JSngry

I'm very fond of it myself. Raw Materials and Residuals as well, from about the same time. Then again, I like all things Hemphill.

Same here. LTB brined the turkey overnight and then cooked it on the Big Green Egg. Moistest turkey ever.

Yeah, this. Although...the sheet music changes are the "real" changes, if they're from real sheet music (which is about the only time you'll find stuff this dumb). But that doesn't mean they're right. Or even good. Anytime (alomost) you see a minor 6th iv chord followed by a V7 (instead of a ii half-diminished (or if you like, ii7 b5)) , you can safely assume that you're dealing with old-school sheet music changes and not ones that be used on all but the weirdo retro gigs.

Corner Pocket (Basie) Standing On The Corner (Watching all The Girls) (???) Down On The Corner (Creedence) Up The Street, 'Round The Corner, Down The Block (Kenny Burrell) Run For The Roundhouse Nellie, They'll Never Corner You There Love Is Just Around The Corner (standard) Next Up = Thought(s)

So there's no built-in "swap drive" or whatever it would be called, and no way to format one even if you wanted to? Do Apple computers work that way also? Just wondering. Don't know if the differences in Mac & PC architectures create different needs in that regard (and that's as far as I can go without being totally ignorant about what I'm talking...)

He wasn't anybody other than somebody who played a lot of music really well for a very long time (you know, like everybody does...). If anybody needs more than that, keep looking. It's there (whatever it is, and wherever there is), and you might well encounter Paul Motian once or twice. For me, though, I'll listen to the Dewey/Haden/Motian trio (with or without the leader) dance like crazy on both sides of Bop-Be and be happy.

Oh yeah, Oswald. We decided to go fishing on Sunday afternoon, some public lake, just fishing off a boat dock with a bunch of other people in the middle of the afternoon (in retrospect, it seems obvious that we weren't going to get even a nibble, and of course, we didn't). when a few feet over everybody starts talking about something, the only word that was clear was "Oswald". My dad steps over and asks them what's going on. Some fat guy in a straw Trilby, slacks, and suspenders (odd fishing attire, but hell, it was Shreveport) took a puff off the stub of his cigar and said in a real Ralph Kramden-ish cadence, "Lee Harvey Oswald...is no more", after which he took another puff off his stub and went back to his fishing. We packed up and went home.

I was in second grade in Shreveport, Louisiana, Alexander Elementary. The principal, Mrs. McCormick, was going from room to room announcing the shooting, and then a little later, the death. When the teacher (Mrs. LaGrone) left the room to confer with the principal, presumably about logistics, one boy named Dale (who lived in a tar-paper shack down by the river and ate dinner rolls all in one mouthful) made the comment that he was glad that that n****r President was dead. Everybody else just looked at him like he was an idiot, and when the teacher came back in the room crying (maybe it wasn't a talk about logistics that caused her to leave the room...), Dale shrunk down in his seat. Nice to see that whatever sense of shame he was going to have in life hadn't yet left him. We were renting a house in a new-ish subdivision (Cherokee Park, now a drug-ghetto, or so I'm told) that didn't yet have schools, so we had to go through downtown Shreveport to get home. the rule was "quiet time" all the way through downtown, but on this day, nobody felt like talking, it was just so...weird. But the streets were swirling with activity, and newspaper boys were out with Extra editions of the Times (pretty sure it was, it might have been the Journal, the afternoon paper) for a nickle each. One boy leaned out the bus window and whistled a paper boy over, dropped a nickle, down, yanked the paper into the bus, and resumed his silence. Usually, that would be cause for immediate execution from the bus driver, but she ( I still remember her name too, Mrs. Green, a grey-haired lady who wore glasses and flannel shirts when it was cold) looked up in the mirror and said "get me one too, please". And so it went. When I got home, my dad was already there, very unusual for him to be home that early. He was a lifelong old school "Main Street Republican", but when we got older, he admitted that that was one of the toughest days of his life. He hated Kennedy as a president, but had grown to really dig his personality, especially the press conferences (you weren't alone in that regard, Aloc...). The whole thing just seemed a waste to him, senseless. "I really came to like the guy" was how he put it, and my old man was not one say that about any politician. I didn't really "understand" anything about it then, other than that the whole thing was weird. If you really want to get right down to it, it still was. One more of those things that just should not have happened, but did anyway. A couple of months later, I was at the house of family friends, in the rec room with their kids watching The Beatles debut on the Sullivan show. Everybody was laughing like they were batshit crazyhappy, especially at Ringo. That made sense, and a lot of it.

Why must I be like that? Why must I chase the cat?

That was a blow up? Sorry, I missed that...seemed like a totally reasonable question to me... Maybe next time you should use the JohnnyPic

Just wondering...do they have that space already protected so you can't put any data on it?

Per Paul Motian, Jimmy Crawford was "a motherfucker"! I think the consensus is that Paul Motian was, also.

Flauta Negra!

Not at all! Woodyard uses it with authority and hard groove, right in the pocket. Durham (and most others) hit it too light and with the effect of stiffening up the time, not propelling it. Fine line, I know, and wholly subjective as to where "there" is, but hey...

Forehead to the fore!

But see, that's an assassinator. Whole 'nother thing. Like, an alligator is not an allig. Or, a terminator is not a termin. English is an odd language.

Hands, outstretched, yet empty!

Yeah, if it's assassination by groove, it's cool. Of groove, not so much.

Cold Sweat (James Brown) Cold Cold Heart (Hank Williams) Cold Women With Warm Hearts (Albert King) Baby, It's Cold Outside (standard, duet) Cold as Ice (Foreigner) Next Up = SACK

Fill you head with hair!

He played better and he looked a little pissed. And he stepped down after the tune was over. Based on the recorded evidence, though, I don't think that the esperience had a lasting effect on him. A few years before he dies, Marchel did the same thing to a younger, much less well-established local player who was sitting in (and let me note that Marchel would be encouraging of people who were still working on their skills, but who had the right feel for his thing. But if you came at him with a feel that he didn't like, especially if you had developed your skills, he'd...let you know ) . The guy started hitting that 2 & 4 on the rim, and Marchel turned around and told him none too quietly, "get the knife outta my back, man, get the knife out of my back!" The younger man looked a lot pissed and did not play better, which is why all this talk of hackdom and worthlessness and such seems to me to be cheap visceral thrills gotten from using evaluations appropriate for one tier of talent on another. I would never call Bobby durham a hack, although I would certainly feel comfortable expressing my opinion that his sense of swing does not stimulate mine, as well as noting the fact that that 2 & 4 rim thing he does stirs a rage in me like few other things do, musically or otherwise. But I would never call him a hack, because that would just not be accurate. Groove-assassin, yes. Hack, no. Then again, that's just me.