Sunday 1/30/22
Completed The Root of the Chord: Writings on Jazz's Essential Power and Artistry and also a 2600 word piece on Freddie Hubbard and the year he had in 1964, which I'll try to move on its own. The Hubbard is in the book, which itself is 78,000 words. The last entry on here laid out my intentions with the book, as a book, pretty well. The books I had in mind as books I wanted this one to surpass were Gunther Schuller's Early Jazz and The Swing Era, and Whitney Balliett's Collected Works: A Journal of Jazz. I did that. Those were the books I considered the best jazz books. Their uses are limited, though.
Watched 1980's Prom Night. Eh. Extended disco sequence was a trial to get through.
Also watched A Field in England, a blend of folk horror and Tristram Shandy. Liked it.
Today I learned that multiple editors at The New Yorker, Harper's, Grove/Atlantic, BOMB, and Conjunctions have been working in tandem with each other, from venue to venue, to suppress my work and discriminate against me. I will detail all of that in the next little bit, and it's time to show everyone what David Remnick is, in full. This is as bad a person as exists in a business comprised of the worst people there have been. He and Willing Davidson and Daniel Zalewski, among others, are quite the cabal at The New Yorker. A couple of informants reached out to me, and I went through the last six years of various forms of data that I have, which they have no idea that I have. This isn't just bad vibes or general hate that comes with fear and envy. It's a linked, concerted effort between many people against one person who is everything they are not.
Was glad to see Mahomes lose. Nothing against him. Just want to see some new blood. He plays with an arrogance that is not confidence, and it cost him today, and cost his team. He's so loose with the football. And it caught up with him. A weakness in his game that he needs to shore up.
I came up with an idea for a Miles Davis piece for later in the year. Also, an idea for a Tom Brady op-ed that I can write tomorrow AM.
Listened to Dick's Picks Volume 11--a Dead show from New Jersey in September 1972--as well as the Clash's London Calling and Carl Perkins' Dance Album. Outstanding music from all. Perkins has never gotten his due. No guitar player had a bigger influence on the Beatles' form of guitar architecture. Townshend's motivic patterns at the start of "Magic Bus" on Live at Leeds also show a heavy familiarity with Perkins' "Gone, Gone, Gone."
Thought about going to an IMAX presentation of the Beatles' rooftop performance, but it was like $30. Saw that the set itself was released on streaming services. The best bootleg version of the rooftop gig is one titled Last Licks Live. There are many. As a listening experience, that's the way to go, and what is on the streaming services is pretty much that.
There's more but I'm tired, and I still have more work to do tonight. I feel strong. My cause, which is as just as can be, somehow manages, paradoxically, to become more just by the day. It's the ever-growing body of work, the undeniable proof of what I am, and the mounting evidence of what they are doing and have been doing for a long time. One of these days, something is going to give.
Tuesday on Downtown I'll discuss Lovecraft, a special Green Day gig from 1992, a legendary unreleased cover of a Muddy Waters song by the Rolling Stones in 1968, Orson Welles as Falstaff on The Dean Martin Show, and a recent entry in these pages on whether one should be proud of one's self or not.
Today is the anniversary of the day I left the foster home and was adopted. And it also marks 2037 days, or 291 weeks, without a drink. Also came up with three new story ideas today. Two were there waiting for me the very second I woke up. I woke up into them and it was like, "Oh, hello," and "oh, hello." That's the point I'm at right now.
Feel a desire to listen to a lot of Stravinsky and Dock Boggs lately.
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