Can’t help but think of Miles’ On the Corner album when I hear jazz wah.
Why yes, I spent my formative years listening to Miles Davis electrofunk and Steely Dan records. It would have been a lonely four years of high school if I had actually attended. The secret to not attending high school and not getting caught is being sick on the first day of freshman year, tearing up the note your mother wrote, and then writing your own. Then, every time you ditch school, you write your own note. The human-manatee hybrid behind the desk in the administrator’s office with the glasses on a lanyard would always dutifully check to see if the handwriting was the same, and then file it. Funny, it always was.
Of course you have to go to school on test days and pass anyway. That’s the complicated part. Complicated for you, I mean. I never had any problems. Of course, I’m smart enough to know that Sunny by Bobby Hebb is the Official Cover Song of the Twenty-Teens. But hell; any two Frenchmen know that.
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I frequently listen to Radio Swiss Jazz on my computer, and you'll never guess what was playing just now when I connected. Well—you will guess since it's so obvious: Sunny, by Stochelo Rosenberg. I don't understand this but it's all your fault.
Ahem, Sipp, nihil desperandum. There is light at the end of the tunnel for you. My uncle Louie Lozko, known to the poultry world as "Letsgo Lozko, King of the Bantam Chickens", was a pioneer in using music to sooth the savage beasts.
He headed a team of international experts that established trends and response curves. Verified findings showed that: cows produced more milk with Classical music; sheep grew more wool with Top Forties; hogs, or hawgs as they are called in places other than Illinois got fatter with polkas; and finally that Bantam chickens were impervious to any music whatsoever, laying eggs at the same rate with any or no music at all. Further studies discovered that chickens cannot hear. They have no ears.
"As for the bantam chickens, those little sumbitches are the living descendants of velociraptors. I wouldn't be messing with 'em." was his epitaph. May the angels bless every silver hair on his sainted head.