ulfskei's Blogs

Just a quickie, I must formulate this now, or lose my mind.

This tune 'Bebop', by Gillespie, as played on one live cut by Parker, I can't remember which one it is but it's tremendous. There are no words. 

Aaaaargh.

The beginning, a riff around the key center, just sax, then in comes the band. The drums are wild. And the bass. Wild. The trumpet shows no mercy. The thing that stabs like true bop through the mind is the sax, though. So super. 

And here he does this thing again.This thing I first heard in Coletrane's 'Giant Steps'. This playing ahead of the changes. Anticipation, I think someone said that's what it's called. Might be that, it fits the meaning of the word. Anticipating a change of chord which has yet to come. This is Bebop. Wild. Probing. Pushing the limit. Yeah. 

What a masterpiece. 'Bebop'. And the pace. Wow. Wow.

And the alteration, the lead solo, so much softer than the head. Not all through, no, but mostly. Then back to this staggering head, padaba, padaba padaba padaba, zibidibap boom, padaba, padaba padaba padaba, weoweh.

Let me tell you this: Wow.

Peace

Skei (the lost in wonderland one)

The latest venture in learning 3d graphics is a Fiat 500. Love that car, mom had one in the early seventies. Used to love riding through stockholm in it, me and the brother climbing the tiny backseat, sun roof off, nice memories. Just now in the finishing process, the background will be a gradient, like the jag for instance, and a Fiat logo up in the corner. Perfect. Will make a set of images, then a slideshow of my favourite 3d cars, and record a sweet bop tune for background. 

Yup.

I also have these blueprints for a Bristol, the classic British car, and must make one of that too, and certainly a Vespa. Those are not cars, I know, but the style is just what I dig. 

Mmm.

Peace

Just uploaded a pic of my latest venture in learning 3d graphics; a red Jaguar Mark II 2.4 with black roof. Did it like that to salute my favourite actor, John Thaw, who, sadly, is no longer among us. The world will never be as significant again. I am told John actually wasn't too fond of driving the car, due to it having the small engine size, but still a lot of torque, it was at least a six cylinder engine. But the car is - in my opinion - probably the best looking vehicle ever produced, and was auctioned for 100 000 GBP I believe. 

What a machine.

And for those who might imagine I have given up Jazz guitar, let me put it thusly: I have not. I am constantly practicing, really hard. Have decided not to do any recordings for a while. Soon it will be time to add a bebop number to my playlist, though. I always come back to bop, even if I venture into cool or jazz blues, bop is my love. Charlie Parker the master, becoming good enough to jam with Ulf Wakenius the goal. It's getting there.

Getting there.

Mr Thaw, I salute you!

Peace

Skei (the heard John Fogerty through my balcony door (festival in town) yesterday evening one)(here's to you, Mr Fogerty)

Sitting just idly looking at a typewriter is one way of writing a story. It should be noted, I suppose, it's not the best, most fruitful, way. My editor often pointed this out to me. 

"I suppose" he'd say, "one way of going about this producing something for us would be to actually fill your column with words, to actually write something while staring at the keyboard."

My loosely held agreement with the paper indicated, not so much in words it contained as in implications gathering around the agreement in much the same fashion a thirsty herd of wildebeest might gather for their afternoon tea, had wildebeest ever enjoyed such a treat, that I should produce a semi-lengthy text suitable to be read in the afternoon. By the men and women of leisure who had nothing better to do in the afternoon than reading a column treating items allowing the reader to feel superior and worthy of membership in a select and much limited circle. Refinement. Breed. tailor-made suits and italian shoes. And my column. The 'Smell of Success'.

"You know I have a slight block at the moment, but it'll sort itself out sooner or later, always have."

"Try to make it 'sooner'. Deadline in two days, you know."

"Don't worry, you can always trust old Harry to deliver, you know that!"

I actually felt like I should have reconsidered that last phrase, I hadn't got one measly word down this last week.

"Just deliver, eh."

"Not to worry, it'll come, I know it will!"

"Ok."

"Bye"

"Bye"

I put the phone down and glanced over at the old machine. The keys staring at me, as if accusing me of some hideous act like running down the streets at night naked while screaming 'I'm baaack,move overrr'. I had ideas, it wasn't a problem getting ideas about what to write, it was simply a feeling that it had all been done before. Nothing was fresh, inspiring, interesting. The man winning on lottery, leaving everything and slipping out in the world like a newborn. Realising he had nothing at all to live for even with a nice bank statement. Throwing himself in front of a train to get away from it all. Because all he had won had been an empty life, a hollow smile, nothingness.

Or the one about to empty a gun into a group of people because he heard voices telling him they were evil and must be erased from the earth's surface. Or the one dealing with love, and how difficult it may be to share one's inner life with someone else. Hell, the ideas were there, but they all seemed unworthy to be printed on paper. Simply put: bad.

It used to be easy to write. Easy to fill page upon page with what now seemed like meaningless ramblings. 

The doorbell started making noise. I just couldn't make myself stand up and walk to the damn door. Why should I?

I knew if I just waited around for a minute or so it would stop. Like everything else. Waiting for a minute or two for things to stop doing whatever it was they were doing had always proved to be a safe way to go about life's business, I thought. Sure enough, after a minute it stopped ringing. Ha! Right on. 'He ignored the doorbell as usual, went back to idly staring at the keyboard, the keys staring back at him, white of the paper scaring the hell out of him, like always.'

There it was. A beginning, at least, and not an insignificant one, not at all weak! 'The bottle of whiskey looked at him, promising a few hours of ease, a few hours of sleep.' I suddenly had a flow. 'Hal, please answer the phone, will ya' I looked down at my desk, the gun seemed to call for attention. 'No, let it ring, I have things to do, words to write, a masterpiece to deliver.'  The box of ammunition opened itself, loading the old revolver, promising rest and a multitude of days and nights without problems. I felt my hands going about their business without any assistance from me. I kept on finishing what promised to be my best work ever. My Pulitzer special. My coup de grace. 

'The doorbell kept calling for attention, but there was nobody to open the door. There was nothing but the shot from a snub-nose and a very lonely breath of farewell.' I didn't bother washing the dishes, didn't even turn off the radio. My last thought was simply how nice it all seemed to flow, and the smoothness of the little gun in my hand. A good piece of engineering it was.

"Did you hear about Hal Koslowski?"

"Yeah, sad, mmm?"

"But they say he had just wrapped up a nice piece of writing, and that he actually outdid himself this last time."

"Mmm, he was really good when he lived his writing."

"Sure was, so how about you? Anything cooking?"

"Nah, got this block, must get on with it, but it'll sort itself out sooner or later, always does."

"Yup, sure does."