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Last week I was walking home through a snowstorm.
Turning the corner toward Fulton I called Cecil Taylor, who lived in the last unrenovated brownstone on that street. We knew each other from back in the 70s. The jazz pianist’s manager James Spicer had been a mutual friend, until the silver-haired impresario ripped off my unemployment checks.
“Who’s this?” Cecil answered the phone.
I told him who and he said, “What’s it like out there?”
“Cold and white.” Three inches of snow covered the sidewalks of Fort Greene with a forecasted accumulation of a foot.
“Sounds like Alabama in the winter.” The maestro of Free Jazz cackled with delight. “Why don’t you come over and we’ll drink something? I got a bottle ready to go.”read more...