Wednesday, September 15, 1982


I read the NME and it was full of in-crowd cynicism and sneery trendspotting. Afterwards it was a breath of fresh air to listen to John Coltrane, the music on a different plane altogether, but the other modern jazz I've heard feels mostly cold and passionless, too ascetic and intellectual (John Lindberg, etc.).

It would be great if excitement about jazz could be sincerely generated among young people instead of for the fashion reasons that are prevalent today. This has ‘em hanging round and posing in berets and suedes, which is a crime I’m all too guilty of, it can't be denied. I look back on my Camden entries and cringe and want to scribble ‘em out but I mustn’t because it was the unfortunate reality of my state of mind at that time and has to remain as truth.

Sometimes I read what I write here and it's just not that well written. I compare it to the way I used to write in those creative essays for Mr. Giles and I wonder, what is different? Why do I write here in ways so much more crude and less polished? Perhaps because it's  'personal' (etc.), and I can't look on it as as anything serious.

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