His Horn Staring From

I have a few means of musical discovery as I go about my work day.  On my iTunes playlist on my phone is a dump of five-thousand or more songs. Many of those are “classic” songs that are what I need when I exercise or walk through and airport in some other way summon motion to the detriment of concentration.  A large portion material is the digitization of a dear friend, an ethnomusicologist of Jamaican music’s collection of rare ska, rocksteady and reggae singles.  There are gigs and gigs and gigs of B’ sides that still after years of random listening, still yield new discovery.  I believe it was he who pointed out to me that the Jamaican's were, per capita, the most well-recorded (in as much as they made records) of any population on earth. 

But if I’m writing, if I’m reading, if I need concentration well, I cannot have lyrics.  If there are words, I listen to the words and they get jumbled with the words I’m reading or the words I’m trying write.  It’s a bit easier if the words are Cambodian or Amharic or some other language I know nothing of.  But even there, the sounds of the words, if I’m hearing them for a second, a third or a three-hundredth time, take on imagined meanings.  “Setcha Ma Hu” yelled emphatically can also capture my attention and pull me from my primary line of logos.

That doesn’t happen with bee bop.  With hard bop the pace is quick and keeps my back straight and the weaving lines of logic are enthralling but not distracting.  I get how others may differ and find that what propels me forward is a cacophony to their ears, especially when they are trying to concentrate. 

And though I have a Spotify account, I feel like there is limited bop discovery left within its vast archives, which is saying something.  And that Youtube, with its Data-Barron brilliance does a better job of offering up a few new suggestions on the list off the side, every time I settle on something.  I’ve probably listened to most of Lee Morgan’s albums dozens and dozens of times.  And so I was glad to see the compelling blue cover of Lee Morgan’s “The Last Session” listed with him sitting there with his horn staring from behind a pair of shades.  

How had I missed this one?  I knew the story of his fateful murder at Slugs Saloon in the Lower East Side at the hands of his wife.   I checked the dates.  This was recorded about five months beforehand, with an all star studded session.  A double “album” with over and hours worth of material I’ve listened to it over and over and over today, trying to quickly come up to speed on all that I’d missed.  All the while typing emails and happily progressing with the work I had set out before me.

Thursday 9/13/18