Langston Hughes / Weary Blues
by Graham Myres
...listen, the jazz is oozing out over the night, punching holes in the
darkness and leaving the
metal hum of the ride, the soft whisper of the blues; an embrace just
beyond sunlight, alive with
tender sorrow and bleeding trumpet all over...
The sweat that beads up on the bassist's face is enough to melt all the
snow of this
landscape...weary blues, and you feel the tower of song destroying the toy
empires which
surround us.
...sick with jazz, like a virus that spreads, but with sound, and rhythm,
fragile footfalls of a
piano, cracks of light that make us still in its wake. A heartbeat of tone
that celebrates our weak
timber...who could have created such a sound.
...shovel up this shuffle beat, its Barracuda snare, all the colour of the
sliding sax...the asphalt
heat of this city is alive with this power, but it is unaware of itself. A
pure crytalline form of
blues power, trickling out over the scene and bathing us in its glow.
...Joe Pass through the glimmer, the filter of conspicuous guitar, all the
strings vibrating with the
frustration of the sun, shore-bound whales seeking bluer darkness.
...the invention of tobacco, giving creedence to this moment,
to have it drawn out and eaten, peace by piece...I love these weary blues,
each finger of emotion connected to a handful of sound...I love these weary blues.
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