Damn, I don’t know how I managed to overlook Claude Bolling’s departure. He and Jean-Pierre Rampal helped spark my interest in jazz way back when.
I got in by way of what they called “fusion” — outfits like The Crusaders, Weather Report, Pat Metheny Group, Return to Forever; individuals like Stanley Turrentine and Grover Washington Jr.; and so on.
Some classical and jazz purists turned up their snoots at this sort of thing, but I loved it. Being a flutist of sorts myself I instantly found a connection with the Bolling-Rampal collaboration, right down to the whimsical cartoon album covers.
Bolling himself seemed to have a playful nature, and he resisted attempt to categorize what he was doing musically.
Mr. Bolling’s compositions were sometimes described as “combining” jazz and classical music, but he had a different view.
“I don’t like the word ‘combination,’” he said in 1982 in an interview for The Syracuse New Times, a weekly paper. “This is simply a dialogue between two kinds of music. I have made nothing new. This has been going on for a long time.”
His music will do likewise, no matter what the snobs say.
Here we go again, up into the high country where the gods hang their magic sombreros.
This time we’re in Pat O’B country, Cochise County, Arizona; specifically, the Dragoon Mountains, where the Chiricahua Apache leader Cochise bunkered up in the final years of his struggle against the white man in general and the U.S. Army in particular.
Ken Layne of Desert Oracle Radio takes us there, not by flying saucer, but in search of same. Climb aboard, and buckle up — there may be more than gold and the ghosts of Apache guerrilla fighters in them thar hills.
And the skies are not cloudy all day? Where’s the fun in that?
My man Hal Walter hasn’t been writing a ton lately. But when he settles down to it, he does a job of work.
His latest can be found over at Substack, a platform that helps free-range weirdos like Hal and me crank out whatever for a small fee. But you needn’t reach for your wallet quite yet — you can have a look around without signing up for a newsletter subscription.
I’m not certain that email newsletters are the way to go. Not for me, anyway. Unlike Hal, I’m fairly comfortable with the WordPress platform, and I’m not really interested in trying to make money off this little one-ring circus of mine.
Anyway, does anyone really need another newsletter cluttering up the in-box? That’s pretty much all I get anymore, or so it seems. I have to scroll a long way down the in-box to find an email from an actual human being.
Hal’s Substack presence is very much a work in progress — at the moment, it’s a blog without the email newsletter. But while you’re waiting on the mail, you might pop round to see what he’s nailed to the wall.
I don’t fly the flag a ton. I know where I live; sometimes I’m happy about it, and sometimes I’m not.
Today, right after Joe Biden’s hand came off the family Bible, I moseyed out front and planted two flags, one for Joe, and the other for Kamala Harris.
I wish I’d had a third one, for Amanda Gorman. But we can’t have everything, not even in a country that’s already better than the one we left at noon today. Another hill to climb.
Carrion, my wayward son. There’ll be peace when you are done.
A fat orange vulture lifts off the carcass of the Republic and flaps slowly off to the south.
He hadn’t finished his meal, but there will be others. Right now, the idea is to perch in Florida for a spell, let the stomach settle. But the neighbors there are restless. Something about a contract.
Yeah, and good luck with that. This zopilote treats paper the same way a broke-ass budgie would. You lay it down, he’ll shit on it. Then what you got is a bloated, grunting buzzard and a piece of paper, and both are full of shit.
There are ways to deal with invasive varmints, but paper — unless it’s some old-school wadding in a 12-gauge shotgun shell — generally isn’t much help.
Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.
Now, all evidence to the contrary, I am not entirely insane. I know in my heart of hearts that this bird is not really going anywhere today, regardless of where he roosts. He will be very much with us for many a dark moon, hissing and flapping and shitting on everything, because these are the only things he’s good at, other than lying and grifting and pissing away other peoples’ money.
He’ll still be doing that, too. The pension for the job he couldn’t be bothered to do between tweets is a cool $219,000 per annum at the moment, and he also gets office space, staff, access to health insurance, plus Secret Service backup to ensure that his beak will never write a check that his fat ass can’t cash. And the dummies will send him whatever pennies they’re not spending on guns, ammo, and camo’.
I remain hopeful that a good deal of this money and manpower will be pissed away on a fruitless battle to keep him out of prison before he dies of syphilitic insanity, simple apoplexy, or a bad Big Mac (is there such a thing as a good Big Mac?).
But there will be hissing and flapping and shitting aplenty before — if — this bird is finally and properly caged.
In the meantime, as Joe and Kamala roll up their sleeves, arm themselves with mops, shovels, and buckets, and get to work, we will be treated to the peacocking of various buzzards-in-waiting, each claiming to be the rightful heir to the Throne of Bones.
The Chosen One will proclaim himself a mighty eagle. But don’t you believe it. He’ll be just another goddamn vulture, hunting a meal. There are still a few toothsome tidbits on the carcass.
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