A philosopher who didn’t take anything seriously.
He played long, luminous tones on his trumpet.
Cult genius or filthy weirdo? Duh. He’s both.
Charlie Parker vs. feebleminded ofays.
Passion, pain, uncertainty and struggle, but the music stays groovy.
Not just a magic spirit but also his own changeling.
Without him, The Sixties as we know them might not have happened.
He served the Beatles’ music with unfaltering skill and imagination.
Takin’ ev’ry wrong direction on his lonely way back home.
She thrived in any musical context: jazz, blues, hokum, pop.
As big as Bing, but he died in obscurity.
Music as volatile as bare wires, as raw as a flayed body.
He gave an embryonic rock‘n’roll its supernatural cred.
The exegesis has just begin.
He asks us to do some deep thinking about music and creativity.
Freed by burnt cork, he became a phenomenon.
He aimed to liberate America aesthetically and socially.
For a guy with no sense of humor, he sure is funny.
Arranging and rearranging was his witchcraft.
“Santa Claus Is A Black Man.”
Everything that ever was, and is now, and ever will be.
A reach for beauty to the exclusion of the world itself.
An avuncular yet urgent singer-songwriter.
He gave himself to Tiny Tim, and Tiny gave himself to us.