The band had just recorded Rollins' latest Milestone album, Horn Culture , and was in the midst of a worldwide tour that would take them to Europe and Japan following this appearance at George Wein's annual clambake, which had relocated from Newport, Rhode Island to New York City the previous year. Rollins, who a couple of months shy of his 43rd birthday at the time of this concert, opens with some astonishing acappella horn playing in which he stretches out heroically before segueing to a buoyantly swinging interpretation of the Victor Young-Edward Heyman tune from the s, "Love Letters.
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Likewise, he puts his inimitable stamp on "Love Letters," which also features a swinging and harmonically hip solo from Japanese guitarist Masuo and a potent solo from pianist Davis. And the leader closes the piece in as dramatic a fashion as he opened it, with another spell-binding, extemporaneous a cappella showcase.
Masuo's fleet-fingered solo is another highlight of this probing piece. The crowd instantly responds to Rollins' soulful interpretation of Burt Bacharach 's "Alfie," the title track of his Impulse! His thoughts, delivered to me From the white coverlet and pillow, I see now, were inheritances -- Delicate riders of the storm. There are no stars to-night But those of memory. Yet how much room for memory there is In the loose girdle of soft rain. And Thee, across the harbor, silver-paced As though the sun took steps of thee, yet left Some motion ever unspent in they stride, Implicitly thy freedom staying thee!
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Sonny Rollins Quintet - Love Letters
Crane was a poet in the Rimbaud fashion. His life was restless, chaotic and short. I'll give a few small samples of his poetry : His thoughts, delivered to me From the white coverlet and pillow, I see now, were inheritances -- Delicate riders of the storm. View all posts by John Flood. Given what you have done, I realize that peace may not be easy to find.
In a fit of rage, delusion and fear—yes, above all else, I think, fear—you thought that killing was a way out. You decided that the game was over. But the game is not over, though you are dead. You live on in other forms, in the torn families and their despair, in the violation of their trust, in the gaping wound in a community, and in the countless articles and news reports spilling across the country and the world—yes, you live on even in me.
I was also a young boy who grew up in Newtown. Now I am a Zen Buddhist monk. I see you quite clearly in me now, continued in the legacy of your actions, and I see that in death you have not become free. You know, I used to play soccer on the school field outside the room where you died, when I was the age of the children you killed. Our team was the Eagles, and we won our division that year.
My mom still keeps the trophy stashed in a box. To be honest, I was and am not much of a soccer player. Loneliness too strong to bear.
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You are not alone in feeling this. When loneliness comes up it is so easy to seek refuge in a virtual world of computers and films, but do these really help or only increase our isolation? In our drive to be more connected, have we lost our true connection? I want to know what you did with your loneliness. Did you ever, like me, cope by walking in the forests that cover our town? I know well the slope that cuts from that school to the stream, shrouded by beech and white pine.
It makes up the landscape of my mind.
Philharmonic Hall (New York, NY), 06/30/1973
I remember well the thrill of heading out alone on a path winding its way—to Treadwell Park! At that time it felt like a magical path, one of many secrets I discovered throughout those forests, some still hidden. Did you ever play in the course of a stream, making pools with the stones as if of this stretch you were king? Did you ever experience the healing, connection and peace that comes with such moments, like I often did?
Or did your loneliness know only screens, with dancing figures of light at the bid of your will? How many false lives have you lived, how many shots fired, bombs exploded and lives lost in video games and movies?
I am 37 now, about the age my teacher, the Buddha, realized there was a way out of suffering. I am not enlightened. This morning, when I heard the news, and read the words of my shocked classmates, within minutes a wave of sorrow arose, and I wept. Then I walked a bit further, into the woods skirting our monastery, and in the wet, winter cold of France, beside the laurel, I cried again.
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I cried for the children, for the teachers, for their families. I think that I know the landscape of your mind, because it is the landscape of my mind. I think you hated your loneliness. I cried because I have failed you. I have failed to show you how to cry. I have failed to sit and listen to you without judging or reacting.
Like many of my peers, I left Newtown at seventeen, brimming with confidence and purpose, with the congratulations of friends and the approbation of my elders. I was one of the many young people who left, and in leaving we left others, including you, just born, behind. In that sense I am a part of the culture that failed you.