Noah Howard was one of my favorites & Live at Judson Hall is my all time # one album. Looking forward to the book.

Many many quality points there.

Unglaublich gute Website! Ich bin Buchhädnlerin und bilde mich zur Musikerin weiter… Nun habe ich gute Tipps für meine Warengruppe “Jazz” und für meine eigenen Wünsche! Muchísimas gracias por el trabajo

Sorry: Renate – the ‘technology’ just clicked me off: this would NOT happen to poetry and jazz!!!!!!!

Anyway: Bob Kaufman is called : jazz poet of the street. Here is an example (2nd stanza of his poem “Cocoa Morning”) :
Drummer, Hummer, on the floor
Dreaming of wild beats, softer still,
Yet free of violent city noise,
Please, sweet morning,
Stay here forever.”

In diesem genau diesem Sinne, UND in dem unsrigen:

meine lieben
Gruesse,

Kriki

Yardbird (for Charlie Parker)

Contained within each note he plays is the power to make me cry,
Vibrant tears from the many eyes of the various years of my sordid lives,
Multiple, external, eternal orgasms
Built upon the sublime sad facts of a saintly sax that smacks of smack,
With a crack, whack, quack…slap…clackety-clack attack.
C. P. packs a knockout punch, a sonic lunch,
A mouth-watering snack of communion-wafer wax.
His solos flow, take off and go, suddenly slow, put on a show,
Then race some more and out the door.

What’s his story? Each transcendent tune is
Twenty bucks worth of horse-powered glory.
Poor abused Charlie, so transitory–
Not yet 35 when he died, but looking much older–
A hipster, a quipster, a musical soldier,
His black-Buddha breath, taut lip dams and flyin’ hands
Created grand-slam jams that literally spun him off of bandstands–
Like some tornado doin’ musical handstands with no hands.
Chorus upon chorus of new ideas careening by at breakneck speed,
Electroshock, tick-tock, heart-stop, body-drop, be-fuckin’-bop!
When I hear him blow, I know all I need to know–
Don’t need no lover, no job, no food,
No drugs, no worries, no money, no rules–
Just wanna hear Bird bestow his sacred staccato flow
On the blessed masses far below,
As forever round and round his records go,
Over and over, up and down in an endless loop of soulful sound.

Everyone else is sleeping, their smiles only weeping,
As my unshackled mind is creeping
Back to the 1940′s studio where Charlie’s playing.
Like Tibetan monks chanting, he and his horn are praying.
His band is grooving to the truths he’s proving,
The other cats in the place vying to keep pace
With the master who never stops moving.
Supersonic impressions, hair-pin regressions,
He’s the sensation of improvisation.
Fingers flying, he takes his lumps but his soul is crying.
I’m getting goose bumps, I ain’t lying.
His sound is celebrating the beauty he’s creating,
Testifying to the ecstasy of life, not all the strife he’s absorbing
Or the medicine he’s taking–that junk.
A black genius pushed to the brink by white punks
Who couldn’t even blow their own noses.

And so it goes as his life force grows and grows,
Defeating death with each puff of breath.
Thar he blows! Here he glows! There he flows! Go, Bird, go!
An endless rhyme. Now’s The Time! Going…going…going…
GONE!
c Rick Klaus Theis