When you're my age, and you listen to an album, you have two things.
Like two categories - I'd say - if I had ever understood those things like Kant and philosophy.
The first is: nice, this album, but come on, I've already heard it. Cute, but it doesn't change my life. Why should I get it, I'll just listen to the original, I'll listen to Miles - for instance - that's better. More.
The second is: nice, but come on, you want to change my life. Come on, friend, I'm not that young anymore. And really, if I really have to, I'll put on Free Jazz, or Pierrot Lunaire. As if to say: I'll listen to the original.
So, when you're my age and - as someone said - you've spent your life listening to a bit of everything, and trying (often unsuccessfully) to understand, usually, when you hear something new, you have one of these two categories. One of these two reactions.
So - unless you're inclined to rebuy something you already have (have I ever talked about this? maybe not, but one day I promise I will) - usually, when you hear something new, something you don't know, usually after ten minutes you go back to listening to something you know very well. And buying this new stuff, not even a thought.
In fact, I didn't buy this album here.
It came to my house. Someone gave it to me. Or traded, like: I give you Ella and Louis and envy you, because you have the fortune of not knowing it yet.
Then maybe some time later, you give me something. Something you might not even know what it is, but that you like. Things like that. So, this album arrived at my house in exchange for Ella and Louis.
And I know absolutely nothing about it.
Except that the first time it came into my hands, a few years ago, I put it on, heard the first thing, and fell into one of the two categories mentioned above. Full stop. End. The anticipated review of the album in question tonight will not air.
Or not. Maybe it happens that it's a day when it's snowing. And you're at home. And you take a look at that populous desert which is your collection of records. And with or without the aid of Zermelo, you find one in hand. And you say let's hear it. And - after a bit - maybe it's the snow, maybe it's some mystery, you discover that you've been listening to it all day. And that you like it. It doesn't change your life. But that's okay. Perhaps you've already heard it. But it doesn't bother you, it doesn't make you want to hear the original.
They are four guys, you can see from the cover. Three of them are Israeli, one is New Yorker. The pianist leans a lot towards pop, but knows how to do it, as they say around here. The trumpet resembles Miles', but without overdoing it. All day, when I listen again, I turn to see. And it's track number 4. It's called Sefarad. But - I've searched - it's not on YouTube. As are very few news pieces about them. So I'll give you another one. Number 6. This one is also very nice.
I lower the shutters, forget about my two categories, thank that friend of mine, and his discovery. And I look at the shelf, at the CDs.
And I see he also gave me another one, equally mysterious.
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