I'm so happy right now. I've had a quiet afternoon with the house to myself, and I just finished listening to all four sides of Newvelle's new pressing of Ron Horton's "A Prayer for Andrew." It was glorious, and it was one of those rare times when I wouldn't change anything.
I've just realized that I will never fall into the trap of choosing between sound and music. Today's sound was important. It was exhilarating, feeling free and precise and muscular and delicate all at the same time. It felt like it was a part of the space I was living in, not something that awkwardly elbowed its way in.
And it made the music possible. I'm not talking about tunes (which are, to be honest, present most of the time on this recording, but not always), but the music that Ron Horton and Frank Kimbrough and the others brought to life and that Andrew Hill dreamed up. Yes, the combo could have whistled and hummed their ideas onto tape, but it took the intentional sounds of their hands, mouths, and instruments to really bring it into existence. And it took my modest but equally-intentional and carefully-assembled pile of other dreamers' technologies to bring me to the state of happiness that's still enveloping me as I'm writing this.
It took Masao Okada's Hana cartridge and Dan Wright's phono stage, and it took Ehlan Mehler's Newvelle Records and my own freaking commitment and patience in getting the finish line configured properly and in the right place. But all of that stuff partnered so beautifully with the legacy of Andrew Hill and the talent of Ron Horton's musicians that something new was created, and I was truly blessed to be there with it.
This hobby isn't just a bunch of nerds who love their switches and dials and black boxes. It's a group of human beings who are actually partners in the creation of perfomance art that touches hearts, minds, and souls.
I've just realized that I will never fall into the trap of choosing between sound and music. Today's sound was important. It was exhilarating, feeling free and precise and muscular and delicate all at the same time. It felt like it was a part of the space I was living in, not something that awkwardly elbowed its way in.
And it made the music possible. I'm not talking about tunes (which are, to be honest, present most of the time on this recording, but not always), but the music that Ron Horton and Frank Kimbrough and the others brought to life and that Andrew Hill dreamed up. Yes, the combo could have whistled and hummed their ideas onto tape, but it took the intentional sounds of their hands, mouths, and instruments to really bring it into existence. And it took my modest but equally-intentional and carefully-assembled pile of other dreamers' technologies to bring me to the state of happiness that's still enveloping me as I'm writing this.
It took Masao Okada's Hana cartridge and Dan Wright's phono stage, and it took Ehlan Mehler's Newvelle Records and my own freaking commitment and patience in getting the finish line configured properly and in the right place. But all of that stuff partnered so beautifully with the legacy of Andrew Hill and the talent of Ron Horton's musicians that something new was created, and I was truly blessed to be there with it.
This hobby isn't just a bunch of nerds who love their switches and dials and black boxes. It's a group of human beings who are actually partners in the creation of perfomance art that touches hearts, minds, and souls.
