Charles Mingus

Coyler · March 8, 2007

F*ck me. I love my jazz and Mingus provides me with some of my the my best my moments in my music. But Jesus, sometimes ? and I happily allude, to be specific right f*cking now, to the joyous fact that I'm listening to the ostensibly (and hitherto) accessible Changes 1 & 2 ? the albums make me feel like I'm at best a child looking through a not-wide-enough chink (f*ck off, Ostrich) into somebody else's business; I can plonk my bum down and make room for myself at the back of the bus but I'm sooo the wrong gender, race, and eeeepoch ... and I have f***ing headphones on. Only time I ever really feel like that with jazz, normally a welcoming old pair of hard-lived granny's arms for my type of chancer (except for bold-era Coltrane whom I'm thankfully still far too young to understand); he's too immense and confident and brash and quietly violent and powerful and makes me feel like a Woody Allen figure in the middle of a panic attack gaping at a successful and independent woman riding my own father up the ass.

I think, though, that this is a good thing and I'm glad that I can continue to listen loudeared to every bit of him safe in the knowledge that he's too dead to break down my door and get mediaeval on my white ass for being so fughing (BBBorstalBoy adj. by way of apology to OM) presumptious. Which he's dying to do ... sorry, you big horrible thuggish womanbeating darling.

£440,000 · March 8, 2007

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