Chet Baker: Everytime I Say Goodbye & I Don’t Stand a Ghost of a Chance With You
From Chet Baker Sings and Plays from the Film “Let’s Get Lost” (Novus, 1989)
It has come to my attention that some of the more ornithic members of the Pop-Life consortium are not enamored with my particular brand of badinage. Some of you would like nothing more than to elutriate me from the aegis of the greatness that is Soul-Sides.com. Well, in the words of Curtis “Interscope” Jackson, I ain’t goin’ nowhere, so get used to me. I’m here to stay like cockroaches, PCBs and your ignorance. Your pap and pabulum simply rolls off my Teflon-coated back.
I was going to post something from a collection I have called The Best of Chess Jazz. I do not know why this label was called Chess. Maybe the label owners played the game all day while they had session musicians working under sweatshop conditions. I honestly have no idea. If you pissants want to stick your heads up the ass of marginilia, buy a Song ticket to EMP Live or meet my pay-rate, because I don’t even freestyle for free. Right now, we’re working on my Eisenhower, so I’ll just share with you two tracks that I enjoy very much. They’re not even from the Chess label. They’re from something else altogether: Chet Baker Sings and Plays from the Film “Let’s Get Lost.” (At least that’s what it says on the CD jacket.)
Now there’s a reason why this album has a special place in my heart, and it goes back to the time I had a fiancee. Yes, I contain multitudes, my friends. But please, buy my book to learn more. This is not information I will give to you for free because I’m a hustler, baby. Anyway, my cousin, who is known to the world simply as Jacques (he has a story of his own which I won’t share with you, either) put me on to a young lady, then put me on to this album when shit went wrong with said young lady. What went wrong? Oh, my concupiscence for (and subsequent fecundation of) the side inamorata, for starters. I was a bastard for that. Anyhow, as I have duly noted, that game is to be sold, not told. Just let it be known that Chet Baker Sings and Plays from the Film “Let’s Get Lost” is one of my all-time favorite depression albums. (Another is Marvin Gaye’s Vulnerable, but, in honor of Black History Month, I’m going with the whyte guy.)
Supposedly, Chet was washed up and strung out on heroin and lost all his teeth when they found him in some alley and cleaned him up to make this record. I don’t know how true that is, but it’s what my cousin’s cousin and partner (Pascal, with the eyepatch–long live the Sugar Bros.!) told me and that’s why I love this album. If it’s not a true story, I don’t wanna know like Mario Winans. I have so little to live for. And the drugged-out legend pretty much sums up my life at this point–except I don’t play an instrument.
Are you not liking this post? Oh well. Not only do your words fall on deaf ears, all your grousing is more parlous to your free music tendencies than being caught flagrante delicto with a boosted Joe Ski Love maxi-single cassette at Tower Records (true story; but I won’t run through the whole megillah) because sooner or later, O-Dub will have his own pab and pabulum to clean up and won’t be worried about you babies. When he’s holding down 4 a.m. feedings, who do you think will be around to obtund my wrath? Jon Caramanica? Ha! You have another thing coming if you think I won’t turn this little corner of the O-Zone into a virtual abattoir. Seriously, I will get Abu Ghraib up in his bitch.
If my presence irritates you like stangury, I suggest you drink cranberry juice. You whine and I’ll only get more bilious and erroneously tag extended versions of John Cage’s “4′ 33″” as tracks from Be just to fuck with you. (It’s not my bandwidth, motherfuckers.) It’s better to do business with me than against me. Really. I am totally amenable. But I have so little joy in my life. Don’t be a reservoir for my pain. It’s like playing laser tag with the magnum: you do not want it.
[GunYoga: Believe you, me, sun: I hate to do it just as bad as you hate to see it done.]
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