Looking at the wall over Brett's desk, I see the evidence of a guy who has really followed his passions. Posters, magazine pages, postcards, newspaper clippings all adorn the wall in an orderly, straight-lined collage. There's Sonny Stitt in a black and white photograph from an article; he's holding his saxophone flat in front of him, as if examining the bend for dents. On top is a panoramic shot of the Beatles, a famous poster I think. The four stand in a line facing the right side of the poster, shaggy hair, huge side burns, Harrison and Ringo in front, Paul ducking almost comically behind, and Lennon erect behind him. Looking into the wind, or that's the impression I get.
What kills me is that many of these are passions I share. Jazz and just good music in general. But I have no such collection. I feel less for it, somehow. It feels like a castigation - if you really loved jazz, you, too would have a wall like this.
But it's not just the art, the hangings, it's his knowledge base as well. No one can talk records or artists with him without years and years of experience. I am a novice, an amateur, a greenhorn when it comes to the music I love to listen to and wish I could play.
And that's how it is with me. I spend a lot of time wishing.
