“But what manner
of pretentious crap is that?” the careful reader cries aloud,
and probably rightly, too. Isn’t this just an LP whose jacket
hasn’t lost its gloss even though it’s a full quarter of
a century old – an artifact like any other, to be used as an
icon might if the viewer so desires: as a means for locating places
in his own mind that were already there but which had remained hidden
until some path toward them could be found? Yes, maybe, who knows,
I know people who see God every time they hear a cumbia. It’s
an album of easily-digestible jazz, to be played when there’s
company and one needs to set the mood, if you see what I’m driving
at, and I have little doubt but that you know exactly what
I mean. Or else it’s a tone-poem about nostalgia hidden inside
of something you found at the public library’s book sale and
if will change you forever and sooner or later no-one will recognize
you, about which you will be remarkably ambivalent. But what do I
know?What I can report to you from having listened to & been cured
by The Debonair Mr. Hartman is something remarkably simple
— the deep, horrifying truth about easy listening:
It works. |
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