(from The Paris Review #189)
The sun tilts though the trees and everywhere are shafts of dust. We’re just a speck in the grand whirling scheme, but at least we’re making noise.
I spend at least some of my time at work reading and editing music criticism. I like it, It’s a dance about architecture, yes, and the dance is difficult. This Calhoun guy, in his description of the band’s gig, nails it, makes you hear it in your head, or picture it. And he write about his characters with the same technical beauty. Like some jazz, this story zigs a little when you might expect a zag, but it’s not pretentious. Really, comparing anything to jazz it lame, but I’m not going to delete that cause you get me.
Read this story here.