what it must be, it is!

I play around sometimes with the automatic translators on the web. The following is a review of The Henry Grimes Trio, on Ayler records, with Hamid Drake and David Murray, transduced from the Italian:

From the null one Henry Grimes returns. The orecchie and the hairs are bristled. One that to a sure point of the life, after years sixty are confronted with the best jazzisti of the times (); it has decided to disappear for thirty years from the scenes. One that came considered you draw better bassisti in circulation then; one of more equips to you. It had sold its instrument, had cut every possible bridge; it did not know neanche that Ayler was died. Then its name, unexpected; to Los Angeles. Traced from a social worker. Nourishing cerchia of musicians adopts it ideally, encourages it. Then the time of New York arrives; of a new one low. What it must be; it is! Recorded in june 2004 during the Kerava Jazz Festival that is carried out in Finland, the Henry Grimes Trio reveals entusiasmante machine (free) jazz as little times are given to feel. Of it they make part the drummer Hamid Drake and the titanic one to incedere to sax the tenor of David Murray. Fantastic an incandescent lavica tap that one that is primed between the three, one to sprizzare continuous of sparkes; class and inventiveness to profusione. Us vision is found again in the presence of one/emanation connected directly to the several Ayler, Sonny Rollins. All of one surgical precision, the more complex passages and collectives; the solisti moments of one gold of moving classicità. One real, entusiasmante; epifania sonorous. The drumming often funk of Drake one meets with vibrates to you of Murray, to hold all the united one think the agile melodiche lines to us of Grimes; capolavoro. I detach then omicida of according to brano, assolo sweeping of Drake and the opening to bottom throttle and sax; the perfection! The perfect interpretation of the Ayler verbo in opening of the third fragment, dedication and ecstasy; God on the tip of the fingers that suggests that to keys and ropes and skins to strapazzare. What it must be; it is! Pure Trascendenza! One that had gotten lost is has been found again. The divinity induces ringraziare all that are known in closely alphabetical order. Immense! The Naked Lunch!

Which reminds me. Recurring state of agitated self-reflection in which I am weedy and ill-fitted, in combination with behind the curve and late for everything. On the one hand passionate about a few obscure things that I can’t often fully articulate. Sponsor: What is the purpose then of theater? Hmmmm: I dunno. Explorations even brief of the wealth of information out there on jazz now ranging from a tenor player named Javon Jackson who is visiting The Outpost in Albuquerque this week (really just sort of pale R and B funky nonsense that would never have been booked at The Outpost even a few years ago) to Swedish new music record labels (including a Jimmy Lyons Box Set that I didn’t even know existed or the personnel on Alan Silva’s Luna Surface which it turns out included Braxton, Shepp, Malachi Favors…a record I have owned for a long time but without the jacket so I never knew who was in the brew) to The Bad Plus which I somehow convince myself is a mirror for the apathetic, anhedonistical low affect 20-something chill cynics. To cactus info in response to members of the cactiguide forum wanting help with an ID and I set out fairly sure what something is and end up completely in the dark, really.

In theory, the new mantra “I don’t know the whole story and I don’t have to,” intended to make steps 1-3 bite size is something just fine by me. But when the rubber meets the road (oh strike that, no leave it in) and I touch on areas where I call myself an expert (“And you call yourself an expert? Hahahahahahah”) it’s a painful experience to come up against just how little I actually do know.

Then there is that weedy thing. I am out of place. This is the wrong town with the wrong people, the wrong artists and musicians. Second, third, fourth wave recycled by wannabes, approaches appearing cutting edge and radical here that have been deployed and abandoned decades ago elsewhere. The old arguments about “outside” versus “inside” that aren’t even taking place in my imaginary cities where everyone is very hip and knows who Karen Borca is. Where Cecil Taylor long ago moved from “radical” to “icon.”

I explain and defend here a lot and I imagine a magical place where *other people would bring shit to me that I did not know about* and where all of the explaining and defending would be over with. A group, too, not just one or two others. But that’s just my imagination. Runnin’ away with me.

I theorize that all of these discomforts are aspects of myself emerging rather than hiding in the background and pretending. Certainly a side effect of sobriety.