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Tag: Booker T. Jones

Friday, March 1st

Let’s end the week where we began—Europe, 1967, Sam & Dave.

“Hold On, I’m Comin'” (with Booker T. & the M.G.’s* and The Mar-Keys**), Norway


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lagniappe

random thoughts

The Internet, which reminds us, repeatedly, that there is here and then is now, may make Buddhists of us all.

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*Booker T. Jones, organ; Steve Cropper, guitar; Donald “Duck” Dunn, bass; Al Jackson, Jr., drums.

**Wayne Jackson, trumpet; Andrew Love & Joe Arnold, tenor saxophones.

Friday, 1/25/13

You can only hear with the ears you’ve got. And the ones I’ve got came of age in another era. But is it merely reflexive nostalgia to ask: Is there anything today—anything at all—that can compare with this?

Otis Redding (1941-1967), with Booker T.  & the M.G.’s* and The Mar-Keys,** “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long” (O. Redding & J. Butler), live, Monterey Pop Festival, 1967

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lagniappe

reading table

What advice would you give to people who are looking to be happy?

For starters, learn how to cook.

“Questions for Charles Simic: In-Verse Thinking,” interview by Deborah Solomon, New York Times, 2/3/08

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*Booker T. Jones, organ; Steve Cropper, guitar; Donald “Duck” Dunn, bass; Al Jackson, Jr., drums.

**Wayne Jackson, trumpet; Joe Arnold, alto saxophone; Andrew Love, tenor saxophone.

Friday, 4/1/11

I could listen to this—just the drum track, even—all day.

Booker T. Jones with The Roots, “Everything Is Everything”
Live (recording studio), The Road From Memphis (5/11 release)

Vodpod videos no longer available.

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lagniappe

reading table

spring peace—
after rain a gang war
garden sparrows

—Kobayashi Issa, 1795 (trans. David G. Lanoue)

(Want to improve your life immeasurably? For free? Without side effects? Sign up for Issa Haiku-a-Day. Your inbox never had it so good).

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Alcove

Is it possible that spring could be
once more approaching? We forget each time
what a mindless business it is, porous like sleep,
adrift on the horizon, refusing to take sides, “mugwump
of the final hour,” lest an agenda—horrors!—be imputed to it,
and the whole point of its being spring collapse
like a hole dug in sand. It’s breathy, though,
you have to say that for it.

And should further seasons coagulate
into years, like spilled, dried paint, why,
who’s to say we weren’t provident? We indeed
looked out for others as though they mattered, and they,
catching the spirit, came home with us, spent the night
in an alcove from which their breathing could be heard clearly.
But it’s not over yet. Terrible incidents happen
daily. That’s how we get around obstacles.

—John Ashbery (Planisphere [2009])

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