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.
A medley of romantic stories to mark Valentine's Day: The Eels, Vince Jones, Bon Iver, The Church, The Beatles.
David Oke Geelong 1982 In my university music major I had my eyes opened to the art form of Jazz music. John Coltrane’s Giant Steps, title track of his 1959 album, always made me pull my head in. It was a reality check. It was wild.
Chris Phillips Maternity Ward, East Melbourne; April 2003 The midwives are attending to other new mums or about-to-be mums. Paul’s putting our stuff in the car to go home. I am a bit nervous that it’s now just the two of us.
Vin Maskell Moggs Creek, Australia; 1983 to 2013 The third and final part of our series about family, a beach house and its record collection.