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A small story, a story that can be told in three words, like almost all stories.
But maybe I'll add a few more, it always works that way, it's a matter of marketing.
You can't exactly say - you know there are two people who are getting married, there's a third who doesn't want it, but in the end they get married.
Or - there's someone who's in a bit of a crisis, then goes to see hell purgatory paradise, and eventually exits.
You have to add a little something more, a few more words. People don't just go to bookstores, read three lines, and then buy the book, they need to find a few more. It's called marketing, as I've said.
But back to our story. Our story begins at six in the morning on Monday, October 6.
I'm taking a bath, like every morning.
And like every morning I listen to the radio.
I always listen to the radio. Since I was born, I think. Whatever I'm doing.
And - over time - I've also developed a sort of small volume knob. Internal. It automatically lowers when there are things I'm not interested in.
And sometimes it shoots up high.
Famous, in this regard, is the story of the weather forecasts. There's nothing in the world I care less about. I completely tune out there.
And since the other occupant of my house is most interested in it, she usually says to me:
What’s the weather like tomorrow?
me: how the hell would I know?
But they just said it on the radio.
That's not true, I didn't hear it.
And so on.
Well, eventually she'll get over it.
Anyway, back to us, there I was, Monday morning, taking a bath and listening to the radio.
And the guy announces Murder by Numbers, by Sting. With Frank Zappa.
And the volume goes up a bit for me. Because neither Sting nor Frank Zappa are among my favorites.
But together, it's a strange thing. Something you don't expect.
So let's turn up the volume a bit.
Well, not bad. More or less what I expected. Some of Sting's shrieks, some of Zappa's chaos.
But when three minutes and something have passed, and the song is about to end, suddenly, my internal volume goes up.
And it goes full blast.
Because those two, Sting and Zappa, are playing Kind Of Blue.
So much so that I initially think the host mixed it, ending the track, putting on the glorious Miles.
But that's not the case. We're at the end of the song. Beast, I say, incredible. The song ends. And the speaker doesn’t comment.
Instead, they play the next track, which is the beautiful Bags Groove, just by Miles.
And nothing, no comment. I mean, you like Miles Davis and you don't notice? Wow…
A bit puzzled, from the next day I start searching for this track. On torrent, on the mule. But I don't find it. Maybe it was a hallucination, I don't know. Nobody noticed, maybe this track doesn't exist.
Maybe Zappa and Sting never played together.
Morning of Sunday, October 18. Chatting with Minh, a French friend. And he tells me: do you know Spotify? And I say who is it? And he says, go check it out, it's fantastic. And I go. Well, incredible. And, of course, the first thing I search for is Murder by Numbers. And I find it. And I hear it. And there it is.
This is a small story. And stories are made of words. Few or many as they may be. But I'm writing it on the internet. And so, I use some powerful medium that goes beyond words. There you go. And - obviously - watch for the end.
Sting and Zappa, Murder by Numbers
And I tell him big surprise at the end. He listens and writes to me. And he says nice. But I didn't understand what surprise you're referring to.
How did he not understand? He knows Kind Of Blue. Possible? I listen again, it's there. Then a doubt comes to me.
I put on the player the glorious, worn masterpiece of the monster from East St. Louis. And indeed, that bit isn’t there.
Oh God, where does it come from? I spend the afternoon humming it to myself.
Trying to attach something before it or after it, to see if it comes to mind. I decide I’ll listen to all of Miles' CDs in sequence until I find it. But there are more than a hundred, it's a titan's task.
And after such a Sunday, towards evening, when I'm in the bathroom (where it all started, notice the symmetry?) I remember a book.
High Fidelity, by Hornby. Not one of my favorites. The story can be told in two words.
The girl leaves him, in the end they get back together, he discovered he loves her. But I remember one thing. I remember that he keeps the records sorted chronologically. Not by publication. But by purchase. It's easier that way. Not even by artist. Just the order in which he came to know them.
And right after Kind Of Blue, many years ago, I bought…
YOU DON'T KNOW IT???
End. Discovered. I write to Minh and recommend this other album to him. He had already heard about it but had never listened to it. I feel finally relieved. End of the story. I warned you. A really small story. A fairy-tale record. The Blues and The Abstract Truth, by Oliver Nelson.
Stories usually can be told in three words. This is no exception.
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