Pharaoh Sanders is a name I've always loved. When the news of his death broke, my reaction was Oh, no. It meant what he played would dominate my preferred jazz station for days. Being here under a nom de net, I can freely admit to being what was once called a moldy fig—a term Stanley Crouch certainly knew. I love Louis's Hot Fives and Sevens, Bix and Duke, Tatum and Monk, Lester Young and Bud Powell, Tony Fruscella and Richie Garcia—and their musical legacy. The older I get, the more I appreciate old jazz that used to make me turn up my nose. I've tried, gods know, but I don't believe millennia contain enough time for my listening apparatus to learn to hear antimelodic sound as anything but noise. I live near an approach to a Hudson River tunnel. Intended as an honest request: Can you educate me on how the sounds of Sanders et al. are superior to the honks and squawks of tunnel traffic? Thanks, Wayne.
Pharaoh Sanders is a name I've always loved. When the news of his death broke, my reaction was Oh, no. It meant what he played would dominate my preferred jazz station for days. Being here under a nom de net, I can freely admit to being what was once called a moldy fig—a term Stanley Crouch certainly knew. I love Louis's Hot Fives and Sevens, Bix and Duke, Tatum and Monk, Lester Young and Bud Powell, Tony Fruscella and Richie Garcia—and their musical legacy. The older I get, the more I appreciate old jazz that used to make me turn up my nose. I've tried, gods know, but I don't believe millennia contain enough time for my listening apparatus to learn to hear antimelodic sound as anything but noise. I live near an approach to a Hudson River tunnel. Intended as an honest request: Can you educate me on how the sounds of Sanders et al. are superior to the honks and squawks of tunnel traffic? Thanks, Wayne.