Charles Mingus
The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady

There are records that cannot be reviewed.

Because if I wanted to talk about who this mountain of a man was, I would do it much worse than Geoff Dyer already did.

If I wanted to say what this record is, what it stirs inside me, I simply wouldn't be able to.

Everything starts from Pithecanthropus Erectus. But have you ever heard it? Mingus is inside it. There's a man inside it. But there's a man inside who is worth more than me. Smarter than me, better than me, more everything.

Damn, who am I to say something about it?

So, if you want, I'll just tell you my personal and tiny story. About Pithecanthropus. It's that women don't like it. I think that's all Mingus.

The Black Saint and The Sinner Lady is... I can't say it, I don't dare.

I see only one flaw, it's too short.

For the rest, Mingus, a little while before, had self-admitted to a psychiatric clinic, gets out, writes this stuff, goes to the doctor who treated him, and says: 'write me the liner notes'.

I - this dialogue - see it with a Mingus who barks. Words are barely understandable. Baritone, low, worse. He lisps, talks in slang, basically, you can't understand a damn thing. And yet you like it. Or, no, something different, but anyway, I can't say it, I can't explain it.

And the doctor, loud voice, almost in falsetto, says: 'but I hardly know, I don't understand much about music'.

And a thunder, that starts from inside, from the roots of the earth, from the primordial scream. A baritone voice, a bass, that lisps, that you can't understand a damn thing, says something.

Says I PLAY THE MUSIC I AM.

Says do you know who I am? Then write about me, this record is me.

To Charles Mingus, with my apologies.