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EXCELLENCE SHINES ~ DM on the Grammy Awards 

The other day Christopher Orr [dreading this year's Oscars] wrote, "Even amid cosmic injustice we must be afforded glimmers of hope."

So true!

Here's a glimmer from 1998 which still gleams:

12 years ago today our Recording Academy awarded the Grammy for best jazz instrumental solo to trumpeters Nick Payton & Doc Cheatham, two of my favorite artists, for their tasty rendering of Hoagy Carmichael's masterpiece "Stardust."

It was one of those rare moments that occurs all too seldom in life, when excellence shines through and the universe nods in accord. Amazingly, the mind-numbing pop culture-drunk music industry briefly woke up, remembered its calling, and cast a collective vote for quality.

For a short while that year, music behaved like the meritocracy we all wish it could be.


We all voted for this record, but whenever I listen to it, I secretly believe it was created just for me.

Mine
, like my big wheel or my slice of Key Lime Pie!


Photo by Hal Leonard

This entire album is a keeper, but I especially dig their treatments of "Stardust," "The World Is Waiting for the Sunrise" and "Jeepers Creepers."

Hear it and get yours on
iTunes or Amazon.

AN ALTERNATE VIEW, FROM SOMEONE WHO WAS THERE 



“It was horrendous. You went to work at 9pm and you played six forty-five minute sets for a room half full of people who were maybe paying attention, but more often not. You did this five or six nights a week. You left the joint at 3:00 a.m. with a few dollars in your pocket and a greasy dinner in your stomach. No, I wouldn’t want to return to those days. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed playing the music, but it was a constant hustle it would have been better to avoid.”


~Roy Haynes on the mid-century "golden age" of jazz

BETWEEN THE SHADOW AND THE SOUL by Pablo Neruda 



I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep
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