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Francis, when I type a f address bar in my Outlook mail , your name appears on. And it reminds me once you're gone. When I go in search f directory of my mobile phone, you also come away from the lot, as if your name was written with a color different from other letters. And that's everywhere, when I go to the factory, this forum you have created for us to migrate the platform hautetfort, I'm seeing your comments, Doudourou, the long . On my two blogs, there the drunken pictures which descends into the list as a heavyweight.
The night of your death, we had dinner together Audine , M. and me. Life is so strange. The chance is sometimes so ... normal! I just chose to spend my holidays in Herault, right next to her. Without calculating, or anything. Mr. wanted to visit this region of France. Audine and I planned to see us, and then, you know how it is, sometimes we foolishly magnifier opportunities available to us, we let slip. So we did not initially known. The next day she went to Paris and when I received the call from France, announcing the news, I had a reflex, a reflex beast caught in the cold. And I called Audine. In extremis. Yes, it was cold despite the heat wave. Chance, as he does things is sometimes disturbing, almost hard to bear because difficult to understand ... Finally, it was the dinner. It was soothing. We talked about you, not that ... of course, but we talked of memories, impressions, feelings, we tried to drill a few mysteries and we laughed because it was better than crying. And we parted after midnight I do not know, my memory tells me that it might be something like 2am. I do not know what happened to our words that night, they have vanished at once, if the silence of the night has come to devour them one by one, or if they could reach you, for t appease a bit, too.
I remember another meal that brought us together all three. I remember it was my home, lunch, and I remember that was good. Particularly well. All three, we know from what, five years at a minimum? Is nothing five years, yet I feel that you are old childhood friends. It's so stupid to write this but I will not bother me: life is strange and the chances seem sometimes abnormally normal, as if something had traced a path for you to share with others, others that you love almost instantly.
I also remember that thou hast proposed to enter this group of bloggers called the Z Band (named after one of them). He was posting a quarterly ticket in common. Typically the kind of ideas do to please you. So I laid on the text Mingus Tijuana of the thing, and a few others, even if you know, I have an amateur side that always makes me oscillate between the link and absence. You do not have blamed me, you could have, I wonder if you should not have! But that's another story.
Sunday, friends of the Z Band have each published a text for you to pay tribute. I read a few. They sent you a disc. I wish I could do. Physically I mean, throwing pancakes to the sky and imagine that you and the skinning you to do just swirl their LPs with the nail of your index. But you see I'm late. It is Wednesday. I have not been able to find the right end by which begin this post! It's silly, it did not improve, I'm completely off topic, but hey, I'm ...
Chance (yet) because I wanted to talk to you a disc in my back from vacation. So I'll do that. It's not much, a little trick that I discovered that way. It's an old project of American keyboardist (but born of Puerto Rican parents) Eddie Palmieri, which dates from the mid 70s. Something caliente, as they say in Brooklyn, very dirty. Bastard. The Harlem River Drive , it's called. A trick of metics, doubts you worry, frown for dancing, rubbing their sides on the bottom of some fierce females not to sweat blood and water, up more hours. In this disc, one palm a little, we no longer know what is Latin, African, New York. It is the child a little crazy with a kind of orgy full of laughter and fury. Damn, I wish as you listen it, even to tell me that you do not like. Just for us to discuss, as we have discussed for hours, orally or electronically, with delight, voracity, Joe Henderson, Kenny Dorham or the damn Tommy Flanagan! This
ticket is informed and I do not even know how to conclude. It is finally sent to you. I could end with a wish, maybe? Why not! I wish you all the time, wherever you are, access to pure knowledge, I wish you to become a kind of encyclopedia of miraculous sounds, ideas, joy, words. I hope you now find yourself at the confluence of all sounds, all notes, all the laughs. And yet paradoxically you can enjoy these gifts that are so beautiful humans (and which were so evident among you): curiosity and wonder. I hope you your eyes can see Bird and Trane, and others, and you tell them a little banter with greasy hair rital the equally venerated. While waiting for our reunion.
Other tributes:
Mysteriojazz : Billie Holiday
Master Chronicle: John Coltrane & Johnny Hartman
Weasel : Night and the City, Charlie Haden
Jazz in Paris : Aretha Franklin
Jazz Frisson : A passer by Gilles Vigneault by Karen Young
ptilou's Blog : Michael Blake
The Magpie Blois : Live at Fip Hadouk Trio
Z and Jazz : Pharaoh Sanders Karma
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