Best 709 quotes in «jazz quotes» category

You must surrender whatever preconceptions you have about music if you're really interested in it.

You need better technique than I have to play jazz, but what you have to do is the same thing, isn't it?

You should never be comfortable, man. Being comfortable fouled up a lot of musicians.

You've got to learn your instrument. Then, you practice, practice, practice. And then, when you finally get up there on the bandstand, forget all that and just wail.

After a noticeable silence, he'd recently published a book of technically baffling poems, with line breaks so arbitrary and frequent as to be useless, arrhythmic. On the page they look like some of Charles Bukowski's skinny, chatty, muttering-stuttering antiverses. Impossibly, Mark's words make music, the faraway strains of an irresistible jazz. It's plain to any reader, within a few lines—well, go read the poems and see, Marcus Ahearn traffics with the ineffable. He makes the mind of the speaker present, in that here-and-now where the reader actually reads—that place. Such a rare thing. Samuel Beckett. Jean Follain, Ionesco—the composer Billy Strayhorn. Mark calls his process "psychic improvisation" and referred me to the painter Paul Klee; the term was Klee's. "You just get out a pen and a notebook and let your mind go long," he told me.

Almost immediately after jazz musicians arrived in Paris, they began to gather in two of the city’s most important creative neighborhoods: Montmartre and Montparnasse, respectively the Right and Left Bank haunts of artists, intellectuals, poets, and musicians since the late nineteenth century. Performing in these high-profile and popular entertainment districts could give an advantage to jazz musicians because Parisians and tourists already knew to go there when they wanted to spend a night out on the town. As hubs of artistic imagination and experimentation, Montmartre and Montparnasse therefore attracted the kinds of audiences that might appreciate the new and thrilling sounds of jazz. For many listeners, these locations leant the music something of their own exciting aura, and the early success of jazz in Paris probably had at least as much to do with musicians playing there as did other factors. In spite of their similarities, however, by the 1920s these neighborhoods were on two very different paths, each representing competing visions of what France could become after the war. And the reactions to jazz in each place became important markers of the difference between the two areas and visions. Montmartre was legendary as the late-nineteenth-century capital of “bohemian Paris,” where French artists had gathered and cabaret songs had filled the air. In its heyday, Montmartre was one of the centers of popular entertainment, and its artists prided themselves on flying in the face of respectable middle-class values. But by the 1920s, Montmartre represented an established artistic tradition, not the challenge to bourgeois life that it had been at the fin de siècle. Entertainment culture was rapidly changing both in substance and style in the postwar era, and a desire for new sounds, including foreign music and exotic art, was quickly replacing the love for the cabarets’ French chansons. Jazz was not entirely to blame for such changes, of course. Commercial pressures, especially the rapidly growing tourist trade, eroded the popularity of old Montmartre cabarets, which were not always able to compete with the newer music halls and dance halls. Yet jazz bore much of the criticism from those who saw the changes in Montmartre as the death of French popular entertainment. Montparnasse, on the other hand, was the face of a modern Paris. It was the international crossroads where an ever changing mixture of people celebrated, rather than lamented, cosmopolitanism and exoticism in all its forms, especially in jazz bands. These different attitudes within the entertainment districts and their institutions reflected the impact of the broader trends at work in Paris—the influx of foreign populations, for example, or the advent of cars and electricity on city streets as indicators of modern technology—and the possible consequences for French culture. Jazz was at the confluence of these trends, and it became a convenient symbol for the struggle they represented.

An inch of gold can't buy an inch of time

American musicians, instead of investigating ragtime, attempt to ignore it, or dismiss it with a contemptuous word. But that has always been the course of scholasticism in every branch of art. Whatever new thing the 'people' like is poohpoohed; whatever is 'popular' is spoken of as not worth the while. The fact is, nothing great or enduring, especially in music, has ever sprung full-fledged and unprecedented from the brain of any master; the best that he gives to the world he gathers from the hearts of the people, and runs it through the alembic of his genius.

A mistake is the most beautiful thing in the world. It is the only way you can get to some place you’ve never been before. I try to make as many as I can. Making a mistake is the only way that you can grow.

And I like Strauss and Mozart and all that, but the priceless gift that African Americans gave the world when they were still in slavery was a gift so great that it is now almost the only reason many foreigners still like us at least a little bit. That specific remedy for the worldwide epidemic of depression is a gift called the blues. All pop music today-jazz, swing, be-bop, Elvis Presley, the Beatles, the Stones, rock and roll, hip hop and on and on- is derived from the blues.

A real musician ain’t gonna choose his own guitar like an evil master choosing his slave. The guitar will choose his master and when he does, you’ll know it.

A primera la hora de la tarde, las calles de Puenteviejo bullían de actividad y de sonidos. Por encima de los gritos, por encima del ruido de los motores y de las máquinas de la constructora Collins Corp que copaba casi todas las obras de Horizonte, el sonido de un saxo voluptuoso acariciaba a los viandantes. Alguien tocaba escondido entre las estatuas de la plaza Mussart y su música alcanzaba todos los rincones del barrio.

A psychic friend could come in very handy." I reshuffled my cards. "I predict I will," she said.

Billie Holiday Her imperfect life led to her becoming a legendary performer with a continuing influence on American music. Born Eleanora Fagan on April 7, 1015 she became a songwriter and jazz singer with an unmistakable vocal style. Although she had a limited range her delivery, tempo and natural skills, held the attention of a devoted following. Influenced by Louis Armstrong and Bessie Smith her success as a pop singer with the Benny Goodman Band started with "Riffin' the Scotch", which sold 5,000 copies. She continued with Count Basie and Artie Shaw and was recognized throughout the 1930s and the 1940s with songs such as “I’ve Got My Love To Keep Me Warm,” “What a Little Moonlight Can Do” and “God Bless the Child.” Plagued with abusive relationships, drug and alcohol addiction, and even a short prison sentence she still rose to the top of the charts. Her predictable deterioration and eventual death on July 17, 1959 was caused by cirrholis of the liver.

Art and disease proliferate via contagion, and similar conditions favor both.

Baku is a jazz city; it's an experience that evokes the old Baku.

Black women were armed, black women were dangerous and the less money they had the deadlier the weapon they chose.

Art speaks a language that my soul comprehends When I slip into a dark place and I can’t go on – I hide in the arms of Jazz for a while – for nourishment, refreshment and inspiration.

Crisi Esistenziale” - (Testo e Musica : Savio De Martino) CHI SONO IO PER SENTIRMI UN DIO, E CHI SEI TU PER DECIDERE, CHI SIAMO NOI NON LO SAPREMO MAI, MA CERTO STA’ CHE NON SIAMO EROI, IL MONDO VA’ CONSUMANDOSI, LA TERRA E’ ORMAI FUOCO E CENERE, LA GIOVENTU’ NON LAVORA PIU’, L’ECONOMIA NON PRODUCE.. RIT. FERMATI, NON COMMETTERE ALTRI DANNI, BASTA METTERSI NEI PANNI, DI CHI HA PERSO OGNI RAGIONE, E VORREBBE QUALCOSA DI PIU’, RITROVANDO QUEI VALORI, QUI SI MUORE PER UN NIENTE, TUTTI SANNO MA SI MENTE, E LA GENTE NON CE LA FA’ PIU’… A PAGARE GLI ERRORI DI CHISSA’, A PARLARE DI COSE CHE NON SA’, NON C’E’ PIU’ SENSO DI DOVERE E SENSO DI MORALITA’, NON C’E’ VITA CHE POSSA TOGLIERE IL DIRITTO DI VIVERE PERCHE’, OGNI ANIMA E’ UN DONO E VA VISSUTA E UN’OPPORTUNITA’.. CHI SONO IO FRA MILIARDI NOI, SEMBRIAMO ORMAI SOLO NUMERI, E CHI SEI TU CHE HAI SETE DI POTERE, CHE PENSI DI DOVER COMANDARE, E NON E’ MAI TARDI PER CAMBIARE, LA LIBERTA’ STA ANCHE NELLO SPERARE, IL MONDO E’ LIBERO DI AMARE, E LO SI FA’ SENZA GUERRE.. RIT. FERMATI, NON COMMETTERE ALTRI DANNI, BASTA METTERSI NEI PANNI, DI CHI HA PERSO OGNI RAGIONE, E VORREBBE QUALCOSA DI PIU’, RITROVANDO QUEI VALORI, QUI SI MUORE PER UN NIENTE, TUTTI SANNO MA SI MENTE, E LA GENTE NON CE LA FA’ PIU’… NON CE LA FA PIU’… NOI SIAMO UNA GENERAZIONE, CHE NON SA’ PIU’ DOVE ANDARE, COLPA DI UNA CONFUSIONE, CHE CI PORTA A SBAGLIARE QUI C’E’… CRISI ESISTENZIALE..CRISI ESISTENZIALE..CRISI ESISTENZIALE…!

Call me crazy, but there is something terribly wrong with this city.

But his own mind was helpless against every moment's headline. He did nothing but leap into the mass of changes and explore them and all the tiny facets so eventually he was completely governed by fears of certainty. He distrusted it in anyone but Nora for there it went to the spine, and yet he attacked it again and again in her, cruelly, hating it, the sure lanes of the probable. Breaking chairs and window glass doors in fury at her certain answers. [15-16]

By the way, this tells you why Auto-Tuned vocals on many contemporary records sound so shallow and lifeless. It’s almost as if everything we learned from African American music during the twentieth century was thrown out the window by technologies in the twenty-first century. The goal should not be to sing every note dead center in the middle of the pitch---we escaped from that musical prison a hundred years ago. Why go back? In an odd sort of way, much of contemporary pop music resembles opera, with all the subtle shadings of bent notes and microtonal alterations abandoned in the quest for mathematically pure tones.

(...)"Flapper"— the notorious character type who bobbed her hair, smoked cigarettes, drank gin, sported short skirts, and passed her evenings in steamy jazz clubs, where she danced in a shockingly immodest fashion with a revolving cast of male suitors.

Determined to enshroud his enchantment.

(...) después el abuelo ponía el disco de uno que tocaba la trompeta y se entusiasmaba, se acariciaba sus bigotes blancos siguiendo el ritmo, escucha a este músico, decía, escucha cómo hace latir la vida en su trompeta, la vida es aliento, muchachito, en principio era el verbo, y los curas quién sabe lo que se han creído, pero el verbo es aliento, muchachito, nada más que aliento... en la vida hay que amar la vida, y a ti tiene que gustarte siempre la vida, recuérdalo, la muerte les gusta a los fascistas...

Don't make a career out of underestimating me." — Claire de Haven

Do we not each dream of dreams? Do we not dance on the notes of lost memories? Then are we not each dreamers of tomorrow and yesterday, since dreams play when time is askew? Are we not all adrift in the constant sea of trial and when all is done, do we not all yearn for ships to carry us home?

Every bloody mark had assassinated my writing along the way.

Everywhere was the atmosphere of a long debauch that had to end; the orchestras played too fast, the stakes were too high at the gambling tables, the players were so empty, so tired, secretly hoping to vanish together into sleep and ... maybe wake on a very distant morning and hear nothing, whatever, no shouting or crooning, find all things changed.

Food is merely a platform for condiments.

Did Bach ever eat pancakes at midnight?

Harlem had been hit by a hurricane: It was raining cats and jazz.

Hardened cement chunks languished on the ground. Gray dust particles spewed into every crevice. The homeless desired this place as a sheltered haven.

He begun to tease air through the brass. At first we all just stood there with our axes at the ready, staring at him. Nothing happened. I glanced at Chip, shook my head. But then I begun to hear, like a pinprick on the air--it was that subtle--the voice of a hummingbird singing at a pitch and speed almost beyond hearing. Wasn't like nothing I ever heard before. The kid come in at a strange angle, made the notes glitter like crystal. Pausing, he took a huge breath, started playing a ear-spitting scale that drawn out the invisible phrase he'd just played.

…he didn’t needs words or even want them because he knew how they could lie, could heat your blood and disappear.

He’d been toting it, and checking it, and packing and unpacking, all the way since fate was on the river - that’s how long - the Big River” - Fate Marable and his riverboat caliope (Cleo seemed to recall), who hadastonished the landings between New Orleans and St. Louis with the wild, harsh, skirling Gypsy music, and left there, echoing in the young and restless even as it dies off round the bed; to linger with them thereafter, in the pelting roar of November midnights and the clickety-clack of lonesome valley freights, until they up one night and go after it in a battered bus, following the telephone wires that make a zigzag music staff against the evening sky - some variation of that basic beginning could be told for everyone who jazz has touched and altered.

He fell for an eighteen-year old girl with one of those deepdown spooky loves that made him so sad and happy he shot her just to keep the feeling going.

His eyes, if anything, gleamed even more bright, having found the treasure he sought.

He has only heard what I felt.

Here, in this quiet place we own, worlds are born. ~Run the Voodoo Down~

History doesn’t start with a tall building and a card with your name written on it, but jokes do. I think someone is taking us for suckers and is playing a mean game.

His eyes never blinked or wavered from mine, encompassing me in a field of control.

I knew all too well the damage of scarlet ink smeared across page-after-page ...

I can’t help but ask, “Do you know where you are?” She turns to me with a foreboding glare. “Do you?

I don’t want to be a free nigger; I want to be a free man.” “Don’t we all. Look. Be what you want--- white or black. Choose. But if you choose black, you got to act black, meaning draw your manhood up—quicklike, and don’t bring me no whiteboy sass.” Hunter’s Hunter and Godlen Gray

How to heal Read Books Listen to Jazz Ride Motorbikes Get Tattooed

I assumed this yoke would encase me as well as any another hobble. Only this one bound the mind.

If it sounds good, it is good.

I have sometimes thought that the mere hearing of those songs would do more to impress some minds with the horrible character of slavery, than the reading of whole volumes of philosophy on the subject could do. I did not, when a slave, understand the deep meaning of those rude and apparently incoherent songs. I was myself within the circle; so that I neither saw nor heard as those without might see and hear. They told a tale of woe which was then altogether beyond my feeble comprehension; they were tones loud, long, and deep; they breathed the prayer and complaint of souls boiling over with bitterest anguish. Every tone was a testimony against slavery, and a prayer to God for deliverance from chains. The hearing of those wild notes always depressed my spirit, and filled me with ineffable sadness. I have frequently found myself in tears while hearing them. The mere recurrence to those songs, even now, afflicts me; and while I am writing these lines, an expression of feeling has already found its way down my cheek. To those songs I trace my first glimmering conception of the dehumanizing character of slavery. I can never get rid of that conception. Those songs still follow me, to deepen my hatred of slavery, and quicken my sympathies for my brethren in bonds. If any one wishes to be impressed with the soul-killing effects of slavery, let him go to Colonel Lloyd's plantation, and, on allowance-day, place himself in the deep pine woods, and there let him, in silence, analyze the sounds that shall pass through the chambers of his soul, - and if he is not thus impressed, it will only be because "there is no flesh in his obdurate heart." I have often been utterly astonished, since I came to the north, to find persons who could speak of the singing, among slaves, as evidence of their contentment and happiness. It is impossible to conceive of a greater mistake. Slaves sing most when they are most unhappy. The songs of the slave represent the sorrows of his heart; and he is relieved by them, only as an aching heart is relieved by its tears. At least, such is my experience. I have often sung to drown my sorrow, but seldom to express my happiness. Crying for joy, and singing for joy, were alike uncommon to me while in the jaws of slavery. The singing of a man cast away upon a desolate island might be as appropriately considered as evidence of contentment and happiness, as the singing of a slave; the songs of the one and of the other are prompted by the same emotion.

In America, music was the first sphere of social interaction in which racial barriers were challenged and overturned. And the challenge went both ways: by the mid-1920s, white bands were playing for all-black audiences at Lincoln Theater and elsewhere. These intermediate steps between segregation and integration represented, for all their problems, progress of sorts.