Sonny Rollins And Coleman Hawkins
Sonny Meets Hawk!

THE REVIEW

Tonight I am melancholy.
The day has drowned. Dragging the river, all they managed to find is a night swollen and bluish like a benign tumor.

The other night a ghost appeared to me. No. Two. They were, they seemed encrusted with mold. They had only one saxophone. They fought over it, spitting at each other. To play it, you see. “Son of a bitch!” was flying around. Not bad. Then one of them took it. The sax, I mean. The other one huffed. Just like that, a child without a toy. He breathed out and in mid-air another saxophone began to form, just, it seemed, to place itself gently into his hands. They started playing.

Tonight I don’t feel like drinking. I couldn’t even if I wanted to, there’s nothing to drink. Tonight I just want to be the protagonist of an underground comic book. Just walk, along the sharp edges of the alleys. Carve the night with my steps - there’s nothing else that’s of any use to me. I’d like my self-awareness to go alone and meet the end of the day, as I say, in a river, suicidal. So I could pretend to be something, and that’s it.

The other night I had a dream. Two ghosts appeared to me. They took the inside of my skull for a rotten dive and played there all night, hallucinated and floating as if they were Dumbo's pink elephants. A circle around my head that not even Giotto would have drawn so well. Damn.

This morning there was a shamelessly old record on the desk. Cover in the style of Those Old Abstract Paintings That Go So Well With Jazz. The title seemed like, you know the Marvel comics? The Amazing Spider-Man! And the inks of the lush Steve Ditko. Things like that. Then there's that subtitle. It seems more like a poster for a wrestling match mixed with that of a retro comedian's show. Well. Anyway, it's morning. Anyway, in the morning one feels obliged to go somewhere, to pretend to go somewhere, to pretend to rest once just for having gone somewhere every other morning except, maybe, this one. No, it’s not the case.

Tonight I don’t feel like drinking. I listen to it all. At that initial surge, my heart skipped a beat. But seriously, is this how you start a record?
The answer is clearly yes, if you are Sonny Rollins & Coleman Hawkins.

I wonder if they knew, of being themselves. Maybe they just thought they were putting on a bit of a show, just for fun, and if the opportunity arises, let's also make the history of music. Son of a bitch, stop taking my spaces. You're the one who always starts your damn solo when... What do you know, maybe it really happened that way. And yet, yet, all the things that are, that manage to be. All the things you are. "All The Things You Are". And an unrecognizable and marred "Summertime", a stab in the chest. Whose, I don’t know. It’s not even important. And, following that, all the screams and shrieks and moans of convulsion and erotic convolutions and intertwining and-

It’s dawn. I dreamed. Maybe not. Maybe by putting the record back on, the damn old record, the darkness could be prolonged. Leave the day waiting, I say, don’t you think it’s time to open this damn door? Like, the day needs to pee and you're locked in the bathroom listening to jazz. But yeah, it could work, could be that if-

It’s dawn. The sun hurls at me screaming. I dreamed. I am late. Whatever I had to do, well - actually I don’t know, but I’m late. I step into the wind of the new day. On my tongue, bouncing anamneses of coffee argue, and it’s the only thing. The only thing I remember.

And then Sonny isn’t even dead. He seems to be in fairly good health. Hawk, on the other hand, has been dead for a long time, but ghosts don’t exist anyway.