This month Unlikely is proud to present two tracks from Barry Wallenstein's new jazz and spoken word album, Euphoria Ripens. Euphoria Ripens is available in stors or direct from Cadence Jazz Records (it's Cadence Jazz CD 1205 if you like to know that sort of thing). For further info, bookings and press, contact Barry at Barrywal23@aol.com.
I listened to this record a bunch of times, each time in a different setting. Every time I listened I was transported to an idyllic city where cabs honked trumpets and poetry blended with fun. Barry Wallenstein and his crew put me into a space of meditative contemplation with just enough tragedy to recognize the good times. I couldn't help but write a poem as a review or, as the case may be, my review as a poem. Either way, what follows is in homage to the fantastic artists who play on Euphoria Ripens:
Barry Wallenstein—poetry/vocals
Adam Birnbaum—piano
Steve Carlin—guitar
Daniel Carter—sax, clarinet, trumpet
Vincent Chancey—French horn
Bob Cunningham—bass
and with special recognition to the mix and editing of Roy Coopervasser. —ES
The music of Barry Wallenstein remained on Unlikely 2.0 for one year, then was removed for reasons of space and copyright.
I thought I was reminded one minute ago about boom boom bam time time time three
four time of the later greater jazz of New York City
like I was double scotch waiting for real late Baker at Tin Angel
something magical about timing
the cab just right to avoid red light
peddle at inch and a half cruise control big toe set to
twenty nine billowing green traffic lights a hundred miles away if a mile was a block
and each block a different country celebrating independence on different days and in
different years on the next block where suddenly
there is nothing more sudden than a horn whispering
too loudly for myself to
Breathe
the breeze that comes off the evening so out I go
to a dinner party where the plates I drink from have ears
as ghosts look over my shoulder to see who else is coming for dessert
but I follow the gaze of only one
to a brothel at table 5 around the block
where my right foot is the dew already dry
and my left is a
wet leaf waiting
for the rising sun to get past wind
into a voice not my own inside the head
of a little girl singing about a white dress
playing piano in time with Mingus
for something less than
a quarter ounce of
spinning
dime
in
just a second, I grinned
with wonderment what it was like to already know me
under muggles laying back in their (((doze))) they're in back laying muggles under
No sox! for all the wrong reasons
as I pick fuzzies at a bus stop on the line to the next block for another all night hum of toy boats
bellow below Tribecca Bridge
bringing out the curtain
call of summertime.
