Ah! And I almost forgot about a fan right in front of me that bought a beautiful one that was for sale at the merch table at the Workplay show. She was in her 50’s and the person selling the merch told her even though she thought it was ugly, she would be best suited going with her advice and not her taste. Luckily I snagged a split Horehound and the angel of the merch booth put in a Copy that coulda been done by Basquiat. Inside were picks, autograph card, and photo strip. I then heard a hipster horde offer the older lady hundred, 2 hundred for her copy. I quickly told her if he niece is truly a fan, she will be lifted when she opens it at home. Take it to the car now. Goes to show. First impressions aren’t shit. Her niece was autistic, like my nephew(cousin, actually) and related to Jacks music much like he does. Fuck. We all do. With feelings of running Nekkid at our foes with knives in our teeth when Ball and Biscuit hits that cosmic simplicity. Where you know it’s not necessarily virtuoso playing, but guttural angst only translated to our plane via overdriven and piercing notes more comfortable tearing down houses than anything else. Hope KW solo album III has balls. When I play my PoSTtd/99 Problems medley into ball and biscuits iconic riff up to worthwhile improv ala Biscuit love at Miss then back to finish PoSTtd and 99, people flip. When I say improv I’m saying fuck Jazz. The biggest fan of any Jazz quartet is on the stage. I keep waiting for the song to start. Can’t damce to it. Music meant to be played over a hushed audience with mild
Clapping to be held till the end is blasphemous. America’s only music
Ass. Blues! That part where Otis sings about the River and your hand stands on end, that’s blues. The rest is just filler until the pinpoint light of blues can be recaptured. I’ll say it, Miles Davis wasn’t near as good as he thought he was. Chet Baker relearned the trumpet after losing his front teeth. He didn’t let drugs ruin his sound. He did heroin till he died. Sound was shit ‘west coast’ swing, but he didn’t play the tortured artist card. Now. I’ve tried everything to kill my music. To end the sounds and words. Plunging needles deep into pewtrid veins and spending time with the only lady that matters. I’ve doneoind of come, piles of meth, 30+ foxy 30/(infected$ and 4 grams of smack before lunch. I have to run on these things to get things done. And I’m the man for it. Miles was on that bitch. Shit square white folks do. Ah hahaha. I never had bad effects coming off come. Probably cuz I medicated with heroin. See, do all that and still make that one girl determined to hate you cream, leaving a wet spot on her stole and you are Muddy, Jimi. Something poetic about a junkies fingers parting the moist lips of the club owners daughter. She is yours when you catch her daddy’s money he was paying on fire. This is the perfect time to duck out with either her best friend or hated rival. Gotta stir shit up. We have to love in between dominations they say to interpret the world for the rest of the people. I say woman like the best dressed man in the room with the ability to bend the audiences every whim to his own. Life’s too short for friends. Too short to fuck. God knows smack will make your dick a jump rope. Then you try this and that and you reinforce your legend. Bird and the other drummers and a few pianists deserve respect. But cal miles. I hope he’s waiting in hell with his trumpet cuz I’m bringing my White Pemguinong and I’m gonna cut his mutha fucking throat.
My Friends are all Dying and Death can't Be Lying... It's the Truth, and It Don't Make A Noise-'White Moon', THE White Stripes