Ken Nordine died yesterday, Mr. Word Jazz. I found one of his albums when I was a schoolkid. Along with Kafka and Rimbaud, he made sense at a time when not much else did, the '50s. I loved the bizarre conversations he had with his inner self . . . just him
. . . just them . . . echoing in the mind . . . twisting, echoing, changing . . . free in lateral space. He/they were wonderful, true artists. Bon voyage, guys.
Language itself is a barrier.
No comments:
Post a Comment