MY DENSE REFLECTIONS I have been very depressed lately! I wonder why I don’t recognize myself, Good times are fading like autumn leaves. They say that grief never last, but mine lasted it. I start walking around my town in the darkness I cannot scream instead, I abuse my lungs by smoking. Everyone walks with an unnoticeable crown above me. I am curious if I am a sinner with broken wings to fly. I am not afraid of death, but worry that my name -will come to mind, then you shout at the tomb of my tears. Maybe I should be far from your eyes, lips, and your scent. To leisure’s from overdrinking from my dense reflections.
Essay from Peter Cherches
Remembering Sam Rivers at 100 For a group that worked together so long and so intensely, recordings by the trio of Sam Rivers, Dave Holland, and Barry Altschul are surprisingly few and generally obscure. The only albums I’m familiar with by this lineup in its original incarnation (outside of the three musicians appearing together in other groups) are The Quest and Paragon, both on small indie labels. I think the three of them first appeared together on Dave Holland’s landmark ECM album Conference of the Birds, from 1973, which also featured saxophonist Anthony Braxton. From 1974−76, this trio was more than a group I saw many times, they were part of a coming of age for me. The setting for most of those encounters was Sam Rivers’ own loft, Studio Rivbea, on Bond Street in lower Manhattan. Rivbea, named for its patron saints Sam and his wife Bea, was the epicenter of the loft jazz movement, in which a number of free-jazz-oriented players like Rivers, percussionist Warren Smith, drummer Rashied Ali, singer Joe Lee Wilson, and saxophonist Charles Tyler, among others, took a DIY approach to presenting their own music and that of kindred spirits when jazz itself had lost much of its commercial viability and there was little room in the established clubs for the more “outside” players. On a typical Friday or Saturday night, when I normally went to Rivbea, Sam’s trio (or another one of his groups like Winds of Manhattan) would split a bill with a guest artist’s group. For most of the time I attended, the shows were held in the basement space, which was not air-conditioned. We sat on cushions on the floor. The only time I remember it being oppressively hot and crowded was when Sam’s trio split the bill with Anthony Braxton’s quartet. Both groups shared the rhythm section of Dave Holland on bass and Barry Altschul on an expanded drum kit, including cowbells, temple blocks, and sirens. Upstairs one could take a break and buy refreshments or Bea’s homemade fish sandwiches, though toward the end the stage had moved upstairs. Bond Street, which is home to hip restaurants these days, was pretty industrial and quiet after dark back then. It would be some years before the neighborhood was dubbed Noho. The Rivers’ landlord was Robert De Niro’s mother. A performance by Rivers’ trio was more a flow than a set, usually an improvised suite without any break between sections. Though Sam was primarily a wind player (tenor and soprano saxes and flute), he also played piano and would move among his instruments. The deep listening and interplay of the three musicians kept me riveted. With jazz at its best, the group itself is an organism, and this trio was a prime example of that. Sam and Bea were the most gracious of hosts to the musicians and the listeners. Sometimes I went with friends and sometimes I went alone, but one was never alone in that audience of mostly hardcore devotees of some of the most vibrant music of the time. Conversations would spontaneously erupt. For me, at 18−20 years old, this world of mostly African-American musicians taking charge of the presentation of their music without compromise was an education in artistic integrity that has stayed with me all my life. Sam Rivers died in 2011 at age 88. Happily, I got to see a reunion of his great ’70s trio at Columbia University just four years earlier.
Poetry from Faisal Justin
Evening Twilight In calm sea where daylight fades Evening twilight paints the world Birds around sing their lullabies The wind whispers the tales of beauty. Nature's creatures join in harmony The gentle breeze carries a scent so sweet The trees sway in rhythm, branches dance They bathe in the evening soft twilight. Stirring emotions as if a painter's masterful art I find solace and peace as the daylight dies The stars appear twinkling, the moon hangs All the worries and troubles transcend, Into peace, gratitude and wonder. The ocean slowly engulfs the evening sun The world turns into dark and colourful Everything becomes a masterpiece in view With gratitude, creatures embrace the night.
Poetry from Anindya Pal
Rainy Story That envelope has arrived The news came about the release of Monsoon Mail dry earth melting with juicy touch of water. Monsoon season is busy now thousands of drops are falling reckless cloudy sky is scary with thunder. The wind blows like a river wetting the ground swaying drops dancing on the dance table of mud. Monsoon is tying the waist now jumping against the hot heat in the hot sun Hold on, rain and shine. Monsoon dropped on the swaying leaves under the stagnant water, the vortex is moving Swallowed all the cottage gardens young crops Millions of tears are mixed in the turbid current. The house of love and happiness is floating, sidewalks and bridges Houses and neighborhoods along the river where are you? may this monsoon stay for ever...
Photography from Channie Greenberg
Poetry from Mykyta Ryzhykh
my monsters of spring in the rains of unbearable loneliness are drowning *** the mastodons of the dead tongue pull the corpse of a harsh scream from the grave and put it in our ears harpies of misfortune gnaw at the skin of the chitin in which we live dead language dead chitin the soul is alive *** memory envelops us as we used to be memory envelops us with our former which of the moments of paint will fall to us in the future which of the moments of spring will fall to us in the future fingers on the hands became screams fingernails torn off the future is gone the future is red *** sakura gave me silence the flowers of the soul open and the sky is bright *** angels fall asleep mafia wakes up the sky is melting like ice cream life melts like the sky shots play catch up bodies play hide and seek one two Three children's play adults four five six death flies *** fragments of thoughts in an iron eye finger pharynx hiroshima is a city in japan where once people liked to watch movies scar of loneliness at the moment of death cylinder-like neck mushroom people grow into the ground everything around merges into mush the lesson of honesty is drowning in tears *** pathology of meaning air puff an apology for hate blood of flowers and everywhere death death death *** sauna burns under the sun steam resembles a fungus of a nuclear explosion *** fire light flames live wire devouring element all around red *** soul tulips worry in heaven on earth dead souls *** pay per soul my iron son bathes himself in the bath weeping indulgence tin soldiers turn to ashes money bodies life becomes a hunt for yourself ∞∞∞ silence signs look like death *** crunching tree branches under your feet autumn dreams *** What did I do while nuclear plants grew like mushrooms Probably scolded the daughter beat the cat Dragged a piece of halva Filled the chambers with gas And did not notice how my daughter turned into In the Virgin Mary And I don't know how to deal with her now *** Birds sing in the language of silence that they have nowhere to return from warm lands *** Metal birds live longer than meat birds I wish I didn't become a robot I want to become a slave, but not God I want to be a god It's best to be a bird
Mixed media from Mantri Pragada Markendeleyu (one of three)
