Had the Italian merciful drops bathed the ancient Palestrina, hadn’t it been so hot, maybe Sandman’s heart would have not stopped, maybe decades later he would be killed in a hospital bed by some of the omnipresent cancers. But he would see how much we loved The Night album and we would all have the albums that Morphine would record in the meantime. I do not dare think about these impossibilities.
From my personal experience I know that three is quite enough for magic. I return to music. Baritone saxophone, drums and slide with just two strings create the sadness that one can not dance at. Where the blues seduces the jazz, Low Rock is created. Or Fuck Rock, as Sandman used to say.
And the night is no longer so dark, nor woven out of fear. It fills in the quest, the yearning, the dance steps in unexpected places. The poetry, the almighty poetry. Let us call it Lyla. Each one of us has something to search for, lost in the fairytales and forests of the unexpected. Each one for himself and each one with his Lyla. I chose my darkness to be a night just like that.
the art is inside
