There will be new writing soon-I just submitted a piece for the May issue of the Wire [cf. the photo above] ; I am working as well on several concerts to take place in Minneapolis in May and September.
This part of the world has given up Spring’s ghost-rain and sleet are flying as I type this, people couldn’t be paler [shining like cadavers]. Every place has its difficult seasons-ours is the long malaise of winter/not-quite-winter [what you call Spring]. Ours is the incremental attrition of optimism.
I had dinner at a friend’s restaurant the other night- he was a political exile [his entire family, actually] in 1979, fleeing his birthplace in Kabul for Lausanne- Paris-Virginia-Minnesota. He has a ridiculous collection of Indian classical music [and a personal narrative intertwined with that of Vilyat Khan, the great pandit my friend was thrilled to learn I heard in performance in 1980]. His competing passion is for free jazz/improv. For several decades he has amassed and absorbed these musics, and supplies from this personal retrieval system all the music he programs for his community-based radio show in Minneapolis, now in its 16th year.
Under gray skies, heads bowed over great Afghani food, we each said at separate points in our rambling chat that music has saved our lives; without drama, self-consciousness, fear or favor, saved our lives.
heading from e.e. cummings