07/24/2019
Floyd
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Mo Better Blues
I saw the best heads of my generation destroyed by delusion, starving hysterically naked [...] on the
Looking for an angry shot. Angel-headed hipsters, the old heavenly contact to starlight-
engine in the transmission of night eagerly awaiting, poor and wrenched and hollow-eyed and high in the supernatural darkness of poor people apartments smoking waxed, hovering above the
Sea of houses in jazz ecstasy. (Allen Ginsberg)
Ginsberg's "Howl" is verbalized jazz, screaming out the wild, surging intoxication of a music that found one of its climaxes in Miles Davis' "Bitches Brew" in 1970 in seemingly uninhibitedly hallucinated images The French counterpart to the German swing youth during the Second World War, Les Zazous, was not yet quite as rampant in its syncopated movement influenced by black jazz and swing. Django Reinhardt and Boris Vian were among the best known representatives associated with the Zazous. But I associate Keiko Mecheri's homage to this movement more with Branford Marsali's soundtrack to Spike Lee's jazz film "Mo Better Blues", which takes the viewer into small to medium-sized American jazz clubs, equipped with heavy wooden furniture and a small stage with a heavy red velvet curtain, the walls paved with black-and-white photographs of saxophonists, trumpeters, drummers, pianists and bassists. Les Zazous smells like the title track of this film, worn, harmonious, less carefree than melancholic and unlike the club in Spike Lee's film, Mecheri's scent hardly smokes at all.
At the beginning a soft trumpet plays lavender and mint, before after a few beats a crunchy sandalwood piano starts together with a warm, almost chocolaty-resinous-balsamic, deep standing bass. The trumpeter already takes a cigarette break, but is rather an e-cigarette that smells slightly like rose tobacco. After about half an hour the drummer enters the small stage, wipes his brushes discreetly and reservedly over the cauldrons steamed with light leather. From time to time, bright, slightly distorted and standing vetiver tones of a green saxophone can be heard in the background, but they serve the sound rather than being perceived as such. A short time later, behind the musicians, a dark red velvety amber curtain is lowered on the wall, sweetly warmly damping the entire sound for another four to five hours before the band begins their one-hour fadeout. Wonderfully quiet jazz for autumn and spring.
(With thanks to Stanze who gave me a half-full bottle of it)
Looking for an angry shot. Angel-headed hipsters, the old heavenly contact to starlight-
engine in the transmission of night eagerly awaiting, poor and wrenched and hollow-eyed and high in the supernatural darkness of poor people apartments smoking waxed, hovering above the
Sea of houses in jazz ecstasy. (Allen Ginsberg)
Ginsberg's "Howl" is verbalized jazz, screaming out the wild, surging intoxication of a music that found one of its climaxes in Miles Davis' "Bitches Brew" in 1970 in seemingly uninhibitedly hallucinated images The French counterpart to the German swing youth during the Second World War, Les Zazous, was not yet quite as rampant in its syncopated movement influenced by black jazz and swing. Django Reinhardt and Boris Vian were among the best known representatives associated with the Zazous. But I associate Keiko Mecheri's homage to this movement more with Branford Marsali's soundtrack to Spike Lee's jazz film "Mo Better Blues", which takes the viewer into small to medium-sized American jazz clubs, equipped with heavy wooden furniture and a small stage with a heavy red velvet curtain, the walls paved with black-and-white photographs of saxophonists, trumpeters, drummers, pianists and bassists. Les Zazous smells like the title track of this film, worn, harmonious, less carefree than melancholic and unlike the club in Spike Lee's film, Mecheri's scent hardly smokes at all.
At the beginning a soft trumpet plays lavender and mint, before after a few beats a crunchy sandalwood piano starts together with a warm, almost chocolaty-resinous-balsamic, deep standing bass. The trumpeter already takes a cigarette break, but is rather an e-cigarette that smells slightly like rose tobacco. After about half an hour the drummer enters the small stage, wipes his brushes discreetly and reservedly over the cauldrons steamed with light leather. From time to time, bright, slightly distorted and standing vetiver tones of a green saxophone can be heard in the background, but they serve the sound rather than being perceived as such. A short time later, behind the musicians, a dark red velvety amber curtain is lowered on the wall, sweetly warmly damping the entire sound for another four to five hours before the band begins their one-hour fadeout. Wonderfully quiet jazz for autumn and spring.
(With thanks to Stanze who gave me a half-full bottle of it)
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Frankcrummit
