Word.

In 1993 I was completing my evolution from beaded-haired, floral-skirted, bare-footed bohemian to beret-wearing, espresso-sipping, deep-thought-having hipster. I was hanging out daily at this coffee house that played everything from big band to be-bop and discovering that I genuinely liked jazz. But I was way too cool to ever ask who the musician was when I heard a song come on that I was particularly drawn to. On top of my own stubborn pretentiousness, this was also still the pre-information age. So, it took me several years until I was able to define the artists and styles I liked and actually build a strong collection.

One of my earliest acquisitions was a box set called The Beat Generation—a pricey little purchase for me at the time, inspired by a live performance of Allen Ginsberg I’d just seen at Fountain Street Church. (He recited some works self-accompanied by a lap organ—it was extraordinary.) 

The 3-CD collection was a comprehensive capsule of the beat movement, and included interviews, spoken word poetry, and a representative selection of the hippest of hip jazz tunes. Among them were a couple of tracks by the resonant-voiced, profound-minded Ken Nordine. 

Years later, I’d almost forgotten Mr. Nordine, until a music-loving friend sent me a CD of his called Colors for my birthday. He assumed he would speak to me. He was right.