[Almost Blue] on Chet Baker's Opioid Sonata

 It’s the stroke of midnight, during a stroke of madness; I’m thinking of Chet Baker’s unashamed, unabashed, undeniable free fall into self-destruction, his very own, designed, composed, directed by the rise of his birth, fall of his physical ability, theatrics thoroughly thinned as so even the undeniably flawed may come as they are, feel no intent at attrition, attribute meager prayer, leave as they came; if only to be reassured by a fanciful deity they’ve no belief in, that those very flaws they possess will ensure natural selection would defy its very own process of elimination principle, just to spare the fool.

            Take the lighter to the base of the spoon, wait for the sizzle of the tar, draw in the cc’s needed after the ever-rising tolerance, slip the tourniquet over the brachial, expose the bulging channels in the antecubital space, brace ready, hold fast for the pinch of the needle’s near microscopic puncture, wait for the flash of blood, the indication, now the thumb commences to press the contents, the centuries-old known to man, inside, seconds lapse, just but a few, until euphoria breaks the silence with its impish liege of serotonin and dopamine, the tip of the lagging unfiltered Lucky Strike, weakly held between the lips is lit, trumpet is clasped in clammy palm; Chet Baker is again born.

            An Opioid Sonata is the continuation by an alternative means made a way of life refusing to be lived by any other means. And if by some means, some miraculous occurrence, as the chance of genetics within the human species should arise, Baker’s Sonata rises to that very occasion. Nothing can be mistaken; sadness is no longer a near but distant cousin to melancholia; bliss is estranged, rather shunned, from blessedness. Then and only then, is the canvas for one to paint their own destiny a possibility because all that holds the individual hostage, are those self-impositions that render themselves uncompromising when they’ve overheard the pillow-talk in the late nights, when the orgasm has been weakened to be conquered by the timeless spasm where electrical currents can no longer detect the static of dwindling of neurons.

Dontrell Lovet't

[Fall of the Jazz Season] on Stanley Kubrick's [Jazz is Hot Again]

[Fall of the Jazz Season] Stanley Kubrick's [Jazz is Hot Again]

Even if we have never enjoyed nor heard them, most can recall the names of Miles Davis, Thelonius Monk, Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Chet Baker and the likes. What too can be injected into the knowledge you may or may not have known, is the shared opiate dreams they all once frequented in dreams. Heroin itself can be blamed for the fall of the decline of the Jazz season.

Stanley Kubrick's [Jazz is Hot Again] can be seen as an idiom, or rather, step upon the already ailing corpse where Jazz lay in utter agony, cries unheard, aid unwilling to be sent. Whatever the obsequious of reasoning, the power and might of Jazz never saw the 80's and Miles Davis's [Kind of Blue] was the sum of what Jazz was, and still might be again, when life again is lived and books again are read.

The weary musician rests after a set, the set in representation is the era where Jazz rose, spread like an unrestrained, uncontrolled ravish upon Swing and Bebop, staining Europe with the scars of having once been the last great hub of an art then, as now, underrated and misunderstood.

[Love is a Losing Game] on Amy Winehouse

An artist is worth only what they will leave in this life when they are gone; that may all there will ever be of their existence, or ever known, their works and contributions to the immortality of art.

  The sensation from Camden that was Amy Winehouse has left the echo of the artist legacy, still rich today as the it became the day of her demise 4 years ago. The Southgate-born vocalist inspired numerous artists and fans the world over, and still continue to do so today. Winehouse's 3 album career spanning 8 years, her last [Lioness, Hidden Treasures] released posthumously 5 months after her death, is a compilation of unreleased songs and demos collaborated with both Island Records and Winehouse's own [Lioness.]

  Winehouse was a tragic figure that lives a life based on purely existing. The infamy of her lifestyle which contributed ultimately to her demise was a source of controversy amongst journalist and media networks but all fell inane to the music, to her music, diverse and creative rhythmic spun from a suffering soul to cure another. Winehouse sacrifice herself not in the interest of self-destruction, but in the interest of the music; the medium chosen was one indulge rather battled, a source of infection left untreated, without attendance nor attention- as long as the music continued, as long as the people responded, the hits were recorded and the Grammy's acknowledged, her tragedy was one of her own, left to it on her own, one she perhaps needed if she was to face her inherent obligation to create.

  Winehouse was an intricate figure, a controversial one, but moreover, an artist who shape-shifted the lives and work of art the world over, leaving the light in the universe that a star does when it suffers a supernova explosion. If there was anything left unfinished in the life and career of Winehouse, it was meant to be that way inasmuch it is that way that she lived, an unfinished marvel.

-Dontrell Lovet't