LACOUR Jose Andre, Venice in October, 1958, The Cry / Reed. Julliard
A saxophonist in Venice ...
Notes: This is the story of Bobby Saxalto, a boy who wanted to go to Venice in October. He played the saxophone and that is why we nicknamed him Bobby Saxalto, but this was not his real name. He played beautifully, his temples swelled and your memory listened born of terrible dreams, as when once heard the old Bix Beiderbecke or listens these days by soaked overnight star and regret, Don Byas "(p.5)" He was sweating and vibrating and roaring St. Louis blues The man I love with the voice torn, rough and pitted with Louis Armstrong, a voice so much older than him, a voice so torn by life, the years and suffering we had before and she worried belonged to this little boy blond and bland [...] He left Bobby alone complete, closed eyes, nose wrinkled over his saxophone, bitter and anguished melody that brought together all "(p.37)" He played. He played standing at the foot of the bed of Ma, without losing my eye, his temples swelled and his cheeks, he put a warm heart and desperate and he never again played Stormy weather like that day. Never more than elsewhere, for years and years, he played Stormy Weather "(p.40)" He played beautifully, tearing your guts, tears and heart [...] You and other spectators customers and musicians who were in this little box Pigalle reddened in the smoke, you split the heart by watching this boy, trembling, leg too short and swollen at the temples, so pale but so beautiful, swaying in his music, his eyes closed for sinking and suffocating them with so love, hope and so much grief. And your memory of dreams were born, so heartbreaking and terrible as when once heard the old Buddy Bolden or listening, tonight, a night of stars and soaked regrets, Don Byas "(p.118-119)" I love your records. Gillespie. Charlie Parker. Charlie Parker The Bird. The immortal Charlie Parker. I play the alto saxophone, like him, that's why they called me Saxalto "(p.132)" I brought my saxophone, baby. I want to play for you [...] He played like Charlie Parker played just before his death, that is to say beautifully. He played like Charlie Parker played while the thin shadow of death already descended on his features, in Chicago, Charlie escaped and that his body passionate perishable "(p.144)" It was there, swinging slowly playing St. Louis Blues [...] For when they were here, Saint Louis Blues became a funeral march, and they stopped, the policeman, the veiled lady and guardian, because the music they heard this, deaf and stroked the silent tombs, funeral and mourning the dead generations, agreed instead. It was so sad and so beautiful, it came with a heart so deep that no one suddenly moved, and only this song that greeted the beloved "(p.147)" A crisp air and dancing, be- bop, one of those galvanizing trumpet tunes bones of young men broke out, trumpets, saxes and rhythm competed with enthusiasm "(p.203).
Also cited: Nat King Cole, Sinatra.
A saxophonist in Venice ...
Notes: This is the story of Bobby Saxalto, a boy who wanted to go to Venice in October. He played the saxophone and that is why we nicknamed him Bobby Saxalto, but this was not his real name. He played beautifully, his temples swelled and your memory listened born of terrible dreams, as when once heard the old Bix Beiderbecke or listens these days by soaked overnight star and regret, Don Byas "(p.5)" He was sweating and vibrating and roaring St. Louis blues The man I love with the voice torn, rough and pitted with Louis Armstrong, a voice so much older than him, a voice so torn by life, the years and suffering we had before and she worried belonged to this little boy blond and bland [...] He left Bobby alone complete, closed eyes, nose wrinkled over his saxophone, bitter and anguished melody that brought together all "(p.37)" He played. He played standing at the foot of the bed of Ma, without losing my eye, his temples swelled and his cheeks, he put a warm heart and desperate and he never again played Stormy weather like that day. Never more than elsewhere, for years and years, he played Stormy Weather "(p.40)" He played beautifully, tearing your guts, tears and heart [...] You and other spectators customers and musicians who were in this little box Pigalle reddened in the smoke, you split the heart by watching this boy, trembling, leg too short and swollen at the temples, so pale but so beautiful, swaying in his music, his eyes closed for sinking and suffocating them with so love, hope and so much grief. And your memory of dreams were born, so heartbreaking and terrible as when once heard the old Buddy Bolden or listening, tonight, a night of stars and soaked regrets, Don Byas "(p.118-119)" I love your records. Gillespie. Charlie Parker. Charlie Parker The Bird. The immortal Charlie Parker. I play the alto saxophone, like him, that's why they called me Saxalto "(p.132)" I brought my saxophone, baby. I want to play for you [...] He played like Charlie Parker played just before his death, that is to say beautifully. He played like Charlie Parker played while the thin shadow of death already descended on his features, in Chicago, Charlie escaped and that his body passionate perishable "(p.144)" It was there, swinging slowly playing St. Louis Blues [...] For when they were here, Saint Louis Blues became a funeral march, and they stopped, the policeman, the veiled lady and guardian, because the music they heard this, deaf and stroked the silent tombs, funeral and mourning the dead generations, agreed instead. It was so sad and so beautiful, it came with a heart so deep that no one suddenly moved, and only this song that greeted the beloved "(p.147)" A crisp air and dancing, be- bop, one of those galvanizing trumpet tunes bones of young men broke out, trumpets, saxes and rhythm competed with enthusiasm "(p.203).
Also cited: Nat King Cole, Sinatra.
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