Wrong all the way

  ”If you make one wrong sound, you will make another mistake, and
  you will be wrong all the   way
  . ”   This is a passage from the poem “Wrong Song” written by poet Honghong to the jazz singer Nina Simone in “Jazz Poems”. I think it is bigger than the public. Most of the jazz review books are more able to express the essence of jazz. Most of the poets in this anthology also understand the nature of this paradox, so they write jazz without taking the “correct” path, because there is no correct and standard path for jazz, just like Nina Simone, John Coltrane and Chet Baker have the same life.   It’s the right way to go wrong. When music is free, it has the ability to self-correct. In the improvisations and duets of jazz, there are even intentional “mistakes”, digressions, and lost creations. Just like walking through the maze, we can always walk back in the end, and it doesn’t matter even if we can’t come back, we actually walk the maze to encounter more scenery when we get lost. Compared with the straight road, we like the joy of this kind of adventure.   And what about poetry? In addition to the joys described above, poetry and jazz have the same purpose, to liberate our senses, minds, and spirits, rather than the strict rules and thin ice that strict modernist poetic training taught us. We see this liberation especially in the poetry of female poets, who, I believe, feel and create greater excitement than male poets when they are in danger.   When I read this anthology backwards, I got a deeper understanding from the American poets, whose poignant poems remind us – don’t forget that their happiness was once the blasting point in the history of suffocation, and the light drum was the rhythm of dripping blood, The pressing bass is a heavy gasp, the sax is a scream, and the trumpet is a whimper. When we listen to jazz today, we don’t need these moral oppressions, because our happiness is the purpose of their revolution, it’s just that when we write, don’t forget to retain the same complexity.

  Jazz is translated as “jazz”, which is similar to the European and American middle class’s intention to make jazz “pure, elegant and aesthetic”. A person of insight must repeatedly remind the frivolity of this misreading. American jazz poets began to expose the truth of jazz from Hughes and Bob Kaufman. Bob Kaufman even criticized jazz itself:
  ”There is no chord matching . , when the mud is shoveled into the mouths of the
  dead ; even the blues are timid to speak out
  When the dying wailing of a child comes from a deserted corner.
  Jazz has deserted us, leaving us alone to face the fire.”
  Jazz cannot desert us, unless We abandon jazz. But we can’t give up jazz either, Jazz for one day, Jazz for life, as David Warham wrote in “The Lady in the Satin”:
  ”Until she can dance to her own tune,
  I can’t let her go.”
  Music It has always been closely intertwined with the fate of the performer, especially in jazz. This is true of Davis, Big Bird, and Monk written by black poets in “Anthology of Jazz”, and even more so in Jane Curtiz’s masterpiece “Into the Age,” although it was written by Charles Minger He was actually writing about the Whitman of this age, whose ferocious appetite devoured all the “civilized” sons of the “civilization” that came against him, and he did not deny that he “became”:
  ”The swollen fingers became / Shouting in the night / Becoming the day The trembling of / Becoming a whole month of blood flowing / Celebration of this sad year”
  The deconstruction of jazz is joyful, while its construction is the rising layers of anger, rising to a stage that redefines anger and joy.
  I remember watching Miles Davis’ biopic, his conservatory classmates recalled that when the teacher said from the script that blues music was a lament for the poor or something, Davis stood up and said “you are a fucking liar”. He’s right, jazz music is joy, a proof of freedom, it allows people to enjoy the love of the earth openly, it doesn’t complain, but it uses its own talent to despise all those who oppress and slaughter freedom. The non-utility of jazz is not escapism, but redefining it.
  Poets learn freedom from jazz, and from jazz life to make mistakes, to cross boundaries, to lick the warmth and coldness of wounds, that’s right, we, like Edward Hirsh’s Art Pepper, “hate this. A white skin will never be black” but got “the white, grief-stricken howl”.

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