Notre musique

en écoutant "pieces of africa" (Kronos Quartet), je suis tombé sur un truc d'un certain Hassan Hakmoun, "saade" (i'm happy)"; sublime; pas trouvé sur utube, mais d'autres trucs, très bons, du même; du marock'n'roll, comme on dit :

souvent, ou parfois, je ne sais plus, il m'arrive de me demander ce que vous avez bien pu faire dans vos vies musicales antérieures pour être obligés d'écouter les trucs que vous écoutez, des gars de Nantes, de Strasbourg, de Toulouse, et de je sais plus où, comme si des endroits pareils pouvaient donner autre chose que des choses sans grand intérêt... bon, c'est pas mon problème,





donc un peu de musique, de critique, de généalogie du goût, et du divin (notons que la lecture est ici essentielle)




voici un passage de "Weather Bird: Jazz at the Dawn of its Second Century", de Gary Giddins, le plus grands critique de jazz (vivant)





"
It is now 40 years since I found in Louis Armstrong specifically and in jazz in general a substitute for the God of my fathers

(…)

On a Sunday in September before school started, I reluctantly accompanied my parents on a long drive to visit their friends, and spent the afternoon, as they talked, reading a stack of Cue magazines, one of which had a poll in which a dozen or so jazz critics named their top-ten albums.I memorized many of the titles, most especially the one that appeared on virtually every list: The Louis Armstrong Story, Volume 3: Louis Armstrong and Earl Hines.

Louis Armstrong?—the beaming, perspiring guy who sang “Blueberry Hill” on Ed Sullivan?

I had always enjoyed watching him, but was he a genuinely vital figure or a tourist attraction ?

I bought the album,


(…) when I first heard the opening measures (de basin street blues) with their tinkling celeste, my stomach sank and I groaned: This was worse than I feared, $2.79 down the drain. Yet almost immediately, a soft and gravelly, wordless crooning emerged from what universe I could not imagine. After the final trumpet solo, which builds in spiritual increments, I was at the turntable before the next track began, and played it again, standing there, and then a third time, after which I lifted the platter and noticed a wet spot, a drop of water on the vinyl, and realized I was crying.

I returned the album to its place knowing, at fifteen, that I was in possession, as far as my provincial world was concerned, of a fairly astonishing secret (...) Louis Armstrong, the clowning TV personality, was Bach; and I was then and for some years to come defensive enough not to tell anyone (...) It took me six months to listen to all of side one, in part because I played it only when no one else was around, and memorized each selection before moving to the next. “Weather Bird,” the madman joust with Hines, made me laugh aloud. I did skip quickly over “No, Papa, No.” But not “Muggles,” which begins tediously, until midway in its string of solos Armstrong alights for one of the most dramatic entrances in musical history and turns a blues into his own Kyrie eleison; or “St. James Infirmary,” an inspired rendition of a tune I knew from my immersion in blues and folk; or “Tight Like This,” which was too confusing, head-spinning, fearsome, and weird to share indiscriminately with anyone— all that transgender japing as Armstrong erects a pyramid made of three increasingly blissed-out segments I assumed he could not surpass.

My jazz obsession waxed over those six months as I bought records, listened to the few hours of daily jazz broadcasting, read reviews, lost myself for hours at a time in Leonard Feather’s The New Edition of the Encyclopedia of Jazz, and borrowed ID to gain admittance to the Village Vanguard and the Village Gate. I drifted increasingly into my own world, surreptitiously reading Modern Libraries and paperbacks in class or mentally improvising solos while the second-hand beat out another fifty-minute torment. Pretending to take class notes, I made lists of musicians I had heard or needed to hear. Or I’d fasten on a tune, improvising for days on end—“Airegin,” “Criss Cross”—one chorus after another, bebopping relentlessly into oblivion. Only English engaged my interest—many days, I did not attend school at all. The Beatles arrived; I hardly noticed."



n'aime pas le jazz, qui n'a pas (écouté) ceci :
















en 2002, Gary Giddins classait disque jazz de l'année : David Berkman, Leaving Home

Tous les chemins mènent à... chez moi.

hello careful



oui, tout le monde finit par se rendre chez soi, comme l'esprit, après sa promenade phénoménologique, après avoir fait l'expérience de la diversité des choses, l'avoir intériorisée et transformée en expérience vécue...


et comme disait le grand poète : et nous avons presque perdu la langue en terre étrangère...


sinon, boy, la culture ne se fait pas autrement, j'ai pas voulu réellement te hurter




c'était pour rire

(un peu, même si en même temps, je me dis que la vie est courte et tant de grandes choses à écouter, voir, lire...
Time won't give me time)

mais si on ne s'occupait pas des petits groupes des petites villes, je ne vois pas comment on pourrait vivre la musique se faisant, soi et la musique, après tout les beatles ont été un petit groupe d'une petite ville...


Culture Club

mais c'est super