Plucked right out of left field,. Very big in the Wallasey boondocks where a celebrated few had access. This piece of music by Rahsaan Roland Kirk was only 20 years old when I first came across it in the Liscard branch of Oxfam. Fast forward forty years and even though it was maybe showing its age a bit back then, being listened to in parallel with the likes of ‘My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts’, it feels no more dated now, like the notes are preserved in amber. Roland Kirk was a random gateway into jazz for my young self, something that came about through an obsession with the writers of the beat generation and narcotics. We weren’t sitting around rooms like Ned Flanders’ parents eschewing discipline, control and muttering “daddy o” endlessly. We were getting very baked though. This was one facet of our autodidactic education in the arts, something that prepared us for later life much better than what was to come later at university. Friends, acquaintances and knowledge were gained for life, and we were shaped us into the people we are today.
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