Sometimes the writing on Mp3 blogs, even the better ones, is just so, so bad.
It’s a beautiful, beautiful song, smally sung, its rhymes like so many red-brown berries in a briar bush. A prayer sung like a goodbye—And maybe to you, our readers, so often silent, this seems like a vapid thing to say. “A prayer sung like a goodbye”—what does it mean? what does it mean? What’s a song like a prayer sung like a goodbye? But what I hope is that, like me, you can lie there and know of what I speak. The way a thing that’s not a goodbye can sound like one; the way words, farewelled, go feisting past your ribs and sink into your heart.
Seriously? What?
Which is why I am so grateful for Moistworks, where Megan recently considered that “serial convert Mezz Mezzrow”:
Russian Jew by birth, he converted to black music at 15, which he discovered, of course, in prison. (It “hit me like a millennium would hit a philosopher,” said Mezz.) Black music was just a gateway drug. Under its pernicious influence Mezz converted to the demon weed and became a lifelong viper. Here’s how he describes the experience:
I began to feel very happy and sure of myself. With my loaded horn I could take all the fist-swinging, evil things in the world and bring them together in perfect harmony, spreading peace and joy and relaxation to all the keyed-up and punchy people everywhere. I began to preach my milleniums on the horn, leading all the sinners to glory.
In a rapidly accelerating spiral, Mezz left Chicago (having converted to New York) and moved to Harlem, where he converted to Negroism (see also Norman Mailer.) And that, of course, led him right back to prison, where he famously asked to be confined in the colored cell block. (“I don’t think I’d get along in the white blocks,” said Mezz.)
Mezz was one of the great characters of jazz.
PREVIOUSLY: “You can’t mix up the sweet talk and high-pressure fruiting with blowing jazz music out of your guts”; Mezz Mezzrow meets Mick Jagger; “Don’t fiddle with the Yiddle, or he’ll riddle you in the middle”