Dear kind and patient readers: This entry of my column is a love letter of appreciation to all of YOU, a tidy number of whom have once again saved me from having to come up with a new topic about which to write. Well, perhaps that’s not entirely true: I’ve a list as long as my arm of stories, tributes, exposés and anecdotes waiting in the wings.
However, I celebrate my 41st entry by acknowledging all of you brave readers who wade through my ongoing observations, whether manic or maudlin, giddy or grumpy. After you’ve read what follows, at worst you might declare this preamble to be an apologia; at best you may accuse me of buttering you up so you’ll tolerate this month’s topic [N.B.: the modal verb “may” in the previous sentence can be viewed as either indicating the possibility of something OR as permission from me to you.]
In any event, I hope for and look forward to at least 41 additional essays (at least!) in the pursuit of the inspirational and the insane [N.B. II: to help facilitate this occurrence please inveigle our editor Andy Senior to continue this publication no matter what, send him an additional sum of your choice with your subscription renewal to help us get closer to the non-profit status toward which he and Joe are striving, or both; come to think of it, you can throw a few extra shekels in for me too: many thanks!].
My column on perfect pitch (S
The Rise of a Jazz Vibraphonist: Evelyn Yosmali
Garry Berman
