My terrible self speaking, Jesse Sublett, that is, well, this is my idea of some kind of heaven… a forest of basses… or a green room before the big Mingus birthday party in the underworld… a study for the pens of an army of Picassos… they’re waiting for something, but is it a gig, or reconciliation day, the wood pulp scrapyard, so their exotic hardwoods and veneers and ebony can be mulched and mixed into a stew to produce more photocopy paper, eviction notices and Kleenex? what random serpents of melody have ravished their cellulose? What sweaty hands and fingers with calluses like rhino horns have coaxed their magic?
(Source: velvetant)
