiscated and has recently been beautifully restored and turned into a flexible performing-recording-educational-housing (feeding!) space, for JAZZ ONLY. A first, in Italy.

As I sit in the office of the Artistic Director, discussing a late night Vespa ride up and down Rome's hills, to go from a smaller gig featuring young prodigy Petrella's all trombones quintet, at Casa del Jazz, to a star studded sold out concert by Enrico Pieranunzi at the beautiful Auditorium, my eyes wonder on a picture of the inauguration. Meryl Streep and Robert De Niro, at the entrance of Casa del Jazz, smiling, admiring.

I have a smile on my face, even at 5am on Saturday morning, when my concierge wakes me up. I have a plane to catch. Going to London - arrivederci "Eternal city", city of smiles and (beautiful) masks.

My name is Laurence Fishburne...

"My name is Laurence Fishburne, I am an actor and I reside at 14---, Dolphin Street, NEW ORLEANS"
said the man we shall no longer call by the name of Morpheus because sleep-inducing he certainly was not.

Sleep wasn't a concern on the night of Jazz at Lincoln center's Higher ground benefit concert for the victims of Hurricane Katrina, despite the 5hours-long program (no intermissions) and the perspective of an after-hours party at Dizzy's which eventually sent us all to bed at 4 am. Nor was hunger, if not that for soul nourishment, and that we got, a full supply to last for a lifetime. Blessed were the notes and the words, ripe was the entertainment provided both on and off stage. I felt satiated as never before and forever will I be grateful to the ones who made it happen.

I hereby formally thank, in random order and mentally taking a bow:

- Norman for wearing a pair of croc-shaped cufflinks he thought would be a tad too flamboyant, that is until he got there and caught a glimpse - an atomic glitter more like - of our neighbour's attire (picture a mummy wrapped in tinfoil, I mean, in a white nylon cum silver sequins overall, and cap)

- Murphy and his Law because if it hadn't been for them me and Pookalu wouldn't have sneaked out during TWO SEMINAL moments of the performance - Bill Cosby and Robin Williams. But since there is justice in the world, we got to catch up with Robin Williams at Diz, basking in the sweat pouring down his forehead and in the spit of his flow (Red Beans Condoleeza Rice): we were due the second chance, after all we did get a choc chip cookie for the atomic glitter mummy, who by the way didn't deserve it as she had bashed me for my hollering. "If you yell in my ear ONE MORE TIME", she said delivering one of those LOOKS, i almost felt my heels clicking and my voice go "yes m'am!"

- Laurence Fishburne, Harry Belafonte, Denny Glover, Tony Morrison: for being AR-TI-CU-LA-TE. For showing that criticism and protest and even outrage are better delivered in the company of such rare creatures as history, literature, a cutting yet polite wit, a voice born to subdue audiences, the elegance of a black dress floating on Sophie (Meryl Streep) who made the choice to be one of the best actresses alive, the elegance of a cane improvising Nureyev's figures in the air. Ain't no shame in checking the spelling of your fuck yous. I loved those men and women so pissed, so commanding, so supreme. I love them all.

- I loved Paquito D'Rivera teasing us with the riff from Salt Peanuts, playing it and then waiting for us to recognize it and go "Salt Peanuts! Salt Peanuts!". I'm a nerd, I know. Pookalu couldn't understand why I had suddenly gotten SO excited.

- I loved the music. I loved the music. I loved the music. I would have waited EIGHT hours, not FIVE, to hear Cassandra Wilson sing Come Sunday and Moody's Septet do the Majesty of the Blues. I mean, c'mon! If y'all have read my blog before you KNOW I am OBSESSED with the goddammned, I mean, GODBLESSED MOTB. My only regret, as we were all standing and bobbing heads and clapping hands and swinging hips and singing along, we missed RV's final shout (again, check out one of my prev postings, that shout has been praised on these pages before) - CRESCENT CITEEEEEEY!!! What, did I holler along? Of course!

- I loved those who made it possible. I loved LCJO and ALJO and all the guys in them, my all time favourites and the others too, cuz YumYum is right, they're unique on their own, but they're a force of nature and nurture and rapture when united. Insipration made them whole, wholesome fantabulous. My goosebumps wouldn't go away, and NO that's not my cellulite, in case you were wondering.

- I love Yum Yum for making it happen (for me and Pookalu). I love Moody for making it happen (for everybody). I love jazz for making me happen. And God bless the people of New Orleans.

*(for sake of clarity, everytime I say "New Orleans" I mean the whole Gulf coast - I on the contrary of someone else on K street am well aware that the disaster struck New Orleans and BEYOND)

Discovering hot water

Fema Director recalled to DC... Good news, together with the rumors suggesting a number of casualties far smaller than what was feared. The more I read the more I'm convinced that huge societal fault was at the very core of this disaster, and by that I don't mean the federal government's only and by that I don't mean the Republicans' only. Mother Jones: "Louisiana's mostly Democratic congressional delegation funneled hundreds of millions of dollars to questionable Army Corps of Engineers projects, while important hurricane protection measures went unfunded". And I have issues also with the way Mayor Nagin has handled the situation (also, his resume is about as crystal clear as Brown's). Who should we believe, who should we trust? Nicholas Lemann's on The New Yorker, Sept 12 2005:

"When, after Katrina passed, the levees broke and the pumps failed, another essential part of at least this New Orleanian’s mind was activated: the part devoted to doubt about our competence to operate the purely human aspects of our society. New Orleans is, and for a long time has been, the opposite of a city that works. It perennially ranks near the bottom on practically every basic measure of civic health. It’s true that the Bush Administration has repeatedly proposed cutting the budget of the Army Corps of Engineers, and that for years there has been a list of widely agreed-upon hurricane-protection measures that the federal government has chosen not to fund, with now horrific consequences. But it’s also true that, after the levees broke, we watched every single system associated with the life of a city fail: the electric grid, the water system, the sewer system, the transportation system, the telephone system, the police force, the fire department, the hospitals, even the system for disposing of corpses. Perhaps it is all the fault of the force of the storm; I suspect that, as we move into the yearned-for realm of reliable information, we will find out that society and nature were co-conspirators in the tragedy. And the societal fault won’t all have been the federal government’s.

...

It seems like a million years ago that President Bush had admirers who saw in him a Churchillian ability to rally a nation in crisis; last week, as both the President and Michael Brown, the director of the Federal Emergency Management Agency, offered bland, undignified, and ill-timed restatements of the obvious about the direness of the situation, you could practically see them thinking, I’m not getting blamed for this! But they were positively helpful next to Louisiana’s governor, who cried and said that we should all pray, and New Orleans’ mayor, who told citizens they should evacuate but didn’t say how, predicted a second major flood, which didn’t materialize, sniped at the federal authorities, and kept reminding everyone that the situation was desperate".

Bottom line, the big guys sitting by Churchill lamps in leather armchairs - almost all of them - screwed up and the "poveri cristi" (the helpless derelicts) paid the price. Nice. I guess as we say in Italy, "I just discovered hot water" - that is, nothing new.

Look who we got here, the new Leninist

For all of us who donated:

CNNRedCross

Not to mention the scammers, already active with fake donation sites, many of which tied to white supremacists groups.

Last night, Dateline was speaking also of this one supertrained medical emergency team being sent from Georgia a week ago and only treating one small cut so far cuz they keep on being relocated. And of hundreds of trailers, which had been requested, and have been shipped, but now sit motionless in some huge lot some hundreds of miles away.

I understand not having the time and enough manpower to take care of all (=failed organization, and whose fault is it?) and of course I know how media operate, I mean now that it's "in" to bash the Administration - AND NOTE I'M ALL UP FOR THE BASHING - they will dig til they find the tiniest piece of dirt. Come think of it is this improvised active journalistic dissent from networks and papers otherwise Bush-friendly that I find a bit disturbing. I mean, I thought Italy was the only country where whipping the First Man's ass (Berlusconi's) is the favorite national sport, after soccer of course. I mean, even his party, his people, "his" media partake. If nothing else, mine is a left wing publication, at least I never felt incoherent.

Anyway, I wish this criticism were due to a collective coming to senses. But I'm afraid it's just a sign of the old blame game and of the ever present love for Nielsen ratings. Times like this, I wish I could retire to my fantasy villa in Umbria and devote body and soul to the writing of my books.

on a happy NOTE (literally)

From the New York Times, Sept, 6th 2005
Many Helping Hands Offered to Louisiana Orchestra's Players

"From spare harp strings to violin repairs to a place to live and practice, offers of help from around the country are pouring in to the musicians of the Louisiana Philharmonic Orchestra in the wake of Hurricane Katrina.

Other orchestras, mostly regional ensembles where the pool of available musicians is small, are lending a hand, too. Many have offered temporary jobs or the prospect of auditions to the Philharmonic's 66 players, who have scattered around the country. All but one of the musicians had safely left the city or were already elsewhere for summer engagements, members of the orchestra said yesterday. The remaining player, Burton Callahan, a violinist, had been preparing to board an evacuation bus over the Labor Day weekend...

Yesterday the orchestra management was trying to set up shop in Baton Rouge, the state capital, and was posting information on another Web site, Adaptistration"

New Orleans' music is not only jazz. It's opera (first two titles of the season have been cancelled, the rest is on hold as of today) and classical (see above, Philarmonic's musicians are scattered all over the country, but keeping in touch) too. Look, the triumvirate will be back. Maybe with a "transgender" commission?

where to send those toothbrushes (and $$$)

(From eJazznews.com)
Monetary donations can be sent to these outlets, which we have confirmed are
REALLY delivering services to folks in need........

BlackAmericaWeb.com Relief Fund
PO Box 803209
Dallas, TX 75240
OR you can make an online donation by going to
BlackAmerica
This fund has been set up by nationally syndicated radio personality TOM
JOYNER

Hurricane Housing:
HurricaneHousing


NAACP Disaster Relief Efforts

The NAACP is setting up command centers in Louisiana, Mississippi, and
Alabama as part of its disaster relief efforts. NAACP units across the
nation have begun collecting resources that will be placed on trucks and
sent directly into the disaster areas. Also, the NAACP has established a
disaster relief fund to accept monetary donations to aid in the relief
effort.

Checks can be sent to the NAACP payable to

NAACP Hurricane Katrina Relief Fund
4805 Mt. Hope Drive
Baltimore, MD 21215

Donations can also be made online at NAACPHurricaneKatrina

FYI, the NAACP, founded in 1909, is America's oldest civil rights
organization

You can mail or ship non perishable items to these following locations,
which we have confirmed are REALLY delivering services to folks in need....

Center for LIFE Outreach Center
121 Saint Landry Street
Lafayette, LA 70506
atten.: Minister Pamela Robinson
337-504-5374

Mohammad Mosque 65
2600 Plank Road
Baton Rouge, LA 70805
atten.: Minister Andrew Muhammad
225-923-1400
225-357-3079

Lewis Temple CME Church
272 Medgar Evers Street
Grambling, LA 71245
atten.: Rev. Dr. Ricky Helton
318-247-3793

St. Luke Community United Methodist Church
c/o Hurricane Katrina Victims
5710 East R.L. Thornton Freeway
Dallas, TX 75223
atten.: Pastor Tom Waitschies
214-821-2970

S.H.A.P.E. Community Center
3815 Live Oak
Houston, Texas 77004
atten.: Deloyd Parker
713-521-0641

Take five ($) ...

... and give them to the needy ones.

http://www.allaboutjazz.com/php/news.php?id=7084

It's the initiative "When the saints go marching in": a bunch of NYC jazz joints will donate portion of their sales to the Red Cross relief fund, starting Sept, 11th thru the 18th. If you can't give up your nightly jazz - completely understandable if you ask me - at least make it work for a greater cause: pay the music cover, get a 5$ drink. Or buy a tix to Jazz at Lincoln center Higher ground benefit concert (on sale Thursday, Sept 8th - www.jalc.org). It would be nice if you could do that AND something else too, say, donate directly to the Red Cross or use on of the many links posted by Pookalu on her malamorian.blogspot.com.

Courtsey of eJazzNews, a list of New Orleans' musicians confirmed as safe:
Steve Allen, Kevin Allman, Theresa Andersson, James "Satchmo of the Ghetto"
Andrews, Troy "Trombone Shorty" Andrews, Johnny Angel, Christine Balfa,
Marcia Ball, Lucien Barbarin, Bruce "Sunpie" Barnes, Mike Barras, Rebecca
Barry, Harold Battiste, Jamal Battiste, Russell Batiste, Doug Belote, Tab
Benoit, Better Than Ezra, Terrance Blanchard, Eddie Bo (plus sister Veronica
and his band), Bonerama, Big Chief Monk Boudreaux, John Boutté, Lillian
Boutté, Tanya Boutté, Tricia "Sista Teedy" Boutté, Alonzo Bowens, Russ
Broussard, Clarence "Gatemouth" Brown, Jody Brown, Maurice Brown, George and
Nina Buck, Henry Butler, Grayson Capps, Big Al Carson, Ricki Castrillo,
Topsy Chapman, Evan Christopher, Jon Cleary, Cowboy Mouth, Susan Cowsill,
Davell Crawford, Jack Cruz, Dash Rip Rock, Jeremy Davenport, Theryl
"Houseman" DeClouet, Roger Dickerson (in San Antone, then New Mexico), Dirty
Dozen Brass Band, The Dixie Cups (alive but lost everything), Big Chief Bo
Dollis and the Wild Magnolias, Michael Domenici, Fats Domino, Michael Doucet
and all of BeauSoleil, Dr. John, Snooks Eaglin (and family of 12, now
homeless),

Lars Edegran, Nancy Edwards, Charlie Fardela, Jack Fine (of the
Palmetto Bug Stompers), Pat Flory, John Fohl, Andy Forrest, Gina Forsyth,
Pete Fountain, Derrick Freeman, Jonathan Freilich (N.O. Klezmer All-Stars),
Bob French, Gerald French, Peter Fuller, funky Meters, Galactic, Katrina
Geenen (WWOZ DJ), Banu Gibson, Victor Goines, Steve Goodson, Tim Green, John
"Papa" Gros (and the whole Papa Grows Funk band), James Hall, Corey Harris,
Leigh "Little Queenie" Harris, Clarence "Frogman" Henry, Corey Henry, Andi
Hoffman, Peter Holsapple, The Hot Club of New Orleans, The Iguanas, Burke
Ingraffia, Benny Jones Sr., Leroy Jones, Kirk Joseph, Antoinette K-Doe
(supposedly okay), Joe Krown, Julia LaShae, Tim Laughlin, Washboard Chaz
Leary, Bryan Lee, David Leonard & Roselyn Lionheart (David & Roselyn),
Herman Leonard, Lil' Rascals Brass Band, Lil' Stooges Brass Band, Eric
Lindell, A.J. Loria, Jeremy Lyons, Ronald Markham, Ellis Marsalis, Jason
Marsalis, Wynton Marsalis, Steve Masakowski, Irvin Mayfield, Tom McDermott,
Humberto "Pupi" Menez (and aunt Caridad Delatorre), Charles Louie Moore,
Deacon John Moore (although band members unknown), Bill Morgan, Tom Morgan,
Chris Mule, Kenny Neal, The Neville Brothers (Aaron, Art, Charles, Cyril),
Charmaine Neville, Ivan Neville, Carlo Nuccio (post-storm okay, post-flood
unknown), Anders Osborne, Stevenson Palfi, Panorama Jazz Band, Joshua
Paxton, Michael Pearce, Dave Pirner, Pocketfoxx, George Porter Jr., Dirk
Powell, Shannon Powell and family, The Radiators, Jan V. Ramsey & most of
OffBeat Magazine staff), Rebirth Brass Band (all members), Marcus Roberts,
Coco Robicheaux, John Rodli (N.O. Jazz Vipers), Biff Rose, Wanda Rouzan,
Dixie Rubin, Kermit Ruffins, Scott Saltzman, Mark Samuels (Pres., Basin
Street Records), Will Samuels, Ben Sandmel, Jumpin' Johnny Sansone, Marc and
Ann Savoy and family, Alexandra Scott, Mem Shannon and the Membership, Derek
Shezbie, James Singleton, Johnny Sketch, Michael Skinkus, Robert Snow (N.O.
Jazz Vipers), Brian Stoltz, Marc Stone, Bill Summers, Ken Swartz, Irma
Thomas, David Torkanowsky, Allen Toussaint, Rick Trolsen, Don Vappie (Milly
too, presumably), Johnny Vidacovich, Rob Wagner, Mark Walton, Melissa Weber,
Mike West, Dr. Michael White, Marva Wright, Linnzi Zaorski.

More food for happy thoughts: a mural on Canal Street - Jazz fest, May 2005, final bars - Sidney Bechet's church, in Treme'

I was wrong about Anderson Cooper

...and I'm sorry for all the times I pointed out CNN's incoherence for appointing the skinniest man on Earth as its First Man of Hurricanes coverage. I mean, have you seen his videos from wind-water battered zones? One wonders how he managed not to be swiped away. I guess it's that Vanderbilt blood. Or his past experience as war correspondent (or as a model!). All of which must have prompted him to let off some steam on air. Please see below and notice: it is CNN's own transcript. Cooper's voice was shaking and his face spoke of repressed anger and the desire to ring someone's neck.

COOPER: Joining me from Baton Rouge is Louisiana Senator Mary Landrieu. Senator, appreciate you joining us tonight. Does the federal government bear responsibility for what is happening now? Should they apologize for what is happening now?

SEN. MARY LANDRIEU (D), LOUISIANA: Anderson, there will be plenty of time to discuss all of those issues, about why, and how, and what, and if. But, Anderson, as you understand, and all of the producers and directors of CNN, and the news networks, this situation is very serious and it's going to demand all of our full attention through the hours, through the nights, through the days.

Let me just say a few things. Thank President Clinton and former President Bush for their strong statements of support and comfort today. I thank all the leaders that are coming to Louisiana, and Mississippi, and Alabama to our help and rescue.

We are grateful for the military assets that are being brought to bear. I want to thank Senator Frist and Senator Reid for their extraordinary efforts.

Anderson, tonight, I don't know if you've heard -- maybe you all have announced it -- but Congress is going to an unprecedented session to pass a $10 billion supplemental bill tonight to keep FEMA and the Red Cross up and operating.

COOPER: Excuse me, Senator, I'm sorry for interrupting. I haven't heard that, because, for the last four days, I've been seeing dead bodies in the streets here in Mississippi. And to listen to politicians thanking each other and complimenting each other, you know, I got to tell you, there are a lot of people here who are very upset, and very angry, and very frustrated.

And when they hear politicians slap -- you know, thanking one another, it just, you know, it kind of cuts them the wrong way right now, because literally there was a body on the streets of this town yesterday being eaten by rats because this woman had been laying in the street for 48 hours. And there's not enough facilities to take her up.

Do you get the anger that is out here?

To get you started

This IS (present tense) Congo Square.

I owe you an explanation

... As to why I haven't been posting in a while. It has to do with holidays (mental more than actual, I've been physically out of town for just a handful of days), with the resetting of my priorities (I've started working on a new project - yes, a jazz project, yes I will write more about it - and those hours I once spent entertaining my 33 readers will have to be sprinkled on more that one potatoe field) and last but not least, with my latest posting on these frequencies.

Let's put it this way: I've found myself in a Crossfire situation, CNN style, issue at stake - again, and again, and again - the validation of jazz criticism in absence of proper musical education and hands-on experience. I've been bashed, bruised and battered by Mr Seas, who had a point ("should I stand up and clap my hands at any sorry attempt to play jazz just because some jazz historian says we need all the aficionados we can get in the face of a lack of recognition/attention?"), I've been seriously challenged by legendary journalist-author HB's talk at the local Jazz museum, an equally convincing discussion of how nepotism and purism affect healthy ideological confrontation, business and overall artistic progress.

I've also had a heart-to-heart with a well known lady of jazz, a big band leader and award-winning composer, who talked at length and sans pruderie about life - death - and love in the world of notes, she-style.

Too much to say, I guess, hence the hiatus.

No more.

In the wake of the tragedy descended on Jazz's Horn of Africa - New Orleans, the Big Bang (and Band) that originated all that swings, bops and thirdstreams - I had to contribute a line (a second, first, third and all that will be).

I feel ashamed for my colleagues who endorse and enable strategies of de-ce-ption, in order to divert attention from the lack of a prompt and effective intervention in the area; I feel ashamed for people who don't understand the simple truth Mr. Moody learnt the hard way - and Yum Yum so beautifully explained in her blog - that is, Neworleanians are blues people, resilient people, and their resiliance is a baby with a name whe may not like or understand (acts of defence and protest and survival and release, yes, violent acts too) yet a baby indeed, in essence the germ of a NEW LIFE. What "The City that care forgot" (my god, the irony now of that historic nickname!) will soon find. In itself.

She is NOT a Thirld World City. She is a whore and a lady and a beggar and the Chief of all Humanitarian organizations. All in one. And we all love her very much, probably, hopefully because in her we recognize ourselves.

Please, help if you can. My lovely, dearest, hot friend Pookalu has a list of links and initiatives for those who would like to but don't know how. I, the ever dumb blogger, have yet to discover the art of posting links. You'll have to kindly copy and paste on your toolbar her url: malamorian.blogspot.com.

For those who felt like and already did, just think happy thoughts - ah, Peter Pan, master of escapism from harsh realities - and summon happy images of New Orleans. I'll provide visual aid, posting some of my pics from last May's Jazz Fest.

For everybody, remember RV's shout, topping off the majesty of WM's Majesty of the blues: CRESCENT CITEEEEEEEEY !!!

Stay on higher ground. (And buy a ticket to Jazz at Lincoln center's Higher ground benefit concert).

Those who can't do teach ... or not?

Nuit de feu: .amp's lungs are burning, he can barely breathe, YumYum's hair shakes hands with the flame of a candle nearby, there's the sound of rice paper cracking and the smell of chicken on the bbq, we play pool with great balls of fire, temperature as we go for tangents of discussion reaches 300 F. We discuss the morphology of Art. One of the world's first criminal profilers, Lombroso, studied the connection between facial features and predisposition to crime. We wonder about the many wonders of Art and Body, how does the former affect the latter? At Juilliard dancers take Anatomy classes, their chests and legs covered in different colors of tape, showing what muscles are streched and flexed according to the posture. Do Opera singers and horn players use the same sets of muscles? Mr. Seas, trombonist, injured a lateral abdominal while working out: does it hurt when he blows? Apparently not. I whish there was an Atlas of the Human musical body.

Mr. Seas on music critics: nobody, he says, nobody should ever review one single line of music, let alone write about musical theory, unless he's set foot on a bandstand and most importantly jammed all right. Is that right? On the phone with RR, former culinary critic of the city's leading newspaper, current editor in chief of the nation's leading food magazine, the door swings back: "It is a common opinion that in order to be a good culinary critic you have to be a knockout cook...". "Bullshit"

There.

I wonder who's right. Then I think of PS, jazz critic and historian, guardian of the flame, keeper of the gospel. As far as I know he never played a single note (am I wrong?) but no one could question his knowledge of the craft and the spellbounding quality of his anecdotes. Could this be it? He who has witnessed enough and absorbed by osmosis is the ultimate recipient of a Honorary degree in Musical Practice?

I'm working on it. And in the meantime, I keep my motto at heart. See below

Enrico Rava at Milan's castle aka leave the technique, take the heart and keep the storm at bay

It was unquestionably an Italian night.

- the leading daily newspaper runs a story on a special performance by trumpeter Enrico Rava, to be held at Castello Sforzesco, a monumental yet gracefully balanced construction, a remnant - beautifully preserved, tapestries, helm, bricks and turrets - of Milan's past as a feud of the noble Sforzas and Viscontis. Rava is on his way back from Umbria jazz, headed to Iseo Jazz where for the umpteenth time he'll be awarded for topping "Musica Jazz"'s poll on Best jazz musician. The castle is in full revival and hosts a summer-long series of cultural events. It's one of those nights anyone that counts canNOT miss, especially if he or she is into jazz. Or at least claims to be, which usually means a couple of Diana Kralls and Norah Joneses on the mantlepiece, next to the soundtrack from "Ray" and a copy of Nick the Nightfly's latest compilation.
I decide I COUNT and I AM into jazz - no copies of the infamous cds though, sorry. It's free: all we have to do is show up at a specific time and place and get our invitation.

Here's where it gets Italian. I had almost forgotten how much fun my people can be.

1-The newspaper published the wrong date for the invitations givaway. It was the day before. I show up and they're all gone. Suggestion: get to the castle early and do the blink blink. No bling bling, this is Italy yet bribing won't get me nowhere. Blink blink. Mascara galore.
2-I switch to Italian mode, load up on mascara, do my thang. I beat even promoters and security to the gates. When the first people show up I almost move a couple to tears. They both have a spare invitation and basically fight to decide which one I'll use to get in. I get in.
3-SIR Rava is there. I guess he walked into the castle's stunning central courtyard and decided he would be in character. He's sitting by one of those kiosks selling panini and Fanta, his legs crossed, a blue Oxford casually hangin out of his pants, looks relaxed, vaguely blase', greets fans and friends (Romans, gentlemen... lend me your ear...and we will, Henry, we will) and blesses them with minimal gestures of his right hand.
4. I find a seat. Next to me, "Ms. Leech": she's alone waiting for her hubby who's late, spots me from afar, decides she loves me and that she must entrust me with the story of her life, without ever pausing to breathe and possibly within the following half hour. It's not as bad as it sound especially because it turns out she knows Rava, they're acquainted more like, and she has a couple of interesting anecdotes about the guy from Trieste.


"Enrico, he had a beach house in Corniglia, Cinque Terre (that is Liguria) same as my family! He was so grumpy back then (some 20 years ago). Him and his first wife, both always pissy. And we didn't even know he played the trumpet. I guess he wasn't that good at that time. Then he left his wife, sold the house (funny how the two categories are often dumped at the same time) and moved to Chiavari. Anyway, I just spoke to him and he said he would like to get a house on Lago Maggiore... same as my family!"
(AIN'T HE LUCKY?)
Me: so... what about his playing? You like it? Is this the first time you hear him?
(OUTRAGED LOOK)
"Why, no! I first hear him years ago, he went back to Corniglia and played at a sort of homecoming celebration. His trumpet stole my heart. Today jazz is all I can listen to. Jazz and Eros Ramazzotti, but that's more for my husband. You know (KNOWING WINK), he's German"
Me: oh, you're a jazz fan, ain't that great! And what do you think of Paolo Fresu? (for the record, in my record, a much better trumpet than Rava's, and artistic director of Umbria jazz. His "Kind of Porgy and Bess" with a Moroccan oud player creeps under your skin)
"Paolo who?" says the jazz lover...
Fortunately - or unfortunately, depending on the point of views - it WAS also night of music. And Rava played.


He plays I'm getting sentimental over you. Easy living. I remember April. Estate. Scrapple from the apple. The man I love. Poiniciana. Misterioso. One encore, a blues. All in one set: we're trying to beat a storm, it's been breathing down Milan's neck the whole day. You can feel it weight down from the sky. People look up every two seconds.
"Enrico said he looks West to see if it's coming. And it's not coming" says Leech.
Also spracht Zharatustra. I feel so safe with Enrico Weatherman Rava watching over us.

He's accompained by Mr. D'Andrea at the piano (who among other notable products delivered the score for "Last tango in Paris"). D'Andrea's playing reminds me of Monk's, but in a messy fussy prissy way.
Rava and D'Andrea stop two bars into the first piece to fix an obnoxious feedback from one of the speakers.
("I don't understand, it was working til one minute ago!" pleads the sound technician, his hands on his waist).
They fail miserably at a first attempt of call-and-response. They're in sync ALL THE TIME, which defies the concept of c.a.r.
Rava breakes the notes more often than I like and he gleefully glides, full slur ahead, on the trickiest fingerings.
On D'Andrea's solos he walks to the back of the stage, coughs and shakes SHAKES his trumpet, valves down, as if it was a wet umbrella. I shiver.


People here don't applaud at the end of each solo nor do they go "m-mmm" or "ahhhhh!", leaving me as the only freak doing it, that is until I decide to act pro and clip my lips and legs. I still do a little neck move, tho. After all, the guy in front of me has been snorting his (unlit) cigar, literally pushing it all the way into one of his nostrils, all the time. So give me a break.

There is all that. And yet, despite all the previous caveats. Yet it turns out to be a precious night.


As Enrico plays I am reminded of the wise words of young sax prodigy FC: "Rava doesn't have a great technique but he has heart". It may be the rusty, rugged, boorish heart of a seasoned sailor, but he has it and that's what he plays with.
I am also reminded of the words of my friend BM, who once said - and scores of jazz musicians and critics before him - there is no sorry musician, no bad piece of music, each and every one of them has a reason to exist and something to offer.
So for once I wash and fold my preconceptions. I forget I don't like how Rava o.d's on mute and long silences and proudly parades his introverted horn. And not only I discover he can play unmuted but also find a reason and meaning for the existence of his broken notes and slurry fingering. I find that meaning in his last piece, the encore, a blues. I find it in a hint of self-mockery (introducing I remember April ... "by an author whose name I don't remember, must be the old age"). I find it in his tribute "to Bix and Louie, who invented jazz". Well said Enrico.

At the end of the night, Leech's hubby joins us (I suspect he's been there all the time, but was trying to avoid his spouse's turrentine chatter). The storm spares us. And as I turn around to chase the echo of Rava's last notes, I realize they bounce against the back wall of the castle. I'm left wondering of other trumpets and other times. When the sound of trumpet was a call to battle. rather than a call to prayer and good time.

Than you Castello Sforzesco. Grazie Milano.

blue black and blues

... But as to the matter of dispersing gloom and spreading glee, evidence in favor of the sorcery of Madam Marie Laveau, also known as the Widow Paris, the most notorious New Orleans voodoo queen, and the mojo hands of Doctor Jim Alexander, ne' Charles La Fountain, also known as Indian Jim, her male counterpart, is questionable to say the very least.

Testimony that the dance-beat incantation and percussion of Bessie Smith and Louis Armstrong almost always worked as advertised is universal.

Albert Murray, "Stomping the blues"

stupidity has no color

New York subway, n. 1 train, Brooklyn-bound, rush hour.
In one of the priority seats a young black woman plays with her kid, eight maybe nine years old. He has the energy of a newborn, all flip-flops and somersaults, hands and feet on seats, doors and poles, the car is his gymnasium. He sees us without looking, he KNOWS he's performing for an audience and we are nodding, some even cheering. It's July the 3rd, we are looking ahead and seeing the replica of a Sunday, more hours to spend with lovers, music and our own thoughts. We fickle crowd are for once in a good mood and willing to graciously smile at this kid's olympics, train games. We don't even realize how condescending we must look from the outisde.

The duo laughs a lot: son looks happy, mother looks loving and lively; though her missing teeth and the torn denim of her jeans tell a tale of struggle, I feel this kid is in a safe place. "You're a bad, bad boy" she's jokin "and i don't want you with me no mo'". "You don't want me no mo?" he laughs, "they gonna take me if you won't". "Ah yeah?" asks mother, cracking up, "they gonna take you? I'm not sure". "One of them will take me" repeats kiddo, gesturing in our direction.

"Would you take him?" asks mother and Jesus her eyeballs are looking into mine. I hesitate ever so slightly, too concious of the second pair of eyes fixed in mine, his; conscious indeed I am that this is a joke to her, but not to him. Then I roll my eyes in a parody of surrender and go: "all right all right I'll take you". More nodding and smile from the audience - how can they not realize how FUCKING condescending they look?

At this moment, young boy starts enjoying our attention a little too much, drags himself on the floor, does a dying soldier scene, the white of his eyes has a glaze of neon light. Mother starts pulling him up by his elbows, shaking him, "stop it, listen to me! You're making a scene, look at them pants I just got you, so dirty on their knees already. You want me to kick your lil butt? Wait when we get home to your dad...". He ignores her, he's on his knees, elbows in her hands, head thrown back as if faint or dead. More yelling from her, "Jimmy Louie Marshall, I said get UP!".

And then, "You heard me
nigga?"

Oh, the shift in room temperature, did anyone open the window? It feels it most def feels like thick drafts under our collars. And a whole lot of effort to avoid each other's eyes. Kid and mama laugh and seem to be oblivious to the obvious. We the people disapprove. Not of the word per se, no, rather of the kid's reaction: matter of fact, it is a matteroffact reaction, he barely has any reaction at all - just like someone who hears it every day, spoken by the same person. His mama.
As I shake my head in disbelief I see my neighbours do the same and then wonder: how many of you? How many of you have spoken it before and only now realize how bad it sounds?

Will that kid realize that it doesn't sound any better if it's spoken in the voice who gave him birth? Will he realize that stupidity knows no color, no DNA and no love?

Will those of us who tsch tsch and yet spoke it before realize that they ARE stupid?

keep the quote alive

Ben Riley speaking on BET Jazz of "the importance of quoting jazz". Let's climb on each other's shoulders. "Let's keep it alive".

We have got to keep it alive.

lesson in sound

D club, a celebration for Clifford Brown's 75th anniversary. Jeremy Pelt, Tom Harrell, Terence Stafford, David Weiss on trumpet. MISTER Jimmy Cobb on drums.

And lessons in sound.

A) Sound takes 1, 2, 3, 4. Each and every one of them had their own musical signature. A broken smoky quiet whisper was TH's. A screaming strutting brassy uawuaw was JP's. TS is elegance and fire.

B) Sound attitude. JP walks onstage chest first, wears shades, big squared chunky shoes, scans the audience for friends and family, talks a lot and smiles in proportion. TH walks onstage in a leather jacket and a curtain of white scruffy hair. He never raises his head, keeps it down, eyes glued to the floor, all the time.

C) Sound of silence. TH has paranoid schizophrenia. It has been said that his otherwise shattered personality comes together only when he plays or composes. He's on some new medications, hopefully they will increase his confidence. He's seldom and embaressment for his sidemen. Occasionally though he will hear voices urging him to stop the playing as the audience is not liking it and so he will, he will cut his solo short. Or he will misinterpret a gesture, a pose and assume he's not welcome and leave.

It doesn't happen tonight. He wanders on and off focus on his solos, sometime true gems of minimalistic inspiration, sometime confused attempts to get somewhere, somewhere, somewhere. Overall touching and beautiful.

But not as beautiful as seeing him serenade the city. On a pause offstage as DW was taking his solo, TH had his back to the public, and was fingering his trumpet, its bell pointed to the stunning view of the skyline right outside the huge window. He seemed to be at peace.

D) Sound like you want: JP and TH alone onstage, the cocky and the anassuming, one head held up high to the sky, the other bent low as if in apology.

E) Ultrasound: at a table a few feet from where I was, a woman, maybe 8 months pregnant, her hands resting on her round belly, which was barely covered by the thinnest of white fabrics, a Provençal shirt. As the guys onstage were kicking it up a few decibels, the baby started moving, you could see the outline of what was possibly a foot or the head stretch the skin and dance to the waves of sound as they traveled from trumpet to placenta.

A jazz fan is born. Before she is born. I'm sure it's a girl.

X, Y and Z

Thursday night, Hudson hotel, one of those hip New York spots with a life expectancy of one year tops. Ladies dressed to kill - good taste, that is - guys on a mission to conquer booty, acid green lights, hip hop galore, gigantic orchids, lotta plastic elbow to elbow with an Oxford style library bar; could be the brainchild of Philip Stark, maybe it is. I'm having a preliminary meeting with the Daughter of a Revolutionary, she will be featured in one of my articles. It turns out to be one nutty ride, for a number of reasons...

we say praise before eating (at the fancy house restaurant, imagine the scene):

we see a Samantha (Sex & the City) lookalike high on coke and booze crawl her way out of the main door, then give everybody the finger, trip and fall in the gutter; turned down by each and every cabbie (to whom she then again gives the finger), she eventually turnes to the black security guy who has been called to take care of her and goes:
- I'm black
him- and I am white
- I did so much coke... actually I have a lot on me even now. Do you want some? Naw, you wouldn't be able to handle it
him- lady, it's you who could never handle what I got on me now...

my guest is tall and striking, but she also has a manly voice, very dark gums and huge biceps: she makes me touch them and then warnes me "I haven't been working out for MONTHS!!!!". When she laughs she throws her head back and her eyes FLASH. Oh, Lorrrrdy.

she drives a Mercedes, gives a loud squeak when a big fat roach takes a promenade close to our feet as we are on the sidewalk saying goodbye, offers to drive me home, eats pretty much everybody's food, ignores who Basquiat was, has a weird attitude around guys and definitely a diffident, guarded, alert look in her eyes when the subject of her Father life and -violent- death is arised. Me being there precisely to bring it up as much as possible, as you can imagine, it is...hard.



Yet enlightening. I respect Daughter of a Revolutionary very much. She is a monument to survival, to self affirmation in the shadow/light of a heavyweight legacy.

She is a lily with a stem of steel, growing on a ground of sizzling tar.

devil women

Last night we braved a thin, persistent rain to go pay hommage to Chico O'Farrill. One of those accidental tourists who just "happen to be there" without ever knowing what's going on, asked me "who the hell is Chico O'Farrill". So, for all the accidental tourists who just happen to be here: he was the forefather of Afro-Cuban jazz, together with Machito and of course Dizzy Gillespie.

The city of New York renamed the corner between W88 and West End - not far from the O'Farrills' family home - after him. His son Arturo was there, together with friends and relatives and music of course. Members of the ACJO were joined by Mr. Wynton Marsalis on trumpet and Paquito D'Rivera on clarinet. The Lincoln center posse - BigA, YY, LilA, PS, E and TB - was in attendance, and yours truly was her usual appendix self. Standing in white pants and silver flip-flops and watching the former get soaked and definitely revealing, and the latter stain my feet, I asked myself "Is this worth the effort?".

Of course it was: it's always nice to witness deserved recognition and to succumb to reveries and tangents - i wondered for example if humidity affects the quality of sound. Maybe it doesn't affect horns, but what about reeds? After all, we're talking wood - 5 minutes there and I was starting to develop a blonde afro and the proteins in my hair are not quite like the cellulose in wood. But don't quote me on this, I am after all a Biology major and have a reputation to defend.

(I had already seen ACJO, with Claudia Acuna: I fear she's one of the victims, I mean, artists in the Diet Coke festival lineup. She and the orchestra were spectacular. I guess I can surrender to the dark side of artificial colorings and carbonated water and go see her again. I'm sure she'll be great, but I have to say Arturo and his guys (and a doll, Erika!) were the best back up she could have possibly wished for.)

At one point last night, watching Arturo address the crowd without mic - no generator due to the rain - and with the sole shelter of a dirty white plastic tent, BigA mumbled "Man, this feels like a communist rally". You have to imagine the scene: BigA is a quiet, towering, at times intimidating, very much observing guy. He seldom talks, so when he does, well, you listen and typically crack up. Unless he cracks you with his wit. He reminds me of Monk. There'd be some fine cats in a room, talkin about jazz and just back and forthing matters of pentagram, like curve balls. After they'd figured it all out, he'd go up to them and basically say: "You all talk a lot of shit, it's not like that at all, it is so and so" ad in 3 words he'd break down and rephrase - often much better then the others - the matter at stake. Then he'd leave.

BigA was right, of course, it did feel like a communist rally. But not as fierce as the "incident at the Iridium" me and YY had witnessed the night before. On BigA's line, therefore, me and my girl winked like consummated hustlers and replayed the rumble in our heads.



Here's how it goes in mine. It's Tuesday night at Iridium, Mingus Big Band's night. MBB has always striken me as an anomaly in the jazz scene, maybe because of the repertoire - all Mingus, much of which had political flavor even when not overtly stated - maybe because of the democratic lineup - musicians rotate and they took turn at bandleading.
I had always had a fantasy of those guys being refugees, dissidents, Russian novelists, scientists and chess champions, wanted by KGB and FBI and forced to hide in some secluded dacha in the Russian steppe. Drinkin vodka. And swingin, no less!
Well, now I know I'm right. They must be.

Saxophonist CH was leading.

He gets up to announce the second piece, "Fables of Faubus", from the album "Ah Um". C is tall and muscular, he has long dreadlocks a confident grin and has something of the Thai box-champion who doubles as a Yoga master to him. Physical and spiritual. He introduces the stinky character of Orville Faubus, a Governor of Arkansas in the late Fifties, a sorry individual who came to be known for his attempts to prevent integration of black students in his State. C naturally comments in a not too friendly way on the matter, then makes an off remark on some fil rouge going straight from the Arkansas of 1955 to the White House of 2005. People in the room cheer and applaud and woo-ooh and m-mmm. Save for one.

I still ignore what he looked like, as he was sitting in a corner and my view was blocked by a pillar. I like to imagine him as the character of Death in Bergman's "Seventh seal". With a big sickle. Unfortunately for him, we had the hammer too.

So, amidst the cheers and clap claps, this guy goes "da-da-da-dadada, I didn't come here to be lectured by you guys da-da-da-dadada why don't you do what you can do and just keep on playing jazz?"

Apriti cielo. Hissing, booing, "shut up you motherfucker" randomly dropping on him from all four corners. And, Mr. C, well, Mr. C. He's loving this guy, he's highly entertained and challenged, his grin is stretching beyond the laws of physics. "Look, man, this is a free country and I'm entitled to have my opinion ... or not?". More cheering "Go C, Go C!".

Sleek E - remember him? - keeps sweat to the minimum, grabs the mic and produces a Davis-style lethal hiss "You should know that jazz, historically... and your bullshit just makes us...". Slouches back in his chair, looking slightly bored. We loving fans of him know better than to be fooled, he is upset. You can tell by his right eyebrow: one of the hairs is not aligned.

Trombonist Seas gets up and does it his way, never conventional, so it's a giga dance for him, with a mocking face.

It's mayhem. I'm this close to jumping on the table, licking the apple strudel from my knife and going for the guy with the blade between my teeth. My girl YY is laughing convulsely. She's probably thinking of the opening of the set, when C was asking for us people's nationalities, cuz she's looking at me with her eyes big and wild and she repeats, feably, "Italy, Italy". It's mayhem.

And of course it takes a woman to bring reason and peace to our much heated mob. It's the gracious, elegant, commanding Sue Mingus. She walks up and talks about boundaries between jazz and social committment, about Mingus' political views, freedom of speech and respect of each other opinions. Then she invites Mr Death to go up to the bandstand and say his piece.

He doesn't. Oh well, oh well, ohwellohwellohwell.

C has one more thing to say. "We were about to do a ballad now, but you know what? We're NOT!". A-1, A-2, A-1,2,3,uh! It's "Oh Lord don't let them drop that atomic bomb on me" (remember, as I blog and brawl there's a beef between Usa and Iran re: nuclear weapons development) and otherwise shy saxophonist AB gets up and sings, a rich, church tenor voice and a shaking butt. We just havin a good time, he points his finger to Mr Death in the corner and goes: "Don't drop it, stop it, just BEBOP IT!"

Good times.

Oh, and by the way. Beautiful solo on soprano sax, by our man, Mr. C

the coolest nerd in town

A few days ago I was sitting in the lobby of the Beacon hotel with 16 years old Italian altoist FC, throw-your-hands-in-the-air-and-scream-hallelujah prodigy. Deserving of some kind of religious rapture (for some, others like me admire but cum ratio) is his young age, naturally, and how still so green in his merrow he's able to pair technical precision and feeling. What shouldn't surprise or shake is his nationality: after all Italian jazz is in full bloom.

I was there to interview him for the Italian magazine Jazzit. He was wearing faded jeans, shades, engulfing his babyface like some kind of Carnival mask, and an attitude - I had already noticed it the night before at the club he was playing for the week. I couldn't tell how much of his headache was pose, and i decided his wink and slight cockiness were signs of a common and curable disease: teenagehood, with the complication of a celebrity in progress. I knew I was right a few minutes into the interview: as he was loosening up, responding to my cues and, most importantly, to the mention of his friend and mentor, Mr. MW, I could almost see the layers peel off. And what was exposed had freshness and no nonsense.

I wasn't suprised by his quick change of regsiter, rather by a comment made by one member of his crew: "I'm shocked" he said, "you are the first woman, beside my wife (I spoke a mental "woa"), who is so passionate about jazz, and at such a young age!".
"And she's competent!" said F's father.
And there it hit me: not the clumsy, probably unintended sexism. Rather his surprise: I am young, female, vaguely attractive. Ergo, it is impossible, almost sacrilegious, that i should be interested in jazz. I know this is a common feeling in some social circles, yet i can't bring myself to accept, let alone fully understand it.

What is so uncool about jazz? - and by jazz i don't mean Nas' latest jazz-hip hop stint, or New Orleans rebranded hip-hop brass bands, or California's melodic, borderline pop-world music jazz. Or, I cannot believe I'm even writing his name, the Backstreet boy of jazz, Chris Botti. Naw. I mean the real deal. Yes, that vinyl with the torn cover your dad wouldn't stop playing. That 78 to which your Grandpa proposed to your Grandma. You know who they are, right, those guys with an instrument, little money, a habit and the history of jazz in their heels?

What is so uncool about jazz? Nothing. Believe me, nothing. If you stick around long enough, I'll prove it to you.

So, in case you were wondering if this is just some random ranting and/or venting, the answer is no. I'm going somewhere with all this.

I am on a mission.

small apple meets big easy

If Darwin was alive today and he was allowed to pick the score to his Theory of evolution - him being the genius I think he was - he would consider a couple of arias from Tosca and Parsifal, because of the grandeur, of the sense of majestic struggle, of the sweet and sour pulp of life becoming notes, flying out of the window eventually landing on sore spots all over bodies and souls. Then, him being the smart ass I'm sure he was, he'd pick up the phone, call a couple of the finest, fiercest cats in town, clear the living room of the specimens and iguana shit from the Galapagos, and he would set up a jazz battle.

A jazz battle is, undoubtedly, a lesson in survival, a crash course in life. Opponents cut each other and heal each other's wounds, all in the space of a blues, a ballad and an uptempo. There is dialogue - a little call and response - there's a parade of fortes - solos, solos, solos - there's reconciliation - cats swingin together - and sometimes the winner is the last man standing, sometimes the winner is a nod and a handhsake at the end. And the promise of more gigs to come. Or, "man, we should get in the studio, work some tracks". If RVG was here. If Rudy Van Gelder was alive.

He is not. In lieu of him we have BT, the "we remind you to keep your conversation at a minimum" and "we're about to embark on a musical journey" man. The man who careens on D club's premises, a Big Gulp of Diet Coke in his (pudgy) hands, always ready, willing and able - the man is a living jazz encyclopedia - to give you a pop quiz on tempos (what is this? uh, what tempo is this? 5/6!) and instant lessons in the history of the genre. All as he walks by and says something in French reminiscin' the good old days, fingers fluttering in the air.

T, sound engineering, watching him go by: "Gee, look how sweaty his fingers are. I hope he's not going to mess up the cds in my booth again. Oh shit, he's heading to my booth, isn't he? No, God, nonono, he's touching stuff, aw... crap, lemme go and take care of this. See you later"

Wondering off the top of my head if "Diet Coke - Women in jazz festival" was BT's idea. Hello sexism, not so good to see you again. I'm wondering if dress code will be twin set, pearls and flats. Will we have to check out tampons at the door? Will an extra 35$ cover be charged to those who can't quote more than 6 variations on the apple pie recipe? And will the mention of tarte tatin cause immediate disqualification - tarte sounding dangerously similar to tart, God forbid, we are all pious, modest ladies here.

Why DIET Coke?

Don't get me wrong though. BT is good and sweet too. When I first set foot at D club's, a private sound check prior to inauguration, he told me: "You're always welcome here". I reciprocated last night, complimenting him on the Jazz Journalists Association award he won last week. He was so flattered he gave me a copy of his last production, a Freddy Cole cd. Sweaty fingerprints and all. It's signed, "Laura, dance to the song in your heart". Luckily women drink Diet Coke: a little more sugar and I could die of diabetic coma.

I saw my first battles at D's. All the time FS and "Ernesto" calling out for blood - "blud, we want blud on the floor!", "blud" that's what it sounded like. No blood was spilled. Hate in jazz is a scary monster with no teeth. Eric Alexander battled Wayne Escoffrey on tenor sax: black tee and blazer vs. grey suit. WE leaning against the wall, fingering EA's solos as he was playing. And this is as raw as it got. Luis Bonilla battled Vince Gardner on trombone, ALJO meets LCJO. It felt like a Latin fiesta, a cookout, Phil Schaap offstage kicking it ballroom style, Bonilla hunching up shoulders, doing a little neck move, feeling salsa, eyeing chicks in the audience, smiling ecstatic at Gardner's slide.

BM loves battles. When he first moved to New York, word was out bout this new cat from the West who could play the tenor sax like forget it. He's got restless bones, rides the night smelling good spots for a fight. Ends up in this Uptown club, a bunch of older cats call him onstage, then start a fast tempo in D flat. BM tries hard but has no clue. "Man, that all you can do?". Feeling so sorry for him they couldn't even look at him in the eyes. Mental note: practice D flat.
Fast forward, BM is now himself one older cat. Young restless bones #2 calling him finished behind his back, saying he's a motherfucker. They meet at a club, YRB2 challanges him, BM says "you name your piece", YRB2 pumps his chest and goes "Giant steps". Fucks up the fingering midway through his solo. BM rolls up his sleeves, goes up, does his thing, Pork pie hat smiling down from wherever it is that jazzmen jam in afterlife. BM walks up to him and "now who's the motherfucker?" asks with his babyface all smile and politeness.

Irvin Mayfield loves battles. New Orleans is his feud, NOJO his court, Los Hombres Calientes his playground. Kermit Ruffin wears funny shirts and has a clown face. He plays New Orleans' Vaughn's and people take sides. This is one mean mob, won't even contemplate the possibility of a tie, it's either IM or KR. I'm in town for my first Jazz Fest, sun is scorching hot and the Big Easy feels like an old gentleman dying with a smile on his face. The Fairgrounds are sizzling, the context is calling for contests. John Coltrane tribute features Ravi C., James Carter and McCoy Tyner. Tyner plays monumental chord blocks, still has them under his nails. Carter is all dolled up in a three pieces suit, white smile flashing all the time. He's a crowd pleaser, plays neverending solos. Ravi glances sideways, cocks his eyebrow, shakes his head so slighlty it's barely visible. And this is battle Coltrane style.

On two opposite corners of North Carrollton, Mayfield battles Ruffin. There is a spontaneous call to prayer, it's a Sunday, this is the gospel of jazz, the street is suddenly a church, signals, billboards, lantern poles make pews for people in their sunday best. But even the guy who later tells me the story on a streetcar heading downtown, big Kermit fan, can't tell who won. Ultimately, even when it's obvious who walks away bruised and battered, it is not about the winner. It's about the dialogue, it's about the art of fencing notes and watching them go for your butt and your soul.

And good thing all these cats lost their afros in the seventies. My man .amp reminds me about is the origin of this species, the jazz battle. Losers got their heads shaved. Back in New Orleans when Joe Oliver was King, small combos used to cross paths on the streets. Lead trumpets would lift their bells to the sky and go clarion. And he who could play longer and louder would win. Clear the street, you, move aside, we the winners. Few exceptions to the rule, like King Oliver warning young Louis Armstrong, "Little Louie, when your band clashes with mine be sure I see you. You're not flesh for my cut".
Back then when the loser had to move aside and have his head shaved off.

And talking about trumpet bells lifted to the sky, Jon Faddis with the Purchase college jazz combo, playing a cathedral on Park Avenue. Watch Faddis aim the trumpet to the vaulted ceiling. Can you feel the sound bouncing all the way to the back and back to the pulpit, by means of your skin?