of music? – While someone
a tape, a CD, instead of writing
As far as the art gets.
‘Soul Eyes’ – to which I’ve done
of pottering about, a few drawings –
which comes to the same thing. Mal Waldron
I came across him
first in the poem for Billie Holiday – ‘The Day
where she whispers to him across the keyboard –
The great thing
& I stopped breathing’? or that Holiday whispers the song
that evokes the magic & tension
– near the door to the toilets? The ‘john’,
& ensures I think of him in a white shirt & narrow tie,
– exactly how it felt, to be in those suits, in that time, at a nightclub
how people held themselves – is gone. Well,
in poetry . . . we still have the music, films –
was he ‘the type’ of the hipster – cool, uptight, hip, witty?
within limits more circumscribed than now?
& get it wrong? Did he
was that maybe how people feel & act in them
at Lark & Tina’s, for example. I’ve been as tense
But night clubs themselves might’ve changed – with the music:
dance music, or for dee-jays, might have altered them.
a little shakey, a little spaced – Jim Carroll’s by repute,
Patti Smith gig. Or Velvet Underground –
& wonderfully casual, relaxed things said, over the music
guesting with local hero Jimmy Forrest: a type of music, & experience,
the same carefree ambience & same reason to pay attention
whether you listen or not. You don’t have to choose of course.
is always great to hear said. This track,
into one word?), is not live but so sad & so unhurried
Coltrane. Well within his limits – as
by great artists often are – a Gauguin still-life
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ken Bolton, a gay, light-hearted bastard, cuts a moodily romantic figure within the dun Australian literary scene, his name inevitably conjuring perhaps that best known image of him, bow-tie askew, grinning cheerfully, at the wheel of his 1958 Jaguar sports car, El Cid. It is this image that also carries in its train the stories of later suffering–the affairs, the women, the bad teeth–and, speaking of teeth, the beautiful poems wrenched from the teeth of despair and written on the wrist of happiness ‘where happiness happens to like its poems written best’ (in his inordinate phrase). (‘Inordinate’?–can you use inordinate like that?) For further information see the author’s Wikipedia page.