headlights splay across a country roadway/ single lane both ways in groovy groovin’ grooves/ to the smooth, smooth sound of billie holiday
For a long time, I wanted to buy a particular set of classic jazz recordings, Louis Armstrong’s Hot Fives and Sevens, which he recorded with various ensembles from 1925-1929.
In the light of the horror—and the resistance— taking place in raw USA, and elsewhere, over Black Lives Matter, Arnold Zable takes us to a better time, a better place, a different war.
Even before the idea of children, the words haunted me. A porcelain pure girl who leaves her dolls and her prince and her silly old bear when adulthood corrupts her imagination.
so often a jazz performance /only swings with sub-Coltrane licks/but experimentalism is the whipping boy/ of evolution
Kerouac’s bebop fills my body. His mellifluous slurring cha-cha-cha’s itself into a new instrument, floating notes like his beloved Charlie Parker saxophone...
With a scowl that could scorch the tops of crème brûlée, I would stalk through the bar to the alleyway to glower outside until the song ended. Even the rotting potato peels and pools of stale beer were preferable to hearing it again.
Word on the streets is that she used to sing on Saturday nights at the Collingwood Town Hall. Does she even know who she is? What do the voices in her head tell her? She is very private, never sharing anything of herself, except her song.
The pokey terrace in Abbotsford didn't seem so dark when I played the Rickie Lee Jones albums; the trains not so loud, the Hoddle St traffic not so near, the ghostly factory not so empty.
In a clandestine operation my wife had left me and took everything but my beloved stereo system in the lounge room (including 500 or so records and a CD collection that was rapidly catching up) and, in the spare room, a single bed.