Adieu Sunny...
Re 8 December: I came to Albert Ayler’s indefatigable, sob-soaked,
funereal roar a bit late - 1974. I was swept away, and devoured
everything I could find on the periphery of ancestral Shitville.
Ghosts. Music was dead and done.
The contrapuntal immensity and unholy restraint exhibited by Sunny Murray was a massive influence on my late teen thinking. Not on my rough and tattered tape edits, mind - I was too angry to concern myself with trivialities of technique. No, Murray was a fucking Oklahoman GIANT, and his was a blueprint for total refusal. That was immediately clear.
As this supergod takes a well-deserved bow, I offer thanks to James Marcellus Arthur Murray.
Well lived, sir.
Ghosts. Music was dead and done.
The contrapuntal immensity and unholy restraint exhibited by Sunny Murray was a massive influence on my late teen thinking. Not on my rough and tattered tape edits, mind - I was too angry to concern myself with trivialities of technique. No, Murray was a fucking Oklahoman GIANT, and his was a blueprint for total refusal. That was immediately clear.
As this supergod takes a well-deserved bow, I offer thanks to James Marcellus Arthur Murray.
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