We first hear the winds of an imminent thunderstorm. Shortly thereafter, a mission bell is heard in the distance. There are other sounds, lost in the wind, beckoning us to a sanctuary. We arrive at a Spanish mission surrounded by southern live oaks draped in Spanish moss. We are greeted with open arms and invited inside. We are fed. We drink. We then relax to the strains of quasi-Latin music.
There is nothing too heavy here. There is no pyrotechnic showboating from Cobham, Duke or the Brecker Brothers. It is just good melodic music with 90% of its root system buried in jazz ground. Strangely, Spanish moss has no root system. But I am still sticking with my metaphors.
February 12, 2008 · 0 commentsTags: spanish moss
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