Most can't recall the first time their ears were molested by the call of reality's rude awakening. I can recollect the first and last time my ears were tickled by frequencies otherworldly, the lyricism of images via sound, indulgent without being showy; A living soundtrack for every mood.
'Cannonball' Moncur was not just a jazz saxophonist, he was a herald and translator of an extinct or undiscovered language. Beyond any advanced guard, his stream of freedom could enslave and command the audiences it resonated within, paralyzing the abilities of the rest of the band with his balloon lungs. No arkestra in this solar system could keep in the pocket with the horn god, but no one could ever make out the train wrecks when they did happen.
Emulating screaming children (the spit flying from his instrument could be their tears) just as easily producing ideophones that could make one see colors man is blind to. The soundtrack to existential disaster and nirvana. My failing hearing has actually improved since the first time I strolled into the Cat's Den club and lost my true aural virginity to Cannonball. After, I could hear rats fucking in walls.
Every night I caught one of his sets, the kick came instantly. One night, I entered in the middle of one of his whirling dervishes. Fiery cosmic diarrhea spewed all over the crowd's dumbfounded eardrums, sweat coming off his eggplant skin shined his gleaming sax, pieces of it flew off here and there. His gums bled from his freak lip onto his white suit. He blew a fountain of his own genre. I decided then and there I had to talk to the man who changed the way I hear.
As soon as we crossed paths, he seemed to know I wanted to meet him before I even told him my name. “Come to my room upstairs in an hour, number. 6.” His voice unique like his playing, just as full of bass as treble. He is much smaller onstage, always hunched over his piece, like he was fucking it.
The upstairs of the Cat's Den was a shithole painted green. It seemed a crime that a talent this bold should wallow in such squalor, he was a Joe Below. Before I could knock, “Come on in, man.” I walked into the dingy room to find Cannonball sitting in a chair with a belt around his arm, stirring a glass of everclear with a needle full of red chicken heroin. The junkie genius shoots it up his right arm as he takes a swig from the glass. “Close the door, don't let all the magic out now.” We smoked A-bombs, talking through the night. He didn't seem the slightest bit affected by his habits. I felt I was orbiting earth just being in the same room with him. “Man is merely an instrument to play instruments . . . Music is the only language your ears don't need to be taught the many vernaculars of . . . Most just hear selectively the dead symbols they choose to speak with.” As he spoke, I noticed his lips barely moved. His voice sounded like it was coming from within or behind my ears instead of directly at me.
“You got some good reefer, Cannon. Stellar.”
He smiled open-mouthed and I felt a distant echo soar around me, faint sirens. Looking around, I noticed not a single piece of vinyl. “What have you recorded recently?”
“I don't. It's all dimensionally flat. I'll leave that to the cats who care about being remembered by the non-witnesses. What I play, no plate is hot enough for. . . it can only be captured in the moment, remain unfading in your mind. Head arrangements . . . I never woodshed.” All my hairy gooseflesh was chilled.
We spent time together often after his sets in the next weeks, but no matter how close we became, a remote voice always called him back to his thoughts, a retrieving introversion.
I saw a rustic alto in a music shop window one day, cheap enough and hopefully a suitable gift for the one like no other.
Back at the Cat's Den, I knocked at his upstairs room to no reply.
Signs of life were obvious inside, some shuffling . . . an odd whirring sound. Something felt wrong. I eased the door a crack at first, then slowly opened it in a horrific awe. Some entity in Cannonball's white blazer, a formless head, a fountain of visages, endless, flowing into the air and dissipating. I was stunned at the bubbling mosaic of every face I've ever seen in my life, and then some. The thing abruptly faced me surprised, although it had no distinguishing features.
“You've seen more than I can allow, Peter,” Cannonball's voice, heavily distorted, flanging and phase-shifting. I stood there flabbergasted with the gifted sax in a clammy clutch. He reached for his slowly with hooks like hydras, each finger its own independent hand. His horn turned transparent when he touched it, becoming altogether something different. It had glowing veins over vertebrae that connected intuitively with his digits through the keys. The shape of his axe became rippling liquid, the Popsicle stick melted. “Without choice now, I can only offer you complete communion of the abstract truth.” An opening in the head revealed a hot light. The sweat-soaked alto in my hands warmed instantly, welding my hands to it with a burning intensity. Cannonball's alien horn lit up like lava when it touched the refulgent mouth. Right before the unfathomable cacophony of his immaculate audio plague destroyed me and all of the Cat's Den, I could see and feel those sirens, coming to tear me apart.
Experimental sound / multimedia visual artist involved with Butoh Sonics, Schadenhaus, Sugar Pills Bone, Smogma, and solo
projects The Ɔrinkles,THE IDE OF EARTH, Dummy Rifle, and Wretch And Reel, to boot.
Labels, compilation or soundtrack personnel interested in physically releasing / using any material, or locals booking shows or looking to collab, contact here....more
French poet Messyl offers work in the tradition of the Beat Generation over atmospheric experimental rock from Wolf City. Bandcamp New & Notable Apr 11, 2023
