FMP S-23

Mayo Thompson

Sounds like this. What it is to be named. A labor of love, involvement and commitment with a splash of alienation, work at cross-purposes, and misunderstanding? Two sit, one nits, three stand, the drummer wasn’t human. One German, two Swiss, an Englishman, an ex-pat Black American, a guest from Texas? Walter and Stefan ? Pointless to pretend it’s seamless. One too at a time. Zero, solo, duo, trio, quart, quint, sext, squint, bent, flint, meant, rent, lent, went. No Fender in sight. Day and night. Of course the work was done on the assumption that there was something real to work on, and that the outcome is not only music but has something to do with it. Jazz music? Music music. Music by rapprochement, treaty, appointment. To her? You’re bound to run into an argument. Where? Everywhere. Purple fountains tragedy above the muted drain. Where jazz comes up the river, people go down. Wind up, up the freak. It’s, you know, Euro, Free-Jazz, music by those would for those who won’t, don’t. Not. Quite: And worse. And over where? It hooks, up maybe, belongs to a long short line of something. Fits in; sort of, next to this, or that. Tow. Hole. A patch of future real estate, grafted to grafts. A high bred self. Borne on. Niche? Beach? Authenticity, country-city, decadence, pragmatist and what? Romance? No chance? Nation-state. Stand long in culture. Freshness of a just drawn ace. Remains. Semi. Prone. Blown. Run over. Undecidable. That isn’t the half of it. There are tunes and, er, uh, “pieces”. Tunes were learned by the band. Sure they got names. Carl wrote them. They played them, made them. Put them down. They jumped all over and held back. The same time. Listened. Didn’t. Had reasons, baggage, baggage of no. Coal. No cabbage. Let us. Like that. Normal. As usual unusual, the art, the good, the sense, the dedication, the affection, aggression, depression, traditions, conventions, the, uhm, uh, need. The need not. It was…summer. Uh-hunh, a machine. An artist coughed. The second go. Then they went home, about their business. The co-op wouldn’t have it on their label. Put your feet up on the table. Dance. This is it. The modern world.

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