Moveable Feast Monday ~ JazzFoodieBytes ~ Macadamia Nut Cheese Raw Vegan Eggplant Lasagna ~Accompanied by Eric Dolphy’s “Something Sweet ~ Something Tender” 1999 Remaster

Movable Feast Monday

I love Moveable Feast Monday mornings because it is my day to kick my week into gear listening to jazz and conjuring up recipes that comfort the soul.   So get your groove on with…M. Dolphy



Now for the Pièce de résistance!  Bon Appétit! Peace and Love Out!  JBC 😎 & ❤

© Copyright 2011-2014  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.


Word Play Wednesday…Here’s The Only Way Left For Regular Guys/Gals Like You And Me To Listen 2 ur life as a Portal to Self Discovery and Expression using Mindfulness Improv to turn Adversity into Love feat. RelaxingRecords – Smooth Jazz Evening – Brain Music


My year of living musically focused on the ability to listen to discern one style from another.  There are specific characteristics that can allow you to search for the truth in our hearts and through self-expression that bring us closer.  Listening intentionally make those sounds come true.  Hearing is the foyer to listening in the parlor, where self-analysis leads to a better understanding of yourself and others.  I had a conversation the other day and it felt as though they were not listening.  I could tell from the questions they asked.  Hearing has become commonplace and superficial in its nature.  Your voice is not heard because of the weeds that grow out of only hearing, and not engaging.  It is a symphony of cacophony.  The sounds at the end of the day left me feeling barren and alone.  I befriended my voice in my head, only to hear how sterile and contrived life had become.  It was a conspiracy of nay-sayers that can bring only darkness to the light.  Hard hearted they come and crowd my voice separating me from my soul.  On the bright side it is only temporary and you can turn things around in any given moment.

Hearing is illusion personified by benign neglect.  Reading aloud in a language you cannot understand.   To have ears, that had become defended by the madness and noise of society.  Let’s Play


Jannat Marie

His cadence moved me.

tonality and voicing askew

began as a thought.

Timing in one note

A picture in a thousand words

Reveals culture’s rage

emerged over time “freeing” the beat

flavored by emotional riffs

hearing in the seasoning thyme

Tasting memories

hot crusted timbre sings

crying out for freedom

Feeling the sounds in the sun

seeing a warm moist noise of forgiveness

Hearing life’s rhythm in 4/4 time

senses filled with harmony

where meeting counterpoint to point

at the synergy of knowing

equality of rights anoint

Dancing in darkness

becomes a conspiracy of the truth.


So jazz does not have to be an acquired taste.  I began listening to jazz in my mother’s womb.  Dad took me to rehearsals and recording of the Monterey Jazz Festival Orchestra when I was nine years old and I became a fan instantly.  Transforming the sounds to words and art I felt inside.  I had fallen in love with sound and words.  Dad taught the basics about jazz music and the musicians form of self expression and improvisation.  It will enhance your listening experience immensely.  So, lean back, open your mind and heart as we begin our wonderful process of exploring jazz terrains and vistas.  Peace Out!

Japanese translation for meaning
Japanese translation for meaning

© Copyright 2011-2014  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.


Moveable Feast Monday ~JazzFoodie Bytes ~Rockin’ with Raw Zucchini Pasta and Meatballs featuring Dizzy Gillespie’ds– “Manteca”

Movable Feast Monday

One of the best features of jazz living always involves having jazz playing in the living room when planning meals and menus that promotes wellness and sustainability especially when times are hard and cost of food continues to rise.  That being said, in the Manteca Backstory the video of the live performance but this version will awaken your visual and acoustic sensibilities. For this post I just wanted to bring the cool acoustic vibes and Dizzy’s signature horn sound in concert with Afro Cuban rhythms that will set the tone for a party of one or just a party of your closest friends and family.  Holiday season is just around the corner and pot lucks will abound. No worries I will continue to find or create healthy delicious recipes under the category Jazz Bytes.  So let’s get back to today’s dish.  Mind you this pasta ain’t your nona’s recipe – but it’s also way better for you. Add in some amazing sauce and raw vegan “meatballs” and you’ve got yourself a meal. I am willing to admit that the first time I made alone.  I  usually make this dish for New Year’s to kick off things with a different beat! Bon Appétit! With Love & Peace Out …JBC ❤ & -8)

Raw Zucchini Pasta and Meatballs Recipe

In The Mix

3-4 zucchini squash
½ t salt

4 cups Portobello mushrooms, roughly chopped
1 cup walnuts, soaked overnight
½ yellow onion, chopped
1 clove garlic
1 T apple cider vinegar
¼ cup parsley
2 t cumin
1 T Nama Shoyu
½ t salt

Marinara sauce:
1 cup Brazil nuts, (I use raw Cashews they are easy to find here in Seattle) soaked overnight
1 cup sun-dried tomatoes, soaked overnight
1 medium tomato
3 T lemon juice
3 T olive oil
1 T agave nectar
1 t red pepper flakes
1½ t salt

Puttin’ things all together:

♪      Spiralize or use a mandolin*, or a peeler shave zucchini into noodles. Toss with ½ t of salt and set aside in a colander to drain. *I use a mandolin and then I lay the zucchini flat in a stack and thinly (linguine size) slice through.  I don’t peel the skin, just scrub it clean of debris and it looks festive.

♪      Drain walnuts and add all meatball ingredients (except the Portobello mushrooms) to the food processor and blend, then add Portobello mushrooms and blend for a few pulses.

♪      Roll meatballs into balls, place in dehydrator overnight or in the oven on parchment paper for about 1-2 hours at 200F, depending on your oven’s temperature.

♪      Drain Brazil (Cashew) nuts and sundried tomatoes and add all sauce ingredients to food processor. Blend. Set aside in a bowl.

Assemble everything on a plate. Now it’s time to let your creative spirit soar.  Let your inner culinary artist free.  This is the part that puts my signature onto the plate

Credit Recipe: Laura Miller

Here is the video for you folks, like me like to see what it should look like…

© Copyright 2011-2014  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

Tell it Slant Tuesday ~ Fifty Years Under the Influence “Jack Kerouac” and “the Beats” is a Lie! Accompanied by David Chesky – “Transcendental Tripping” feat. Billy Drummond, Javon Jackson, Jermey Pelt & Peter Washington

For a movement that was all about the “now”, the Beats have had a pretty good run on a self=serving, drug induced coma like ideology that, when getting a closer look is counter intuitive to the life he lived and wrote about.  It has been over 50 years since Jack Kerouac published his first novel, “The Town and the City” where he identified the sub counterculture  the “Beat Generation.”  Unfortunately he left out the essence and most vital feature of the  ”Counterculture Movement.  That includes  Jazz, Black People, Women and Well, Pretty Much Everything Else in and out of time.


Kerouac Courtesy of itstartswithindotcom
Kerouac Courtesy of itstartswithindotcom

The Beat industry kicked into overdrive on and off since Kerouac’s death. His On the Road is considered the “Holy Grail” of the Beats.  It is a jumble of car journeys, joints and jazz that had already skipped over an entire musical genre before its publication in 1957. It continued to spiral out of control and moved further  from its original context from which it was conceived.   The movie became popular a few years ago however, it was popularized for reasons completely different from what it was intended.  The generation that embraced it was iconoclastic in its experience and understanding of the Civil Rights movement and further perpetuates a “feeling good and cool” which is not grounded in anything but a Selfie imagining being a selfie in a selfless world.

First Space Selfie Courtesy of Pinterest
First Space Selfie Courtesy of Pinterest

Fortunately for its reputation, On the Road is not a book many people would want to read once or even twice.   I barely could get into what he was trying to get across.  Sort of like being the “James Dean” of the writer set in terms of a rebel without a cause or the uncause of the counter culture of the Beatnicks.  It is reported to have been written in three weeks – at tell it slant, but there is no truths not even a message.  It seems to come across as being pretentious, superlative and nauseatingly repetitive and logy.  I can’t figure out why everyone seems to be suffering from withdrawal and was crying out the word “sad”.  Maybe that is the Selfie.  However, there is a big problem with the book on its face.  The egregious treatment of women  — none of whom were depicted as having an intelligent thought.  This sensibility continues into the racial realm, if you lived in the ‘50’s or the early 60’s you know that wanting to be Black from a white suburban youth’s perspective was non existent and simply a fabrication that is so very far from the truth.  It is believed that this insensitive, shallow and false personification non extant POV  is what formed the basis of Norman Mailer’s ponderous 1957 essay The White Negro, which was allegedly inspired by Kerourac’s Beat example. “In the worst of perversion, promiscuity, pimpery, drug addiction, rape, razor-slash bottle-break, what-have-you,” Mailer opined, “the Negro discovered and elaborated a morality of the bottom…”  This seems to be some misguided, misrepresented and an inaccurate account that had become typical for adversities of racial unrest, discrimination, chauvinism and supremacy that insticated the Civil Rights Movement in America.  Jazz is an American art form that inspired genius such as Ellington’s Shakespeare suite

Designers and Labels of the 1950's
Designers and Labels of the 1950’s

Miles Davis’ music score for Louis Malle’s film Ascenseur pour L’echafaud.  Unfortunately to Mailer, Kerouac and the Beats jazz was about drugs, alcohol and incoherency.   This misunderstanding of jazz, Blacks, Women basically American life accounts for the focal problem of what the Beats were really about.  Nothing!  That has got to change and there is no time like the present to set things right.  I’ve been there and to a large extent, still am, but I am about to set the Jazz world on fire because I have been immersed in the Jazz culture all of my life and have had the opportunity to see Jazz differently.  Being Jazz has become a truth that through mindfulness improv meditation, has brought the truth into the light and let the falsehoods and lies remain in the shadows because it does nothing when it comes to serving the American Culture and the world for that matter.  It is time to be awakened to our differences and not feared and demeaned by them.  Peace and Love,  JBC 😎 and <3.

The Torah teaches  You shall do no injustice in judgment...
The Torah teaches You shall do no injustice in judgment…

© Copyright 2011-2014  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

Movable Feast Monday ~ JazzFoodie Bytes ~Awesome “Roasted Winter Vegetable Jambalaya” Accompanied by Kenny Barron – “In The Meantime”

Roasted Winter Vegetable Jambala with garden grown root veggies.  Courtesy a la
Roasted Winter Vegetable Jambalaya with garden grown root veggies. Courtesy a la

I started cooking when I was in the 7th grade in Los Angeles when I signed up for Home Economics and Woodworking.  Growing up with my father meant we were always in some sort of class, on Saturday’s I remember sitting at the white marble table in our family room with my brother and my father bringing in electronic parts so we could either build an oscillator or on this particular Saturday, we built a Crystal Radio.  My father had remodeled our house on Wilton place which was basically an eleven room house.  Entertaining was a large part of the LA scene.  So when I came home elated that I mastered “White Sauce” on the stove.  My father thought it was only fitting that he get the Time Life World Recipe Cookbooks with pictures you would salivate just looking at them.  My father was the real cook in the house.  So he not only taught me how to cook Jambalaya the authentic way.  Cancer has taught me the value of not compromising the taste for good healthy foods that not only sustains you but promotes wellness and thriving.  So my Jazz foodie comrades here is a version that you will not only enjoy but, meat lovers will find it a tasty repast.  Now things would not be proper if you didn’t add the sounds,,, So let’s get to it….

Awesome “Roasted Winter Vegetable Jambalaya”



1 c                   diced yellow and red onion

½ c                  seeded and diced green pepper

1 stalk             celery with leaves finely chopped

3-5 clove       Garlic  minced

¼ tsp.                         chili powder

¼ tsp.             cayenne

Sea Salt 2 taste

3 tbl.               EVOO + 1 tbl  Coconut oil

¾ c      Glenn Muir chopped canned tomatoes w/juice

1 tbl.   Tomato Paste


1 c       brown rice (my favorite is “Easy Cooking Whole Grain Brown Rice Suoyhaka Genmai”  rinsed and soaked overnight and strained for1 hour before cooking.

3 c       Homemade Vegetable Broth



Roasted Vegetables


1 c       peeled and diced carrots

1 c       peeled and diced golden beets

1 c       peeled and diced parsnips

1 c       peeled and diced Yukon Gold potatoes

1 c       peeled and diced white sweet potatoes

½ c      baby portabella mushrooms





½ c      fresh chopped cilantro

½ c      scallions with green tops finely chopped


Sauté onion, paprika, red pepper, chili powder, etc. in I for 5 min add brown rice

and sauté until smell the nutty aroma mix in diced tomatoes and tomato paste and stir for 3 to 5 minutes.   Remove and set aside.


  1. Roast vegetables on foil or parchment paper. Mix all vegetables in a bowl with EVOO, Creole seasoning and spread evenly in a shallow pan.  Dust with pepper.

Roast for 40 to 45 minutes.


Bring rice mixture back onto the burner.  Heat the vegetable broth to light boil and turn on rice mixture and pour broth into Dutch oven.  Add the roasted veggies and mix very well with wooden spoon.  Turn heat to low medium to light simmer, cover and cook for approximately 45 minutes  remove from stove leave lid on and let stand and steam for 10 minutes more.  I prefer to use the same pot for that down home feel, you may want to use your favorite serving dish.  Now it is time to put the Garnish of cilantro and green onions (scallions) .  Serve  with greens or simple salad, French garlic bread and I like sweet green tea, but, wine or beer works.  Perfect for football, soccer or even tennis matches.  I like to have a light dessert like sorbet and fresh fruit.  Pipe in the sound for a nice ambiance and Bon Appétit.  Peace & Love!  JBC 😎 ❤

© Copyright 2011-2014  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

Free Write Friday ~ Takin’ a Trip Down Memory Lane “These Times Are A Changin'” featuring Chicago Jazz Philharmonic – The Face of the Enemy Is Always Changing

“If Music is a Place — then Jazz is the City, Folk is the Wilderness, Rock is the Road, Classical is a Temple.”
― Vera Nazarian

Abstract Art Inspired by Music Courtesy of
Abstract Art Inspired by Music Courtesy of

The only constant in life is change.  I have decided to take a trip down memory lane in the way back machine.  Dad let me digress from listening to jazz on my  Mickey Mouse Record Player that he bought me and would let me buy Bob Dylan, among other folk singers, like Joan Baez, Judy Collins, Rita Coolidge Carly Simon, Carol King and Joni Mitchell to name a few..  I wasn’t so much a Hippie ‘cause multiracial folks was not even a category in that LA Black and White society.  1965 changed so many things on so many fronts.  Here are the lyrics to this powerful timeless song  These Times are a Changin’  you can watch the video.  I thought that “The Face of the Enemy Is Always Changing” in the present moment is way more fitting.  FYI ~  It was a year and eight months before the Watts riots and the Civil Rights Movement and the moment that life in America would undergo a Cultural Revolution.  Can You Feel it?   Peace and Love Out!  JBC 😎 <3.

These Times are a Changin’

Come gather ’round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You’ll be drenched to the bone
If your time to you
Is worth savin’
Then you better start swimmin’
Or you’ll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin’.

Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won’t come again
And don’t speak too soon
For the wheel’s still in spin
And there’s no tellin’ who
That it’s namin’
For the loser now
Will be later to win
For the times they are a-changin’.

Come senators, congressmen
Please heed the call
Don’t stand in the doorway
Don’t block up the hall
For he that gets hurt
Will be he who has stalled
There’s a battle outside
And it is ragin’
It’ll soon shake your windows
And rattle your walls
For the times they are a-changin’.

Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don’t criticize
What you can’t understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agin’
Please get out of the new one
If you can’t lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin’.

The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast
The slow one now
Will later be fast
As the present now
Will later be past
The order is
Rapidly fadin’
And the first one now
Will later be last
For the times they are a-changin’.

These were the best of times and the worst of times growing up in L.A.   Here are highlights that I remember for that year.  Beetles appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show February 9th, 1964.  Jazz musicians dealt with those times with humor with stunts like:  When Dizzy Gillespie ran for president promising to rename the White House “the Blues House” and would appoint Ray Charles librarian of Congress, Miles Davis head of the CIA, and Malcolm X attorney general.  The miniskirt debuted that signaled a rapid change in the mores of the decade.  It was a tumultuous time for race relations which was about to hit the fan.  I was only feeling the tension that was becoming so thick you could cut it with a knife.  Peace Out!

© Copyright 2011-2014  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

Riffshot to A Poet’s Beat ~ Excerpt from Memoir featuring “Song of the Open Road” by Walt Whitman Acoustic ambiance by The Rippingtons – “Pastels On Canvas”

Romare Bearden Collage
Romare Bearden Collage

Excerpt from Memoir…

I am the daughter of a 60s Jazz arranger/conductor where the reining tradition was “rents had the final word”.    I would hole up in my room for hours overhearing myself admit difficult truths that I could not hide from.  It welcomed creative inspirations into my sensory consciousness.    It gave me the chance to explore and discover the province of sound and words.   I found my rhythm. Mom taught me how to read when I was 3.  I was eleven years old when I had fallen in love with sound, art and most of all words.  Dad throughout all of the civil rights Tsunami did not faze him because he was driven to do the best on all levels for the upcoming Festival.  I followed suit in my own little way.  I survived by living in disguise. Since I was very young, the sanctity of my bedroom provided a canvas where I hoped, dreamed, set my own values and aspirations.  When I left my room I had to leave them behind like my books and other treasures tucked away on a shelf nestled in the opposite corner of the room.  I knew that Dad loved me, not without surrendering and bartering my own thoughts and feelings when he told me what I was supposed to want.  Dad repeatedly drummed into me that …being a doctor is where it’s at.  My foray into the jazz world began when I could feel my father intensity and determination of each note I mirrored in words at my desk.  I discovered and accepted the gifts and talents that Grandpa used to tell me… were gifts God gave me.  I let go of my family “persona”  free to let my imagination come alive and tap into my personal sense of purpose and who I really am.  Early mornings I would lie in bed hearing the music climb the stairs, it had a purpose, it had an intent – it was harmonic, it had a rhythm that grabbed my heart and rendered the beats to prepare me to go to my desk open my curtains and let the burst of the morning gently touch my face.  Jazz was transformative.  I was paralyzed by the feeling of losing my father’s love if I chose to follow my star.  I needed for him to tell me things would be okay.  That he would help me, encourage me, teach me the way things are in the world I was living.  How did he do it?  Every time I tried to step out of the role he was created in the song for me, he would resist.  So I would withdraw and try to convince myself that he knows what’s best for me.  I was so conflicted when he would teach me how to sight sing music, take me to his rehearsals and ask what instrument I wanted to learn how to play.  There were definitely rules of conduct and engagement with others.  There were two distinct behaviors, one associated with our home and private life and the one associated with our public life.  I spent most of the time in my room.  There the only rule was to be myself…. So here we go…

Just for today, I wanted to share poem that I read when I was eleven years old that somehow transformed my life…Hope you enjoy a mindfulness improv moment in jazz…Peace Out & Love JBC 😎 <3.


Song of the Open Road



Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.


Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,

Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,

Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,

Strong and content I travel the open road.


The earth, that is sufficient,

I do not want the constellations any nearer,

I know they are very well where they are,

I know they suffice for those who belong to them.


(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,

I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go,

I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,

I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)



You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here,

I believe that much unseen is also here.


Here the profound lesson of reception, nor preference nor denial,

The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas’d, the illiterate person, are not denied;

The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar’s tramp, the drunkard’s stagger, the laughing party of mechanics,

The escaped youth, the rich person’s carriage, the fop, the eloping couple,


The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, the return back from the town,

They pass, I also pass, any thing passes, none can be interdicted,

None but are accepted, none but shall be dear to me.



You air that serves me with breath to speak!

You objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them shape!

You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers!

You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides!

I believe you are latent with unseen existences, you are so dear to me.


You flagg’d walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges!

You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined sides! you distant ships!


You rows of houses! you window-pierc’d façades! you roofs!

You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards!

You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much!

You doors and ascending steps! you arches!

You gray stones of interminable pavements! you trodden crossings!

From all that has touch’d you I believe you have imparted to yourselves, and now would impart the same secretly to me,

From the living and the dead you have peopled your impassive surfaces, and the spirits thereof would be evident and amicable with me.



The earth expanding right hand and left hand,

The picture alive, every part in its best light,

The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted,

The cheerful voice of the public road, the gay fresh sentiment of the road.


O highway I travel, do you say to me Do not leave me?

Do you say Venture not—if you leave me you are lost?

Do you say I am already prepared, I am well-beaten and undenied, adhere to me?


O public road, I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love you,

You express me better than I can express myself,

You shall be more to me than my poem.


I think heroic deeds were all conceiv’d in the open air, and all free poems also,

I think I could stop here myself and do miracles,

I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me,

I think whoever I see must be happy.



From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines,

Going where I list, my own master total and absolute,

Listening to others, considering well what they say,

Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,

Gently,but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.

I inhale great draughts of space,

The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.


I am larger, better than I thought,

I did not know I held so much goodness.


All seems beautiful to me,

I can repeat over to men and women You have done such good to me I would do the same to you,

I will recruit for myself and you as I go,

I will scatter myself among men and women as I go,

I will toss a new gladness and roughness among them,

Whoever denies me it shall not trouble me,

Whoever accepts me he or she shall be blessed and shall bless me.



Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear it would not amaze me,

Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear’d it would not astonish me.


Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons,

It is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth.


Here a great personal deed has room,

(Such a deed seizes upon the hearts of the whole race of men,

Its effusion of strength and will overwhelms law and mocks all authority and all argument against it.)


Here is the test of wisdom,

Wisdom is not finally tested in schools,

Wisdom cannot be pass’d from one having it to another not having it,

Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof,

Applies to all stages and objects and qualities and is content,

Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and the excellence of things;

Something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes it out of the soul.


Now I re-examine philosophies and religions,

They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all under the spacious clouds and along the landscape and flowing currents.


Here is realization,

Here is a man tallied—he realizes here what he has in him,

The past, the future, majesty, love—if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.


Only the kernel of every object nourishes;

Where is he who tears off the husks for you and me?

Where is he that undoes stratagems and envelopes for you and me?


Here is adhesiveness, it is not previously fashion’d, it is apropos;

Do you know what it is as you pass to be loved by strangers?

Do you know the talk of those turning eye-balls?



Here is the efflux of the soul,

The efflux of the soul comes from within through embower’d gates, ever provoking questions,

These yearnings why are they? these thoughts in the darkness why are they?

Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood?

Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?

Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?

(I think they hang there winter and summer on those trees and always drop fruit as I pass;)

What is it I interchange so suddenly with strangers?

What with some driver as I ride on the seat by his side?

What with some fisherman drawing his seine by the shore as I walk by and pause?

What gives me to be free to a woman’s and man’s good-will? what gives them to be free to mine?



The efflux of the soul is happiness, here is happiness,

I think it pervades the open air, waiting at all times,

Now it flows unto us, we are rightly charged.


Here rises the fluid and attaching character,

The fluid and attaching character is the freshness and sweetness of man and woman,

(The herbs of the morning sprout no fresher and sweeter every day out of the roots of themselves, than it sprouts fresh and sweet continually out of itself.)


Toward the fluid and attaching character exudes the sweat of the love of young and old,

From it falls distill’d the charm that mocks beauty and attainments,

Toward it heaves the shuddering longing ache of contact.



Allons! whoever you are come travel with me!

Traveling with me you find what never tires.


The earth never tires,

The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first, Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first,

Be not discouraged, keep on, there are divine things well envelop’d,

I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.


Allons! we must not stop here,

However sweet these laid-up stores, however convenient this dwelling we cannot remain here,

However shelter’d this port and however calm these waters we must not anchor here,

However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us we are permitted to receive it but a little while.



Allons! the inducements shall be greater,

We will sail pathless and wild seas,

We will go where winds blow, waves dash, and the Yankee clipper speeds by under full sail.


Allons! with power, liberty, the earth, the elements,

Health, defiance, gayety, self-esteem, curiosity;

Allons! from all formules!

From your formules, O bat-eyed and materialistic priests.


The stale cadaver blocks up the passage—the burial waits no longer.


Allons! yet take warning!

He traveling with me needs the best blood, thews, endurance,

None may come to the trial till he or she bring courage and health,

Come not here if you have already spent the best of yourself,

Only those may come who come in sweet and determin’d bodies,

No diseas’d person, no rum-drinker or venereal taint is permitted here.


(I and mine do not convince by arguments, similes, rhymes,

We convince by our presence.)



Listen! I will be honest with you,

I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes,

These are the days that must happen to you:

You shall not heap up what is call’d riches,

You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve,

You but arrive at the city to which you were destin’d, you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction before you are call’d by an irresistible call to depart,

You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you,

What beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting,

You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach’d hands toward you.



Allons! after the great Companions, and to belong to them!

They too are on the road—they are the swift and majestic men—they are the greatest women,

Enjoyers of calms of seas and storms of seas,

Sailors of many a ship, walkers of many a mile of land,

Habituès of many distant countries, habituès of far-distant dwellings,

Trusters of men and women, observers of cities, solitary toilers,

Pausers and contemplators of tufts, blossoms, shells of the shore,

Dancers at wedding-dances, kissers of brides, tender helpers of children, bearers of children,

Soldiers of revolts, standers by gaping graves, lowerers-down of coffins,

Journeyers over consecutive seasons, over the years, the curious years each emerging from that which preceded it,

Journeyers as with companions, namely their own diverse phases,

Forth-steppers from the latent unrealized baby-days,

Journeyers gayly with their own youth, journeyers with their bearded and well-grain’d manhood,

Journeyers with their womanhood, ample, unsurpass’d, content,

Journeyers with their own sublime old age of manhood or womanhood,

Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe,

Old age, flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death.



Allons! to that which is endless as it was beginningless,

To undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights,

To merge all in the travel they tend to, and the days and nights they tend to,

Again to merge them in the start of superior journeys,

To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it,

To conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach it and pass it,

To look up or down no road but it stretches and waits for you, however long but it stretches and waits for you,

To see no being, not God’s or any, but you also go thither,

To see no possession but you may possess it, enjoying all without labor or purchase, abstracting the feast yet not abstracting one particle of it,

To take the best of the farmer’s farm and the rich man’s elegant villa, and the chaste blessings of the well-married couple, and the fruits of orchards and flowers of gardens,

To take to your use out of the compact cities as you pass through,

To carry buildings and streets with you afterward wherever you go,

To gather the minds of men out of their brains as you encounter them, to gather the love out of their hearts,

To take your lovers on the road with you, for all that you leave them behind you,

To know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for traveling souls.


All parts away for the progress of souls,

All religion, all solid things, arts, governments—all that was or is apparent upon this globe or any globe, falls into niches and corners before the procession of souls along the grand roads of the universe.


Of the progress of the souls of men and women along the grand roads of the universe, all other progress is the needed emblem and sustenance.


Forever alive, forever forward,

Stately, solemn, sad, withdrawn, baffled, mad, turbulent, feeble, dissatisfied,

Desperate, proud, fond, sick, accepted by men, rejected by men,

They go! they go! I know that they go, but I know not where they go,

But I know that they go toward the best—toward something great.


Whoever you are, come forth! or man or woman come forth!

You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house, though you built it, or though it has been built for you.


Out of the dark confinement! out from behind the screen!

It is useless to protest, I know all and expose it.


Behold through you as bad as the rest,

Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping, of people,

Inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those wash’d and trimm’d faces,

Behold a secret silent loathing and despair.


No husband, no wife, no friend, trusted to hear the confession,

Another self, a duplicate of every one, skulking and hiding it goes,

Formless and wordless through the streets of the cities, polite and bland in the parlors,

In the cars of railroads, in steamboats, in the public assembly,

Home to the houses of men and women, at the table, in the bedroom, everywhere,

Smartly attired, countenance smiling, form upright, death under the breast-bones, hell under the skull-bones,

Under the broadcloth and gloves, under the ribbons and artificial flowers,

Keeping fair with the customs, speaking not a syllable of itself,

Speaking of any thing else but never of itself.



Allons! through struggles and wars!

The goal that was named cannot be countermanded.


Have the past struggles succeeded?

What has succeeded? yourself? your nation? Nature?

Now understand me well—it is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.


My call is the call of battle, I nourish active rebellion,

He going with me must go well arm’d,

He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions.



Allons! the road is before us!

It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well—be not detain’d!


Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen’d!

Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn’d!

Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher!

Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law.


Camerado, I give you my hand!

I give you my love more precious than money,

I give you myself before preaching or law;

Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?

Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?


Japanese translation for meaning
Japanese translation for meaning

Copyright 2011-2014  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

Poet’s Beat on Jazz Canvas ~ “Toward An Organic Philosophy” by Kenneth Rexroth featuring Schawkie Roth – “Awareness Folded in Mystery”

“Toward An Organic Philosophy” by Kenneth Rexroth

Coastal Forest Black And White
Coastal Forest Black And White


The glow of my campfire is dark red and flameless,
The circle of white ash widens around it.
I get up and walk off in the moonlight and each time
I look back the red is deeper and the light smaller.
Scorpio rises late with Mars caught in his claw;
The moon has come before them, the light
Like a choir of children in the young laurel trees.
It is April; the shad, the hot headed fish,
Climbs the rivers; there is trillium in the damp canyons;
The foetid adder’s tongue lolls by the waterfall.
There was a farm at this campsite once, it is almost gone now.
There were sheep here after the farm, and fire
Long ago burned the redwoods out of the gulch,
The Douglas fir off the ridge; today the soil
Is stony and incoherent, the small stones lie flat
And plate the surface like scales.
Twenty years ago the spreading gully
Toppled the big oak over onto the house.
Now there is nothing left but the foundations
Hidden in poison oak, and above on the ridge,
Six lonely, ominous fenceposts;
The redwood beams of the barn make a footbridge
Over the deep waterless creek bed;
The hills are covered with wild oats
Dry and white by midsummer.
I walk in the random survivals of the orchard.
In a patch of moonlight a mole
Shakes his tunnel like an angry vein;
Orion walks waist deep in the fog coming in from the ocean;
Leo crouches under the zenith.
There are tiny hard fruits already on the plum trees.
The purity of the apple blossoms is incredible.
As the wind dies down their fragrance
Clusters around them like thick smoke.
All the day they roared with bees, in the moonlight
They are silent and immaculate.


Spring of full bloom in Sierra Nevada
Spring of full bloom in Sierra Nevada

Once more golden Scorpio glows over the col
Above Deadman Canyon, orderly and brilliant,
Like an inspiration in the brain of Archimedes.
I have seen its light over the warm sea,
Over the coconut beaches, phosphorescent and pulsing;
And the living light in the water
Shivering away from the swimming hand,
Creeping against the lips, filling the floating hair.
Here where the glaciers have been and the snow stays late,
The stone is clean as light, the light steady as stone.
The relationship of stone, ice and stars is systematic and enduring:
Novelty emerges after centuries, a rock spalls from the cliffs,
The glacier contracts and turns grayer,
The stream cuts new sinuosities in the meadow,
The sun moves through space and the earth with it,
The stars change places.
The snow has lasted longer this year,
Than anyone can remember. The lowest meadow is a lake,
The next two are snowfields, the pass is covered with snow,
Only the steepest rocks are bare. Between the pass
And the last meadow the snowfield gapes for a hundred feet,
In a narrow blue chasm through which a waterfall drops,
Spangled with sunset at the top, black and muscular
Where it disappears again in the snow.
The world is filled with hidden running water
That pounds in the ears like ether;
The granite needles rise from the snow, pale as steel;
Above the copper mine the cliff is blood red,
The white snow breaks at the edge of it;
The sky comes close to my eyes like the blue eyes
Of someone kissed in sleep.
I descend to camp,
To the young, sticky, wrinkled aspen leaves,
To the first violets and wild cyclamen,
And cook supper in the blue twilight.
All night deer pass over the snow on sharp hooves,
In the darkness their cold muzzles find the new grass
At the edge of the snow.


Fall In The NC Mountains-L
Fall In The NC Mountains-L

This morning the hermit thrush was absent at breakfast,
His place was taken by a family of chickadees;
At noon a flock of humming birds passed south,
Whirling in the wind up over the saddle between
Ritter and Banner, following the migration lane
Of the Sierra crest southward to Guatemala.
All day cloud shadows have moved over the face of the mountain,
The shadow of a golden eagle weaving between them
Over the face of the glacier.
At sunset the half-moon rides on the bent back of the Scorpion,
The Great Bear kneels on the mountain.
Ten degrees below the moon
Venus sets in the haze arising from the Great Valley.
Jupiter, in opposition to the sun, rises in the alpenglow
Between the burnt peaks. The ventriloquial belling
Of an owl mingles with the bells of the waterfall.
Now there is distant thunder on the east wind.
The east face of the mountain above me
Is lit with far off lightnings and the sky
Above the pass blazes momentarily like an aurora.
It is storming in the White Mountains,
On the arid fourteen-thousand-foot peaks;
Rain is falling on the narrow gray ranges
And dark sedge meadows and white salt flats of Nevada.
Just before moonset a small dense cumulus cloud,
Gleaming like a grape cluster of metal,
Moves over the Sierra crest and grows down the westward slope.
Frost, the color and quality of the cloud,
Lies over all the marsh below my campsite.
The wiry clumps of dwarfed whitebark pines
Are smoky and indistinct in the moonlight,
Only their shadows are really visible.
The lake is immobile and holds the stars
And the peaks deep in itself without a quiver.
In the shallows the geometrical tendrils of ice
Spread their wonderful mathematics in silence.
All night the eyes of deer shine for an instant
As they cross the radius of my firelight.
In the morning the trail will look like a sheep driveway,
All the tracks will point down to the lower canyon.
“Thus,” says Tyndall, “the concerns of this little place
Are changed and fashioned by the obliquity of the earth’s axis,
The chain of dependence which runs through creation,
And links the roll of a planet alike with the interests
Of marmots and of men.”


Japanese translation for meaning
Japanese translation for meaning

Copyright 2011-2014  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

Jazz In Your Ear ~ How to Listen to Jazz and Connect with the Universe Within Like a Pro ~ featuring The Shadow Of Your Smile ~2 Styles Dizzy Gillespie and Kenny G ~ Can U Hear Me Now?

Listening to the Universe within
Listening to the Universe within

When I started listening ( I mean really listening) to jazz music, it was daunting at first.  It was sorta like when I began meditating, I fell asleep! Ouch!  My bad! So this can happen to you when you first listened but even if it doesn’t it could be very enlightening by learning jazz lingo and what to listen for.  I am going to kick off 2014 with a weekly breakdown of the 7 aphorisms of understanding and listening to jazz.  Now that doesn’t have anything to do with the way you impart your style, swagger or look, so don those kicks, put on your favorite shades, grab the chaise and lean in and let the riffs begin.  Here are tips of what to listen for:

∞       How the soloist and the chord playing musician interact. 

∞  Comping (an abbreviation for “accompanying”) is a term used in jazz music to describe chordsrhythms, and counter melodies that keyboard players (piano or organ) or guitar players use to support a jazz musician’s (horn player’s) improvised solo or melody lines.

∞   Call and Response is an interaction between musicians.   The first is the Call phrase is played and the second phrase played is the commentary or Response to the first phrase. It corresponds to the call and response pattern found in a conversation between two people.  It is the basic element of musical form and is the most popular music phrasing in jazz.

∞       Rhythm ~ The backbone and is the most critical component of jazz.  Listen to how the drummer strengthens the bass player. In a Walking bassline the bass and drummer on the ride cymbal are playing the same rhythm.  When the bass player is not playing a walking bassline, the drummer will solo and will play the a dramatically improvised phrase.

∞       Solo Improvisation is where the artist will play without the accompaniment of the drummer. The soloist will sometimes lock on to an idea or phrase and the drummer will mimic the phrase during their improvisational exchange (call and response).

∞       Melody & Timing:   When listening to the solo improvisation keep the song’s melody and rhythm timing in your head to know where the musicians are in the song.  After the musicians have finished playing through the “form” of the song, the drummer will generally play some sort of rhythmic phrase to indicate they are going back to the beginning again of the song. (aka HeadChart).

The 1st track performed by Dizzy Gillespie was nominated for the 1966 Grammy.

There is nothing more beautiful than listening to Kenny G.

Two different artistic expressions and improvisations.  How many of the tips did you hear?

Jazz offers a great listening experience and for folks willing and with a little patience you will emotionally respond to the artist that you are listening to. Now it is a whole different talk show when it comes to going live or going Memorex.  Dizzy was a total performer and somewhat of a comedian when it came to being on stage. I thought I would give you an example …

Uploaded on Nov 21, 2008

Dizzy Gillespie and quintet recorded in 1965 to coincide with the release of the album Dizzy on The French Riviera, with Kenny Barron replacing Lalo Schifrin on piano.

Trumpet – Dizzy Gillespie
Saxaphone/Flute – James Moody
Bass – Christopher White
Piano – Kenny Barron
Drums – Rudy Collins

2 days left to MJF.  If you can’t be there in person, then join me and we will go there in our minds, after all Sun Ra got it…Space Is the Place especially when it’s a head trip…Peace Out!  JBC 😎

Copyright © 2011-14 by Jazzybeatchick. All rights reserved.

This material has been copyrighted,  feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and, provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name @ and your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

Jazz On Canvas ~The MJFO Rehearsal 1965 Tributes the Upcoming 57th Annual Monterey Jazz Festival 2014 continues to Create a Magical Experience


2014 MJF Poster
2014 MJF Poster

You still have 5 days to enter a contest to escape to San Diego! In partnership with Alaska Airlines and Monterey Regional Airport, win a round trip for two plus accommodations to San Diego, or win Arena tickets to next year’s Monterey Jazz Festival!  Click here for more details!

An estimated 500 + artists will be performing nonstop on 8 stages for 3 nights and 2 days of the world’s best jazz.

Voted “World’s Best Jazz Festival” by the readers of JazzTimes Magazine in 2006, 2007 and 2008, the Monterey Jazz Festival offers 20 acres of magnificent oak-studded grounds for fans to enjoy, featuring films, conversations with the Festival’s stars, exhibitions, food and beverages, an international shopping bazaar, and 8 stages of live jazz entertainment spread throughout the grounds.

Here is an excerpt from my memoir  circa 1965.  See why the Monterey Jazz Festival 2014 re-creates that magical Aha! Moment that subsequently transformed and saved my life.

Getting the Big News…

...It was early morning on Wednesday, April 14th, 1965, I pad to the bathroom to get ready for school.  It was my father’s birthday and I could hear him in my parent’s bedroom contacting the musicians that he wanted to play in the orchestra… he selected for trumpets:  Dizzy Gillespie, Freddie Hill, Harry Edison, Melvin Moor & John Audino/ trombones:  Lester Robinson, Francis Fitzpatrick & Jim Amlotte/French Horns:  Herman Lebow, Sam Cassano, David Duke & Alan Robinson/reeds:  Buddy Collete, Gabe Balthazar, Bill Giden, Carrington Visor, Jr., Bill Garden & Jack Nimitz/guitar:  Dennis Budimir/piano:  Phil Moore, Jr./bass:  Jimmy Bond/drums:  Earl Palmer.  When my dad was setting up for the rehearsal dates, I was sitting at the table in the family room beside him drawing pictures and reading.  He would look over and smile and wink at me.  The rehearsals started in mid-June and my father made arrangements for the orchestra to rehearse till the middle of August at MDM Rehearsal Studios in Los Angeles near the L.A. Zoo.

The early evening sky was ashen; it was the last day of school dad came and picked my brother and I up at the school playground.  I was a tomboy and loved to play softball.  When dad whistled we both looked up and saw the car, we ran to the car and jumped in the back seat.  My dad smiled saying “You guys smell like plucked chickens!  We all laughed.  We were now on our way to pick up my mom who taught at an elementary school in Compton.  I always wondered why my mother didn’t lock us in a closet when we got home because she taught students that were the same age as we were, she never did though.  We saw mom and were jumping with joy as dad scolded us to sit still and be quite.

It was quite difficult living and growing up in a racially segregated city like Los Angeles in the 60’s.   I didn’t fit into any group. The jazz world was the only place I felt safe.  Jazz culture had transformed and wasvery  healing because social tensions became gist for self-expression in the musician’s solo performances.  That’s it for now.  Stayed tuned, there’s more… Now that’s Jazz, Peace Out! JBC ❤  😎

Japanese translation for meaning

Copyright 2011-2014  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.