music clip of the day

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Tag: Ray Anderson

Saturday, September 2nd

more

They’re playing tonight.

BassDrumBone (Mark Helias, bass; Gerry Hemingway, drums; Ray Anderson, trombone), “Kinda Garnerish” (R. Anderson), live, New York, 2015

 

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lagniappe

reading table

though a poor-soiled
province . . .
such fireflies

—Kobayashi Issa, 1763-1827 (translated from Japanese by David G. Lanoue)

Friday, 7/15/11

How’d you get along without this?

James Brown, Japan, 1992

Vodpod videos no longer available.

More? Here. And here. And here.

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lagniappe

mail

This just in from a longtime reader/listener:

Every day I look forward to turning on my computer to see what the clip of the day is. I love what you are doing. Keep it up.

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And several musicians have checked in, responding to messages letting them know they were being featured here.

Hello Richard

How kind of you to send me the info.

Peace always,

Bernard Purdie

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That’s great, thank you!!

Peace,
And Justice!

Ray Anderson

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Thanks Richard

“may your groove be phat”

              george porter, jr.

Saturday, 7/9/11

Rebirth Brass Band

Dave Douglas & Brass Ecstasy

Free Spirit Brass Band

Lester Bowie’s Brass Fantasy

Asphalt Orchestra

Pinettes Brass Band

Here’s another take on the brass band.

Ray Anderson’s Pocket Brass Band (RA, trombone; Lew Soloff, trumpet;
Matt Perrine, sousaphone; Bobby Previte, drums)

Live, Powerplay Studio, Switzerland (Maur), 5/27/10

Vodpod videos no longer available.

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Live, Trondheim Jazz Festival (Norway), 5/14/10

Vodpod videos no longer available.

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lagniappe

art beat

Cy Twombly, April 25, 1928-July 5, 2011

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The death of Cy Twombly has an oddly catastrophic feel—oddly because he was eighty-three and a canonical master, but catastrophic because he takes with him a certain epochal, now thoroughly historical, sense of wide-open liberty in very high culture. Such was the cynosure of new art in New York sixty years ago, when Twombly had his first show of startlingly scrawly, somehow furiously languid paintings and drawings. Unlike the heroes of Abstract Expressionism and his comrades Rauschenberg and Johns, he never drove that afflatus. Rather, he took it as a routine state of mind and soul. This could seem dandyishly insolent of him: shrugging off the requirement for logical necessity in big-time avant-garde art. He made clear that he did what he felt like doing. His feeling-like-doing-it was the point, ever just a dramatic whisker short of pointlessness. Who did he think he was?

—Peter Schjeldahl, New Yorker (blog), 7/6/11

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