“If Music is a Place — then Jazz is the City, Folk is the Wilderness, Rock is the Road, Classical is a Temple.” ― Vera Nazarian
Jazz opened my life to the endless possibilities. Jazz and literary arts are inextricably attached. Growing up the exposure to the power jazz and literary arts allowed me to tap into our uniqueness and vulnerability. It speaks to the feelings all of us share in our humanness. T.S. Eliot does that for me. Jazz served up the ambience of the nurturing environment to develop our deeply unfurled imagination to be separate but equal. It means coloring outside the lines of social and moral justice to find a peace within that truly connects us to one another. It is not about conforming or following some edict to prove who we really are. It’s about cherishing our differences and somehow we still remain together. It speaks to the place that you feel inspired and generous and the powers of love and compassion are extended beyond our basic needs to a level that all of us have at one time or another. The big Aha! The I get it without uttering a word. Going to rehearsals and traversing through various venues and terrains presented auditory snaps of life’s vast tapestry of culture, American life, is a canvas of life’s challenges This song is the quintessential element of a sextet. There are six musicians with the feel of an orchestra. Miles Davis, a central figure in the 1950s, embraced the meaning from Dizzy, Coltrane, Monk, Tad drawing together a new auditory vision of cool … He broke the rules of jazz five times from 1949 to 1969. … His first Columbia album ‘Round about Midnight (1955) featured Davis’s first. In 1959 he dropped Kind of Blue igniting albums with Cannonball Adderley and Milt Jackson.
Davis and Jackson combine salacious voicings on the head to “Bitty Ditty,” The result was their abilities by demonstrate their elegant mastery of harmony and swing. Both are inspired by the shape of the song’s line, and are completely unfazed and amazed by its intricacies. Give a listen and feel the pain of life and our separation from the Source. Wishing back to the time when we were one with it. So let’s breathe and Laissez les bon temps rouler Peace & Love Out! JBC ❤ & -8)
by T. S. Eliot
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed’s edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
© Copyright 2011-2015 by Jazzybeatchick/JazZenista/Jannat Marie. All rights reserved.
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