Sonny Rollins

…said, “Jazz is freedom.”

So if, in 2015, your jazz still sounds like “1955” or even “1968,” you’re projecting what you want to sound like, not what you actually sound like.

No one in 2015 sounds like someone in 1968.

Your jazz in 2015 should be new and overwhelming and ugly and wonderful and attractive.


Excerpt from Rolling Stone interview with Louis Tipton, Aug. 1958

Soloing is like this: forget you’re you. Forget you’re you. You’re not you. You’re a dog now.

You’re one of those dogs that chases cars. And you chase those cars, and chase those cars, and your [owner] yells at you, but you still chase those cars, you need to chase those cars… and for about one second of every time you chase that car, you’re pefectly, completely in time with it… for just a second. For just a second.

So when you solo, that’s what is feels like: like you’re you, chasing God, and if you prepare and practice and work really hard and just really really want it: for just one little portion of one little second, you catch up with Him.

You look [directly] to your right, and there’s God– right [Goddamned] next to you.

That’s why you play, man, that’s why you play with each other: to get there, to get everyone there.


Reality has gone HAY-fucking-WIRE, man!

Black is white, white is black, dude!

Faire is foule and foule is faire, hombre!

Hover through the fog and the filthy air, podna!

The falcon cannot hear the falconer in the widening gyre, my nihg-uhrrr!

Dogs and cats, Chief! Dogs and cats…!!!  Living together, Slugger!

Patti Smith

[From her introduction to the 2011 Edition of Arthur Rimbaud’s “A Season in Hell,” via New directions paperback]

Vows erupt! He shudders as he writes, generating a superb and nasty shedding of skins….

Against the sober daylight

Let us walk into the Second Sight, for these brief seconds, unadorned:

unweaponed and unafraid–


chillingly able to withstand the coming,


material narcissism

of that sober daylight.

[Second] Excerpt from Rolling Stone interview with Louis Tipton, Aug. 1958

Practicing tenor (or at the very least, I imagine, accumulating skill at that task at which you seem to be the most connected to the Gods) puts you in the Realm of the Gods, however distantly– at least close enough for you to see them, to know they are there and to appreciate their mountain; anything else, any other activity during your day, seems like a subtle nonverbal declaration of “I accept I’m dirt with no relation to you.”

Practicing says, “I’m on my way up, motherfuckers.”

I’m gonna need some closure, dead man.

I’m gonna need some closure, dead man.

So I’ll very carefully excise (not exhume) your ashes, and


around midnight

put you in a septic bin,

and spit on it.



Henry Romanova

When I have on a well-used leather glove

and my hair is disgusting because I’ve been in the 96 degree weather working in the yard,

brushing back my hair with that hand

makes me




Non-fiction Novel

Lester Bangs

…fantasies where I tramped the sloping sidewalks of North Beach or Greenwich Village a poet madman king in dada-colored castoff rags, no concept of writing as anything but a sacred squawking Aztec exorcism, no satisfactory concept of existence not bequeathed by mad bums, junkies, perverts, gray old “existential” misanthropes….

–“A Quick Trip Through my Adolescence”

Lester Bangs

Growing up with ease and comfort, but fast, about as fast as you could imagine, short of some primitive tribe’s brutal confirmation, using LSD as a rite of passage like you’re supposed to be able to use the army, things sometimes get a bit complicated.

–“A Quick Trip Through my Adolescence”