CECIL TAYLOR R.I.P.

from THE VILLAGE SONNETS

Sblibby came into OBIES one afternoon with

a short dark man wearing thick eyeglasses

on his intense angry face. It was Cecil Taylor,

the piano-playing composer innovator changing

jazz. When I extended my hand to slip him

some skin he curled his lip in distaste. Sblib

didn’t notice as he raved about me, suggesting

Taylor come to THE WHITE WHALE where

I could display my chops. Surprisingly he did.

There I started in on my version of Ahmad

Jamal’s take on SURREY WITH THE FRINGE

ON TOP, only even more up-tempo so even

more difficult. But after only a few bars Taylor

got up and walked out without saying a word.

(C) Michael Lally 2016 

How fortunate I was to even be around him back in the day (the above occurred in 1961), let alone have this unique musical giant give me his attention no mater how briefly...

[here's a link to his NY Times obit]

BACK WHEN

one of my birthday celebrations with dear friends (top: me between Simon Pettet and Jim Keefe and below: me between Simon and Annabel Lee

I think it was my 60th in 2002 up in The Berkshires at another dear old friend's

ANOTHER SONNET FROM UNPUBLISHED MANUSCRIPT

APRIL 4TH, 1968

When Martin Luther King was shot I felt the

sudden shift in the atmosphere, like trying to

breathe underwater. It was three years since

Malcom X’s assassination and my new radical

friends and reading had opened my eyes to the

realities of class in the USA. Malcolm verbally

attacked white folks with impunity, but the

minute he decided it was not about race but

about the poor and the wealthy, BAM! King

spent years fighting racism and despite attempts

on his life and tons of threats seemed invulner-

able, but as soon as he organized a poor people’s

campaign talking about the haves and have-nots,

BAM! I wondered if the Marxists had it right.

(C) 2018 Michael Lally

LAST REMINDER

I'm reading a couple of poems, possibly to live music from some of my descendants backing me, and some great bands are tearing up the joint, this Friday evening in Jersey City at the White Eagle Hall, come dance with me...

OLD FAVORITE QUOTE

"I feel the time is always right to do what is right."
—Martin Luther King Jr.

(from his Playboy interview included in A TESTAMENT OF
HOPE: The Essential Writings of Martin Luther King Jr.)

STEVEN BOCHCO R.I.P.

My first reaction when I heard of Steven Bochco's death late yesterday was "No!" Though he'd been ill, in my mind he was such a solid presence, death seemed unimaginable. I was lucky enough to have known him just a bit. I worked for him several times, starting with the TV show L.A. Law and ending with NYPD Blue.

He was way at the top, and I was just a "Guest Star" on those shows (hit man John Dunham on the witness stand in a 1989 episode of L.A. Law, and a recurring role as artist and murder witness Walter Hoyt on NYPD Blue in '96 and '97, and in 1999 in a different recurring role as Dennis Franz's character's AA sponsor, but I ended up leaving L.A. and going back to my origins in New Jersey, so they had to write a scene where Franz calls my character and then says something like "Whaddaya mean he moved to New Jersey?").

I don't remember seeing him on set, though I may have, but I did spend a day at the races with him, as a guest of one of his proteges and co-creators of NYPD Blue, and my then good friend, David Milch, and ran into him at other "Hollywood" gatherings. From those interactions, I remember him as unpretentious, self contained, and just a nice, decent guy. He never seemed like he was even aware of his stature as a giant and genius in the history of TV. Though I'm sure he was, since he was obviously a very smart guy.

My condolences to his family, and many friends, and fans.

AN OLD POEM [INCLUDED IN MY SOON TO BE RELEASED LIFETIME COLLECTION: ANOTHER WAY TO PLAY]

APRIL FOOL’S DAY 1975

The day came on bright and shiny;
I didn’t know what to say.
Spring finally here but
on April Fool’s Day?
Does that mean more winter tomorrow?
Does it matter? Inside I feel tiny
watching my friends separate again, everywhere,
or the tv letting me know it’s not over 

over there,
or my special ignorance,
the dumbness only I can confront,
but still don’t know how to:
not meditation,
not revolution,
not androgyny or drag in any of its forms,
not even poetry,
not even spring.
In my heart there are shelves
and on the shelves
there are too many books
and too many of the books are worn out
or boring or impossible to understand.
And in my hand?
Those little hearts
the poems that
even when dumb, are sacred.
I’m glad we all aren’t naked:
it’s not the sixties anymore.
I want to wear nice clothes
and carry on my life behind closed doors.
I want to sit with the rich
or hustling poor and still be myself.
I want to make my kids secure.
I want to share with them
what joy a good night’s sleep
with bright and shiny morning
can bring to the heart—
the chance to start
again.