A LINE
Listen, some blues are bluer. Take my word for it. You can see them in the Grumbacher catalog keeping the other blues quiet. Like indigo. You know, Think Carribean. Then there's that other blue, the one Chet Baker used, that pale, airy blue he handled like a sacrament no matter what, like in that Bruce Weber movie where Baker’s in some recording studio with three days growth and his two front teeth are missing Fuck the bridge and every line in his face is like the worst junkie you ever saw and then he tilts his head back for the mike and there it is: that blue again. Running through his body like a watercolor. And then there's that nightclub or party or disco, who can tell the way Weber makes movies, and everybody's yakking away at each other like the music's for getting laid and Baker's looking out at them from the bandstand with that cool look of his but there's something in his eyes, some mixture of innocent disbelief and contempt so honest you never ever want to talk again when someone even half as good is singing, and listen, maybe the man got wasted every chance a needle came around, but he had his priorities. Think about it. The music came first. Then him. That was it. You didn't count. Believe me. Like in that scene at the end where he's sprawled out in the back of this Eldorado convertible between a couple of just-too-fucking-hip blondes from the disco who are all over him like, Why not man, we're making movies, and besides, this is Chet, I mean did you hear him singing back there, and the blondes' hair is flying all over everywhere and I guess Weber's standing up in the front seat shooting down at them because you can hear him yakking away at Baker, telling him how cool he looks, but Baker isn't even listening man, he just shot up again and he's really high and he's leaning back laughing that drifter's laugh of his and all the time he's looking up at the camera with that same mixture of disbelief and contempt like, Bruce you stupid shit you. And don't even ask about the chicks.