This is a team post because Justin spilled some coffee on the insert. Thanks y'all for the south[west]ern hospitality. Later, Valérie, and thanks for the postcard. Observe nomadic beehives sprinkle against oily parking lots, because this is pretty much all I can think of that I brought, whether I would wonder which way whispers washes wisdom, there is no other reason why we telecast hours of television.
They call this one the one. Coltrane comes pretty close to the title - you know, it's as much as we could ask of any man / woman. Even that asshole Bono likes it, but for god's sake don't let it put you off. Coltrane's prayer levitates in-between God's giant and smaller steps and the unquestionable unknown chaos that had spiraled downward from the heavens into his prophetic fingers and mad lips. It is the vinyl spinning 'twixt his buttcheeks, the most beautiful excrement propelled by a raging flush through the toilette…
Impressionist music, this jazz, sure. I can tell because I see all the nervous, unhappy brushstrokes and composition such as to make one unable to understand which way to listen, from where, what angle, how to position one's ears that grow older and wiser with every note anyway. It's like walking a long long walk, when you have loads of time to think and you inspect the environment thoroughly. At one point all the ground is obviously blue and there are patches of grass on the clouds. At another point you're the blue thing and below…
Listen to Tunji. How do you describe that shit? I mean, how do you describe the atmosphere? I'll tell you how - goddamn cyberpunk, Blade Runner or something, 6 years before Dick wrote the first one off his drug-crazed mind, 20 years before Scott screened his best movie ever, 22 years before Neuromancer mindfucked sci-fi like a giant mecha fucking up the unhappy contra-cultural rollercoaster hurtin' for a soulmate, 32 years before the unmistakable Global Communication seventy-six-minutes-fourteen-seconds-long imagist scene straight back…