Jaydn DeWald
The
One Time I Saw Monk Playing at Minton’s
He looked
like a drunk hammering on a typewriter. Me and Corwell in gray silk suits, black-on-black
shirts, and Butcher Boys shoes. Cigars and whiskies and little hotties on our shoulders.
Did his “angular rhythms clash like gods in the smoke overhead”? Come on, kid, I
wasn’t even listening.
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