668: Next Door Neighbor Of The Beast, Pt.2

(Or Leaning To Love Diamanda Galas)

...Continued from last week

When I awoke from the most vivid and disturbing nightmare in recent memory, I was in a cold sweat. Was it a result of fever, or the dream? I was mildly delirious, approaching panic. Again I wondered, had I OD'd on the Formula 44, or was it the dream? Assuming the latter, I thought to myself, "This woman is going to have me for lunch! She's going to chew me to pieces and spit me out like a unwanted watermelon seed! What have I gotten myself into? She'll probably show up with a velvet cape in a cloud of smoke, and make a toy out of me like some cat with a hapless mouse. Shit! Why didn't I better prepare for this meeting? From now on, I should just stick with the jazz stuff! Damn!"

That day, I was pretty nervous, which was unlike me before doing a radio show. I obviously hadn't slept well the night before. My head felt like anvil and my concentration was nowhere to be found. Everybody at the station was excited about her arrival, happy with glee in fact. Myself, I had almost wished she'd call to announce that she needed to cancel, a sorcerer's convention or something. Quite suddenly there was a noticeable commotion outside the studio, Diamanda and her small entourage had arrived. Lingering outside for a moment, her companion entered the studio first, a tall, lanky guy with a pasty complexion (a studio tan actually), and an expressionless look on his face. He was dressed in black leather with combat boots, and introduced himself to me as Naut Humon.* "Charming," I thought as I nervously stroked my bulging throat, "This is gonna' be everything that I feared." Just then, the small crowd outside the door parted, and in walked the woman who I was convinced was about to cut me into little pieces, Beelzebub's messenger, Diamanda Galas.

The woman above is who I met. A disarmingly pleasant, highly intelligent, and extremely articulate woman of substance who greeted me with a warm smile, an easy laugh, and willingness to subject herself to my largely uninformed and benign questioning (as well as my irrational fears). We spoke at length of literature (Baudelaire, Nietzsche), musical heroes (Coltrane, Cecil Taylor, Albert Ayler, Sun Ra), audience perception (often mirroring my own), and of course, her own art. She was absolutely charming! She put me at ease (in a reversal of what was supposed to be my job!) and revealed a side of herself that few audience members (again, like myself) might have never imagined. She was no longer a simple girl from suburban San Diego, but now something different. A hybrid of that girl, integrated with the adult woman in her newfound and self-created role as an artistic spokesperson and interpreter of social and political ills, many from which our society would rather turn away. She has found an art form which enables her to illuminate with brutal honesty and searing intensity all the evils of our world, presenting them in a visceral context that offers them up for deeper examination. Certainly not in glorification, but rather in an effort to confront them with the hope of one day banishing them forever. As stated previously, it's an exorcism of sorts. And yes, it's deep, it's dark, and it's very disturbing. It's meant to alarm, to frighten, and to provoke. Because of that, it then becomes a unique form of political action, and as a result, I've learned to love Diamanda Galas.

668: Next Door Neighbor Of The Beast, Pt.2

6) L'Heautonimoroumenos
7) Eight Men And Four Women
8) La Treizieme Revient
9) Deliver Me
10) Free Among The Dead
a) Psalm 88
b) Lamentations
c) Sono L'Antichristo
11) You Must Be Certain Of The Devil

*Naut Humon at the time was leading an industrial noise/music group called, 'Rhythm and Noise,' and was actually not as intimidating as his name or dress suggested. For info on 'Rhythm and Noise,' please read here. He also runs Recombinant Media Labs.

To download, click here.

Diamanda Speaks is a highly condensed version of the infamous interview.

For more information on Diamanda Galas, please visit her website here.

668: Next Door Neighbor Of The Beast, Pt.1

(Or Learning To Love Diamonda Galas)

Diamanda Galas has always been a mystery. A paradox wrapped in a puzzle. A Southern California girl from suburban San Diego who produces some of the most somber, intense, and compelling music that one is likely to hear in their lifetime. But let's double back here. Not all of her material falls into what is conventionally acknowledged as music per se. A gross understatement as you will soon learn. Her earliest conceptual work was largely solo vocalese under highly processed electronic manipulation (in quadraphonic sound, no less). Performance art, if you will. With a three and a half octave range, her 'singing,' however operatic in scope, consisted primarily of shrieks, screams, moans, and howls, which have been described as "capable of the most unnerving vocal terror." With the aforementioned processing, this most certainly was correct. Silently entering a darkened stage, long black hair teased to resemble a fright wig, and draped in a simple form fitting black gown, she would wield two microphones as though they were sabers, or more fittingly, sacramental artifacts, and begin a vocalized 20 minute exorcism, speaking in tongues, and conjuring up demonic sounds that seemingly came from the very depths of hell itself. It was overwhelming to say the least, and unsettling in the extreme, particularly for the uninitiated.

I first saw and heard Diamanda Galas during this early period of her career. Although my ears were close to bleeding by the end of her performance, I nonetheless sat mesmerized by the power and command she exuded. The pieces were socially and politically charged statements ranging from 'The Litanies of Satan,' to 'Wild Women with Steak Knives (A Homicidal Love Song),' 'Panopticon,' and 'Song from the Blood of Those Murdered.' Her subject matter, striking stage persona, and the shear intensity of her work were enough to spark my interest, and my curiosity.

At the time, I had just returned from a stint abroad and began volunteering at a local, cutting edge (and award winning) college radio station, where my intention was to create a demo tape for submission to commercial stations. I had been off the air for a bit, and I now needed to regain my chops in order to pursue a new position (and one that paid!). I contacted Diamanda's management, and arranged for an interview with her in advance of an upcoming performance she was about to make. I was relatively rusty, and the new music scene was a still a bit foreign to me, so I felt a little uneasy there, but the prospect of coming face to face with Diamanda Galas while highly intriguing to me, was also daunting. I really didn't know just what to make of her. I knew next to nothing about her, and in a new approach for me, I decided not to do any research on her background. No press releases, no record label bio, nothing. It was a bold move on my part, but I felt like starting anew. Just sitting down with a complete stranger and start asking questions that come naturally in the course of conversation, all without the benefit of a safety net. Why I chose her as my starting place? I don't honestly know, but I came to regret it.

It was early winter. The evening prior to our scheduled interview, I felt myself coming down with a cold. I was tired, achy, and feeling altogether miserable. I swigged a six-pack of Vick's Formula 44 and went to bed early in the hope of feeling better by the following day. When that day came, I didn't, my cold symptoms being the least of it. More than the sinus headache and the medication, it was the event which was about to transpire that very night which affected me most. As I had laid down to rest, I began to ponder the subject I was about to meet. "Just who was Diamanda Galas? What sort of a name was that? Unusual, certainly. From her looks, she might be of some Eastern European descent. Hungarian maybe? Or maybe that weird place somewhere beyond the Romanian forest? What did they once call it? Transylvania? Wow! Spooky. And where does she conjure up all this bizarre stuff? Litanies of Satan? Steak Knives? Pretty intense, all of it. What is she, some sort of conduit for the netherworld? And what about that brother of hers?"

I had recently stumbled upon a homemade Christmas card with a photo of Joan Crawford taken from 'Mommy Dearest.' In it, she's holding a butcher's knife with a crazed, maniacal look in her eyes, and the caption read, "Have an oh so Merry Christmas, you bastard!" When I flipped it over, I discovered that it had been designed by none other than playwright, Phillip Dimitri Galas, Diamanda's late brother! I considered (possibly aloud), "Wow! These two really have a monopoly on the macabre. What are they, the Addams Family, or something?" With all these thoughts running through my head, and the Formula 44 coursing through my system, I fell into a deep dream state that as you might imagine, served to bring out my worst, and deepest fears. I was about to enter into the heart of darkness.

Imagine this, if you will, in a cinematic approach:

Fade in to an overhead shot of a bed holding a sleeping couple. There is no sound. The man (myself) lays on his back with his hands clasped behind his head. To his left sleeps his partner, a slender woman with long black hair. She is on her side with her back toward him. As her hair partially covers her face, it is impossible to clearly make out her features. Both appear at ease with one another, allowing us to naturally assume that they are friends and lovers.

The camera begins to slowly zoom in, swinging to the left it does, ending with a side view just slightly above being directly horizontal with the bed. We clearly see the sleeping man (myself) in the forefront, and the woman, slightly out of focus in the background. Hold the shot. Still no sound. Quite suddenly, and without explanation, the woman bolts upright to a seated position. The camera focuses in to the accompaniment of jabbing strings (something like Hitchcock's 'Psycho'). Her head begins to slowly swivel towards her partner (think Linda Blair in 'The Exorcist') now revealing for the first time that it is Diamanda Galas. Otherworldly whispers begin to fill the room (much like her 'Litanies of Satan'), growing in intensity. Her eyes are wild and possessed, rolling back into their sockets to display only the whites. With one deft swoop of her hand, she grabs the unsuspecting man's (myself) vulnerably exposed trachea with the power of an iron claw. Cue suspense music. Digging her two inch long, razor sharp fingernails deep into his gullet, she proceeds to violently rip his throat from his neck, leaving him helpless, gasping for air, and begging for mercy. The music swells, and cut. End of scene, but the nightmare had only begun.

I awoke in a cold sweat, feeling panicked, and not without good reason. Later that afternoon, I was scheduled to meet singer, performance artist, and leading lady of my disturbing dream, Diamanda Galas, the next door neighbor of the Beast.

To be continued...

668: Next Door Neighbor Of The Beast, Pt.1

1) Heaven Have Mercy
2) The Litanies Of Satan
3) Birds Of Death
4) Deliver Me From Mine Enemies
a) This Is The Law Of The Plague
b) Deliver Me From Mine Enemies
c) We Shall Not Accept Your Quarantine
d) Deliver Me
e) Yiati O Ozoe
f) Psalm 22
5) Double-Barrel Prayer

To download. click here.

Biff! Bang! Pow!, Pt.3

From Beat To Paisley Pop, Pt.3

In the last two parts of this series, I've been showcasing the transition in mid-60's popular British music from the innocuous Beat, to the more aggressive rave-ups of Freakbeat, which in turn led to the shimmering Paisley Pop of 1966-67.

Over a relatively brief swath of time, the face of English pop music had changed faster than a chorus girl in a Vegas floor show. Seemingly overnight, lovable mop tops in ankle boots with Cuban heels became psychedelicized hipsters draped in ruffled shirts and Afghans. Youth culture was entering it's apex, and the atmosphere was filled with excitement, experimentation, and cultural transformation. Of course, this was all reflected most evidently through fashion and music. The Beatles' overwhelming success internationally had opened the gates for aspiring musicians, producers, and entrepreneurs throughout the U.K. to try their own hand at the game of creating the next big thing. But unlike their American counterparts, English managers and promoters were always searching for a unique hook to make their discovery stand out from the others, gurus like Brian Epstein, Shel Talmy, Chas Chandler, and the team of Kit Lambert and Chris Stamp. "Alright then lads, we're going put you boys into crushed velvet fox hunting garb, surrounded by leggy birds dancing in patent leather go-go boots. As for you, Ian, we've just got to do something about that hair of yours!" And if that didn't go over with the kids, the following week it was, "Right then, this time we utilize a medieval theme! Nigel and Duffy, you boys do a few more 'sha-la-la's,' and Graham, from now on you'll be known as 'Gnarley.' At the end of the performance, you'll drop all of your gear straight into a boiling cauldron, set center stage. We'll call you, 'Witch's Coven,' and it'll be a smash! Alright boys, no time to waste! Hop to it then." It didn't always make for the best music, but it was at the very least, it was constantly entertaining.

With the advent of Paisley Pop however (which was an organic evolution by the way), the musicians began to gain control of their images and their sound to commence producing music that reflected their own values and interests. Studio techniques were additionally becoming more advanced, lending added polish and sonic trickery to the recorded proceedings. It was at this juncture that the doors were flung wide open for all sorts of experimentation on both a personal, and professional level. The results were fabulous! However, they were merely the tip of the iceberg for the creation of interesting sounds, only to be eclipsed by the full-blown psychedelia that would soon follow. But what an fascinating time it was! Stereo panning, backwards tape loops, and previously unheard textures began cropping up in the singles that found their way to the radio airwaves. Nearly everyone began indulging in sonic wizardry, ultimately producing some of the most unorthodox, yet oddly accessible pop music. Now the airwaves and the dance halls carried all the schools of contemporary hit making from Beat, to Northern Soul, and Freakbeat. But it was the rapidly unifying Paisley Pop that quickly put everyone moving in the same direction, with many demonstrating mere cleverness with their creations. In the end however, it was The Beatles who truly led the way, first with the sonic sophistication of 'Tomorrow Never Knows,' and months later with the historic release of 'Sgt. Pepper.' Those events became the clarion call for ushering out the old, and fully embracing the new. That new sound would be Psychedelic, and from that point on, everyone would carry a gleam in their eye, a stash in their pocket, and a flower in their hair. At least for a moment.

A Word About The Music

I've tried to assemble a reasonable time line in this series, but I'm only one person. Without the benefit of a staff of researchers, I can only do so much with the accuracy in my placement of songs and artists. Part Three was a bit more difficult for me, as 1966 and early 1967 were extremely fertile years in British pop. There was so much produced in a variety of styles, and I wanted to attempt to represent it all, but I believe I failed on this one. In fact, I know I failed. For one thing, I got hung up on The Nice whom I hadn't listened to in decades, and I was reminded of just how much I liked their very early recordings. 'Child Of The Moon' actually came just after this period, as did 'Deserted Cities Of The Heart,' I believe. Therefore, it's obviously not a truly definitive collection of this period. Regardless, it's all meant for enjoyment and despite the inaccuracies, it's still a great listen! With Part Four, I'll continue highlight much more paisley pop, and then slowly move into psychedelic music. I hope you'll enjoy this, and come back around for another chapter.

1) David Watts/The Kinks
2) Dreams Secondhand/The Blinkers
3) Child Of The Moon (rmk) The Rolling Stones
4) Sanitation/Amen Corner
5) Nite Is A Comin'/Smeta Murgaty/The Warm Sounds
6) Telegram Tuesday/Blossom Toes
7) Bert's Apple Crumble/The Quik
8) How Am I To Know?/Ars Nova*
9) Flower King Of Flies/The Nice
10) Gone Is The Sad Man/Timebox
11) For Speedy Freaks/Blossom Toes
12) Pictures Of Matchstick Men/Status Quo
13) Azrial/The Nice
14) My White Bicycle/Tomorrow
15) Walking Through My Dreams/Pretty Things
16) Deserted Cities Of The Heart/Cream
17) Dear Eloise/The Hollies
18) Fortune Teller/The Tony Jackson Group
19) Wicked Annabella/The Kinks
20) Here Come The Nice/The Small Faces
21) Daddy, Where Did I Come From?/The Nice
22) Flowers In The Rain/The Move
23) Tomorrow Never Knows/The Beatles

*This is an American band. What can I say? I told you it wasn't entirely accurate.

To download, click here.

For Biff! Bang! Pow!, Pt.1, click here. For Pt.2, click here.

An Encounter With Jaco Pastorius

The Night I Told The World's Greatest Bass Player To 
Fuck Off
One Man's Encounter With The Troubled Mind Of Jaco Pastorius
 
I have the utmost respect for Jaco Pastorius. I truly do. Employing one of the most unique and harmonic approaches to the instrument, he not only revolutionized the way the electric bass is played, but he also wrote many wonderful compositions, scoring imaginative and dynamic arrangements for large ensembles and small groups alike. His legacy is a rich and lasting one, but one that is also filled with a certain sadness and the malediction of mental illness. As an individual he was flawed, but as a musician and arranger, he was nothing less than visionary. And though his life was frequently marred by his affliction, his star burned white hot until his demons finally snuffed out the flame in a brutal, senseless and tragic death. The year was 1987, and Jaco was 35 years of age.

Despite my own battles with depression, I'd never encountered the symptoms of bipolar disorder until I met Pastorius. Manic depression in its acute form as it was once called can make one vacillate between two extremes in their disposition; docile and easy going one minute, wild, unpredictable and manic the other. This was Jaco's curse. A curse which was only further fueled by the cult of personality brought on by his fame and substantial contributions to the jazz idiom, and certainly also by the drug and alcohol abuse in which he indulged to medicate his troubled mind. Pastorius had always displayed erratic tendencies throughout the course of his career, but his behavior was frequently misunderstood and largely accepted as a symptom of his star status. The never-ending stream of accolades can't help but feed the ego and stardom often demands unorthodox behavior from those upon which the acclaim is directed. And Jaco rightfully did possess an ego. After all, it was he who first proclaimed himself to be 'The World's Greatest Bass Player.' Meanwhile, I too stand accused, attributing his flamboyant conduct of which I had heard so much about simply to self-importance and sycophant pandering. But as the years progressed, so did his illness, and along with it came a progressive downward spiral that diminished his creativity and performance. It also made his volatility increasingly intolerable to those around him, alienating him from friends, family and contemporaries, and ultimately putting him on a certain path to his eventual demise. When I met Jaco, it was during an illusive cusp of time between super-stardom and his fall from grace, the period when his temperamental behavior gave way to bizarre behavior in an encounter that continues to haunt me to this day. The story begins here.

The year was roughly 1981 or 1982. I was in my beginnings as the all-night DJ at KJAZ, Alameda, the formative and legendary radio outlet that proved to be the longest lasting 24 hour commercial jazz station in the country. This was true jazz here, not of the niche variety, but real, modern jazz in all its forms. When I arrived at the station shortly before midnight to do my nightly shift, my co-worker informed me that Jaco and Todd Barkan, proprietor of the equally legendary Keystone Korner jazz club in San Francisco had dropped by earlier to hang out and listen to records from the one-of-a-kind library. This was not unusual for musicians to do, as KJAZ was the premiere outlet for their music find airplay, and its staff were obviously of a kindred spirit. The exiting DJ had seized the opportunity for an impromptu on-air interview with Pastorius and now, the two welcome visitors were ensconced in the adjoining studio to check out selections from the station's massive collection of discs (at the time, the largest in the country, now in the possession of KCSM). Jaco had only just recently left the highly successful Weather Report and was now embarking on a solo career. Having recently released his second LP, he was at the pinnacle of his vocation, a legend in his own time. Not wishing to intrude on their adventure, I poured my first cup of coffee for the night and began pulling material for my own program. It was a Saturday. Searching for titles, I thought perhaps that later as nighttime dissolved into daybreak, I might eventually ease into a series of spiritual jazz recordings. It seemed appropriate to me as the following program would be a Sunday morning gospel show.

Throughout my first hour or so, Jaco would occasionally venture into the main studio to scour for more vinyl, tiptoeing gingerly, nodding to me politely, saying little more than hello, and even asking permission to pull something lest I might wish to play it myself. He was animated, cordial and respectful of my work, daring not to disrupt my program. As the night wore on however, I noticed that he became more talkative and the animation increasingly more agitated. Little did I know that the storm to come was only just brewing.

As the night went on, Jaco was now coming into the broadcast studio with increasing frequency to excitedly shove a disc into my hands, recommending with great gusto that I play it. At first, I was gracious. In fact, I was flattered. Jaco Pastorius was taking an interest in me and my own work. I duly included his first petition within the next set, much to his satisfaction. With his subsequent suggestions however, I told him that I'd consider them and maybe try to fit them in later, but only if they fell within the musical direction that I was going. After a bit, Jaco entered the studio yet again, somewhat sternly inquiring this time, "Have you played any of those tracks yet?" I explained that I was mining a particular bag at the moment and his offerings would take me out of the direction and mood I was attempting to establish. This was not 'all request' radio, I continued, but I'd try to appease him. "Jaco, please allow me to do my work," I implored. "I'll try fit it in, but I can't make promises." Seemingly placated for the moment, he wandered off only to return several minutes later. He was now no longer smiling, but clearly annoyed by my reluctance to acquiesce to what now was beginning to resemble a demand. You know, I'd like to think that he genuinely thought he was making informed suggestions, but they were not. The material he proffered were simply recordings that he was merely excited about. And although I appreciated his desire to share them with me, I just couldn't be certain as to his motives. I pondered whether his actions were truly in the interest of sharing what he thought was a dynamic piece of music, or was he merely imparting his importance upon me, certain that I would surely respect his wishes and recommendations as he was a bona fide superstar. I wish I had known with some assurance. Either way, I was taken back and becoming increasingly uncomfortable. I found myself facing the most awkward of situations. I respected both men immensely. Todd Barkan was an unwavering champion of jazz, a friend to us all, and one of the stations leading advertisers. By requesting that the two men leave the premises, I feared the subsequent embarrassment and bold request could have sabotaged the stations relationship with a trusted ally. Jaco on the other hand was luminary. He proclamation of greatness had proven true, easily making him the most important jazz bassist to emerge in the latter half of the 20th century. And besides, who was I to tell the man who by then truly was considered to be 'the greatest bass player in the world' that he was acting like an obnoxious jerk? Meanwhile my program was falling to pieces. What was I to do? I didn't wish to alienate Barkan by ejecting them, but Jaco was now speaking loudly and incessantly, failing to even stop during my mic breaks. It was approaching 4:30 in the morning, the strong coffee was flowing through my veins like blood, and the guy who just a few hours earlier was gracious and respectful was now royally working my last nerve. Couldn't they comprehend that they had overstayed their welcome and leave on their own accord? Couldn't Jaco as a performer, appreciate the circumstance and show more respect for a professional like himself, a professional who was in the midst of his own performance? How would he have reacted if someone were to tell him how to construct his playing mid-song? Frustrated and at my wit's end, I finally approached Todd gently asking that he and Jaco call it a night, leaving me to do my work in peace. He said he understood and would attempt to shepherd the now renegade Pastorius out into the night for a breath of fresh air. I felt relieved and began refocusing my energies back to programming my crumbling radio show.

As Donald Byrd's 'Cristo Redentor' flowed softly from the studio monitors, I was back into the spiritual groove I had been trying to maintain when Jaco ran back into the room, now insisting that I play something from one of his own records. "It'll fit in perfectly!," he expounded. No, Jaco. It wouldn't have. Steel drums, big band charts and soaring bass lines would not mix well with the somber strains of Byrd's hymnal. Now I didn't care who was making the suggestion, I was the DJ and only I would determine what got played, when it got played, and whether it fit in. Refusing once more with authority this time, the unimaginable happened, catching me completely off-guard. And thus, we get to the true heart of the story.

'The World's Greatest Bass Player' was defiant now, determined to break me, or so it seemed. It had become a battle of one man's ego pitted against the others. Both turntables were in rotation and both contained vinyl as he continued to badger me. To the untrained eye, it would be difficult to discern which record was actually in use --- live on the air --- and which was merely waiting to be replenished with a new slab of wax. Jaco apparently was in a gambling mood. I can only assume that he had hoped to force my hand by placing his record directly on the turntable, assuming I would politely oblige seeing the wisdom of his reasoning. He studied both revolving records for a moment; one live, one not. He then lifted the tonearm of the turntable that he had wagered to be the latter, and immediately the airwaves fell silent. He had lost his costly bet. The sweet sound of sanctified music became eerie stillness with all the unforeseen abruptness of sudden death. I was aghast! I couldn't believe what had just happened, and neither could he. Jolting from my seat, I shouted, "What the fuck did you just do!? Don't ever do that again, you asshole! That's it! You guys are outta' here! Fuck off, Jaco!" Instantaneously I thought to myself, "Christ, did I just say that!?" I had. I told the most prestigious bass player of the late 20th century to 'fuck off,' and I had done so in front of his friend, weekend host, and staunch supporter of the station, Todd Barkan. Had I just made a grand blunder, or was I justified in my reaction? I couldn't answer. Because of the hour, I was reticent to call the program director, but I slowly dialed the number, waking him from a deep slumber. Explaining the situation as well as my feelings of helplessness, he instructed me to put Todd on the line for an explanation. Handing the receiver to Barkan, I placed a long track on the turntable and moved to the corner while the two discussed the matter. When I walked back to the console, Todd handed the phone back to me and the director told me the incident was resolved. Todd apologized, informing me that he and Jaco would be leaving immediately. I was thankful, yet I felt as though it was I who had done something wrong. I simply wasn't accustomed to throwing 'royalty' out on its ass. The two slowly gathered their possessions, mumbled their goodbyes, and ambled down the long staircase to the street below, disappearing into the cold morning light.

Years later after learning more about the severity of bipolar disorders, I ended up honestly regretting my outburst to Jaco that night, regardless of his intolerable behavior. Yes, his attitude may have been exasperated by drug or alcohol consumption (if, in fact, any was involved), or it may have been solely by virtue of his role as 'Jaco Pastorius, the greatest living bass player the world has ever known. Having never previously encountered the man, how was I to know just what was the true underlying cause of his deplorable conduct? Either way, it no longer mattered. I'd come to realize that he was simply a sick man who was rapidly losing his fight with the forces that plagued and tormented him. I felt ashamed of myself, for I know first hand how devastating depression can be, and it's difficult for those around you for comprehend the loss of control that goes along with the affliction. You might say hurtful things that you don't really mean, and you act out in ways that are against your inherent nature, but these anomalies manifest themselves only because you hurt so deeply inside, and you can't control the ways in which you interact with those around you, those you actually do respect and possibly even love. It's a delicate dance on eggshells and that night, I had witnessed Jaco's mournful dance.

By the time of my realization, Jaco had succeeded in pushing away nearly all of his dwindling support system. He was frequently in and out of mental institutions, and a mere nickel away from virtual homelessness. Shortly thereafter in a manic state, Jaco kicked in the glass door of a nightclub in southern Florida after being refused entrance due to his erratic and volatile behavior. In a brutal confrontation with the club bouncer, he was hospitalized with irreversible brain damage and other severe injuries. Falling into a coma, Pastorius suffered a massive hemorrhage days later and on September 21, 1987, he was pronounced brain dead and removed from life support by his family. It was a tragic conclusion to a tragic life that was once filled with purpose, invention and ironically, so much wonderfully joyous music. 

You can rest in peace now, Jaco, and I hope I'm forgiven for my failure to recognize your illness, just as I've forgiven you for your actions so many years ago.

Part One

1) Portrait Of Tracy
(Jaco)2) Teen Town
(with Weather Report)
3) John And Mary
(Jaco)
4) Soul Intro/The Chicken
(with Word Of Mouth)
5) Kuru/Speak Like A Child
(Jaco)6) Cotton Avenue
(with Joni Mitchell)
7) Liberty City
(Jaco)
8) Barbary Coast
(with Weather Report)
9) Bright Size Life
(with Pat Metheny)
10) Fire Water
(with Brian Melvin)

Part Two1) Donna Lee
(Jaco)
2) Come On, Come Over
(with Sam & Dave)
3) River People
(with Weather Report)
4) 3 Views Of A Secret
(Jaco)
5) Black Crow
(with Joni Mitchell)
6) Invitation
(with Word Of Mouth)
7) Continuum
(Jaco)
8) Out of The Night
(with Brian Melvin)
9) Punk Jazz
(with Weather Report)
10) A Remark You Made
(with Weather Report)11) Holiday For Pans
(with Othello Molineaux)

To download, click here for Part One, and here for Part Two.

For more information, visit the official website of 'The World's Greatest Bass Player.'