an old writer and his words

  • CHARLAP

    Bill places his fingers on the keyboard, nods to the drummer and bassist. God waves his hands, demands heavenly silence and unsurprisingly to you, no one argues the point. Even Evans, sitting at God’s feet, smiles and says “it’s so nice to know our legacy is safe,” and turning to Blakey, adds “Ain’t that so…

    Lou Faber

  • GOING

    Mingus             twisting  roiling                 blood of streets        child’s cry                         laughter of old men             s              w…

    Lou Faber

  • ERATO PREFERS LATTE

    My muse sits quietly on the shelf over the counter in the Café Espresso at Barnes and Noble nestled between 12 ounce bags of Colombian Supremo and Kenya AA, in the shadow of the plant whose leaves reach out to caress her cheek. She whispers to me between notes from the guitarist performing on the…

    Lou Faber

  • QUARTET

    An evening summer retreating in the face of autumn, two garnacha, a piano, bass, drums, her voice lifts the weight of the sky and we float up on a melody, unchained. In heaven George and Ira smile and we, here, smile with them.

    Lou Faber

  • A SIMPLE SONG

    Much as every person is a Buddha every guitar can play a simple song. Some will lay it badly, some will break a string, some will play with an unspoken regret, but all have the capacity, recognized or not, to create a moment of memory. On this night there are two, both skilled, honed of…

    Lou Faber

  • SWING

    The sax swings freely rising and falling on the notes he coaxes out, dancing around the bass’s rhythm, the brushes caressing the drum heads. You close your eyes and allow the music to carry you off. It is at the set’s end when he unfolds the white cane that you see you share a common blindness.

    Lou Faber

  • MIDDLE C

    Mrs. Weiskopf lived in a small cottage Mrs. Weiskopf taught piano in her living room. Mrs. Weiskopf had no first name, even checks were to be made payable to Mrs. Weiskopf. Mrs. Weiskopf grew suddenly old, some said, to full fit into her name, no one could remember her ever being young. Mrs. Weiskopf said…

    Lou Faber

  • NIGHT AT THE PUB

    It’s a fading memory now, a hole in the wall then, CBGB’s, loud, but nothing happening at Tommy Makem’s and here the cop and his pals play angry Irish with a foot in reggae and ska. I’m too old to be here, but no one really cares as long as I buy my Bushmills or…

    Lou Faber

  • THE SAVAGE BREAST

    You must pause and marvel, if you will, that only the flute – from the simple wooden to the most elegant metal – when played by skilled hands, can transport the listener. Some would say to heaven, others to hell, and often at exactly the same moment.

    Lou Faber

  • I AM ODOBENUS ROSMARUS, WHO ARE YOU?

    From time to time it sneaks back into my mind, and once there is so hard to ignore or dislodge. It begins softly, “I am he, as you are he, as you are me.” It grows ever more present, foreground, “I am the eggman, they are the eggmen,” and all to soon, I become the…

    Lou Faber