Duke and Billy: cold day here
I want more of Billy Strayhorn. There is an interview with Duke and Billy but Billy doesn’t talk much, Duke is asked all the questions.
He was not a ghost writer. He was not acknowledged on all of his songs.
There is something in here that makes me want to write about it.
Also, that Duke picked his band members for each of their specific abilities. He built a band of giants. Billy was one of those giants. Maybe Billy didn’t want any of the spotlight, preferred the background. Was he paid for the songs he wrote but got no credit for? I have only begun these thoughts on Duke and Billy. Duke has been on my mind a little longer. Playing In a Sentimental Mood at least once a week.
It is my birthday, there will be friends over later. I ‘m excited and then anxious even though it is me who planned and made the party happen. That is why I planned it then because then I have to follow through. Word is bond. Maybe I will start with Ellington this evening.
Listening to Strayhorn play and sing lush life I am not immediately bowled over by his voice, or performance. Have to go through the linear notes to see which songs Strayhorn is playing the piano on. I have barely begun to recognize, correctly, different jazz musicians by the unique sound they have on their instrument. I think it is only Monk I can recognize and I would be embarrassed to be tested on it. He does have that crashing, prolific style that is like no other.
I could not think what to write of. So I turned Abra down, I have not been able to find the right music so have been searching everywhere, and turned on Duke Ellington interview on the Dick Cavett show. Duke wears a cream blue suit in the 10 minute clip, he talks about his sleep schedule, 8 hours before 2 hours before I have to do something.
I was surprised how easily his words jumped into my notebook, that, taken out of the context of the interview, became glowing partially established phrases that shook me into the page: I believe not analysis but listening, I was supposed to be a good painter, Their blood given in every war, Gone along with the thing as it has been.
I have not been writing my own poems, lately, I listen for them in my surroundings, in the many different crowded rooms. At Corner Bakery I sat with my GF egg and bacon sandwhich, extra bacon, at the cold plate glass window seat, jotting down between bites what I heard around me. There was nothing breathtaking but it did start my body writing.
Even the smallest distraction that draws me out can be devastating. I haven’t lost the thread but had built momentum immediately released. Writing can be laborious and when it is hard it sucks. Then something falls in/out of place and it is no longer work but joy, and feels easy as falling asleep after a long satisfying day.
Listening to Johnny Hodges, Billy Strayhorn and the Orchestra, very rich sounds. I always rely on rich, smooth, velvet, when writing and thinking about jazz. I am a poet, I would think I would have more words for it than that. I will keep trying and see what comes of it.
