Buddy Guy & Junior Wells (BG, guitar; JW, harmonica and vocals; Jimmy Johnson, guitar; Dave Myers, bass; Odie Payne, drums), live, Portugal (Algarve Jazz Festival), 1978
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Junior Parker, 1961
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Roosevelt Sykes, 1936
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lagniappe
reading table
[I]t is out of adolescents who last a sufficient number of years that life makes old men.
—Marcel Proust, Finding Time Again (translated from French by Ian Patterson)
With just one horn, there’s a lot of space for the other players—the so-called “rhythm section”—to fill, which these guys do as well as anyone I’ve heard in a long time.
David Murray’s Black Saint Quartet (DM, tenor saxophone, bass clarinet; Lafayette Gilchrist, piano; Jaribu Shahid, bass; Hamid Drake, drums), live, Berlin, 2007
Her life, she said, was an out-of-tune piano played with passion.
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This evening I sat listening to five presidential candidates offering their imaginary solutions for a country that doesn’t exist.
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“Imaginary maladies are much worse than the real ones, because they’re incurable,” an old friend who walks with difficulty was telling me.
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Much of what our eyes see and our ears hear is lost in translation.
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“An alarm clock with no hands, ticking on the town dump,” is how he described himself.
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They gave the nice old gentleman I met at the bake sale several medals for the misery he caused in some country that no one could find any longer on the map.
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I bet all our elected representatives in Washington spend a great deal of time in front of mirrors admiring themselves. They lift their noses and chins, stare straight ahead without moving an eyebrow or a muscle, then nod their heads gravely and smile to themselves as they go out to meet the people.
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He sat on a bench in Washington Square Park whispering something extremely confidential to his dog, who sat before him with ears perked, wagging his tail cautiously from time to time.
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The crosses all men and women must carry through life are even more visible on this dark and rainy November evening.