dred scott dispatches

On Tue, Sep 1, 2009 at 6:56 PM, <SStevoxxx@aol.com> wrote:

Just a quick note, from a long-time jazz lover. The remark you made at the festival on Sunday, about how “No Charlie Parker Festival would be complete without some… heavy drug use!” -under the circumstances, was disgusting. If it was up to me, you would NEVER be invited back. It seems the point was lost on you that the purpose of the event was to HONOR the man and his music. Jerk.

On Tue, Sep 1, 2009 at 8:03 PM, <dredscott666@gmail.com> wrote:   
fuck you.

On Tue, Sep 2, 2009 at 9:05AM, <SStevoxxx@aol.com> wrote:  
A response as articulate and poetic as your “music”.

On Tue, Sep 2, 2009 at 1:03 PM, <dredscott666@gmail.com> wrote:
there’s not much else to respond to a crazy crank with nothing better to do than rant vitriol that has no meaning.  i was trying to avoid this but you asked for it.  

first of all, charlie parker was the biggest drug addict on the scene.  a fact not in dispute, even by him.  he used to say, ‘i don’t think i play better when i’m fucked up, but it sounds better to me.’  he inspired countless imitators not only to play the saxophone but to use heroin.  just like bird.  so making a joke about it is not only not in poor taste, it’s funny.  but you wouldn’t recognize humor would you.  your soul is probably devoid of laughter.  and for that i feel sorry.  you don’t even know a joke when you hear one.

and as for a tribute to his music - your such a jazz lover maybe you noticed we were the only act to play a charlie parker tune all day!  that was the joke you moron,  no bird festival would be complete without…..playing some of his music.  see that’s why it’s funny, because that’s what people expect me to say but i didn’t.  i made the joke instead.  and it got a huge laugh.  so write all those people who laughed a fucking email.  it seems as though you have enough time on your hands for it.

finally, you call someone a jerk, you better be ready for whatever follows.  i’m posting your retarded musings on my website, blog and any other media outlet i can think of.  maybe you didn’t like my joke, but now YOU are the joke.   jerk.

and now a poem for you:

fuck off you soulless fucker.
get a fucking life.
fuck you fuck you fuck you, dick.

don’t tell me that’s not poetic.  it’s a haiku.  
and how’s this for articulate: may the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits.

sincerely,
dred scott

in our never ending efforts to achieve jazz world domination, dred scott trio has begun a potcast.  it’s just like a poDcast except the idea is you smoke some pot and then listen to it.  it’s kind of like 3-d without the glasses or visual imagery.   as if this is not enough, you can now follow the trio and it’s various important and meaningless exploits via twitter.  i haven’t ‘twittered’ myself just yet.  my cell is the first cell phone that was ever made so it doesn’t text very fast.  i have to figure out how to ‘twit’ from my computer, which as i understand it kind of defeats the purpose of ‘twitterring,’ an up to the minute account of whatever i or my bandmates happen to want to ‘twit’ about.  and speaking of my bandmates, i’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that tony will never be ‘twitting.’   i’ve also been told that twittering is not a long form, but a two sentence or so message.  like those cell phone novels they write in japan.  or a fortune cookie.  or even a haiku.  i thought my first ten twits would be exactly that - fortune cookie sayings that i’d send out it rapid succession.  but ben thought that kind of defeated the purpose of twittering and couldn’t see why i would want to do that. ‘because it would be funny,’ i told him.  
‘no it wouldn’t it. it would be annoying,’ he replied.  
he went on to tell me it’s best to space them out a little.  i always carry a notebook with me so i’ll just start recording them there when i think of them and then later post them from my computer - a time delay like they use at the academy awards or the super bowl halftime show.  i’m not sure how you follow us on twitter, but a hell of a lot of people already are. i get a notification email when someone joins and we haven’t even tweeted a twit yet.  i know for sure, though, that you can get on the potcast via iTunes or RSS.
i’ve been told by my handlers not to mention the iphone app because it won’t be coming out for another couple of weeks, so i’m not going to mention that iphone app that’s coming out in a couple of weeks.  but i can mention that we are building a new website.  and when it’s ready we’re going to have a launch party. with hors d’oeuvres.  meanwhile, tonite in an effort to increase jazz world domination probability, we are teaming with saxophonist, michael blake.  we’ve been talking about working on some new music together for awhile and doing a record or something and well, while we haven’t written any new music for ourselves, we are going to start playing some gigs together.  so come on down and check us out.

‘you gotta take out another stair.’

‘no man.  we can pick it up and slide it.’

the small man and his partner are chinese and they are both shaking their heads.  one of them takes a piece of strap and holds it up to measure the length of the keyboard then taking care to keep his hands in the same place on the strap puts the strap in the space between the next stair and the over-hanging staircase above it.

‘not fit!’ he says.

‘it don’t matter if you get a fucking abacus and measure it.  i say we can pick it and slide it.’

‘take out another step,’ the other chinese guy says.  his name is david and it’s his moving service i’ve hired to move my piano out of the basement it’s been in for the last eight years. his partner’s name is eric and they have two gigantic black dudes working with them.  i get the sense that this exact crew has moved many pianos together.

‘i don’t see any of you motherfuckers volunteering to take this next stair out,’ a.j. says.

‘you did such a good job of taking them other ones out,’ stretch replies.

‘shit.’  and he takes the crowbar and shoves it under the tread and pulls back on it splintering the tread in half and sending wood shards into the air.

‘hercules!’ stretch sings, laughing at the same time.

‘this is demolition,’ david says to me, shaking his head.

‘i’ll pay you guys more,’ i offer.

‘you got some trees?  you a musician, ain’t you?’  a.j. has taken his glasses off and is mopping his brow with the front of his t-shirt and is kind of looking at me sideways.

‘yeah.  i got a sack for you guys.’ i say.

‘well now you talking!’  stretch clapping his hands and rubbing them together.

just then the drain in the floor backs up and water starts gurgling out flooding a portion of the basement with about two inches of water.  i have never witnessed this in all the years i’ve lived in this house.  it must be pouring outside.  so i am moving some boxes and a guitar and the music desk to higher ground muttering, ‘fuck,’ and ‘shit,’ and a.j. says to eric,

‘c’mon mary woo.  we gotta get this piano out of here before david floats away.’  and they all laugh together hysterically.

there are only two steps left in the staircase and the piano will now fit but when they try to lift it out of the basement because there are no stairs to slide it up on, they find it is much too heavy and they decide to come back the next day with more guys.

‘i need more guys.  more money.’  david says to me.

‘ok. no problem.’

‘i need $1200.’

‘how about a thousand?’

‘i’m not trying to rip you off.  this dangerous job.  somebody get hurt, i get in big trouble!’

‘ok, ok.  you guys are doing your best.  i know it’s a hard job.’

‘hard job!’   david says laughing and shaking his head.

and they return the next day.

‘man, that was some good shit,’ a.j. says to me. ‘got any more?’

‘dudes you got all my money and all my weed.’

‘but we gonna get your piano out.’

and they did.  two giant brothers, two small chinamen and three regular size mexicans came together as one.

‘pick it up motherfucker.  do you speak english?  where did you get these guys, david?  they just mostly in the way.’  a.j. is glaring at one of the mexican guys,

‘pick…it…up!  moth…er…fuck…er!!’

stretch is laughing so hard he tells everyone to wait a minute so he can catch his breath.  they are on the other side.  outside my new studio which is on the second floor.  they have the piano at the base of the stairs and are about to come up.

‘1, 2, 3!’  david says and the come up one stair.

‘1, 2, 3!’ and the lift again.

‘1, 2, 3!’ all the way up.  they get to the top and one of the mexican guys walks by me shaking his head.  he’s thinking, ‘this is bullshit.’

but they have done it.  they navigate a tricky turn into the room itself.

‘lay it on me. i got it!’ a.j. says.

‘then you got to turn it!  now slide it and push it over!’ stretch yells.

‘dolly!! dolly!’  david yells and eric slides the dolly under the piano as it’s making the turn through the doorway.  it falls gently down and they roll it on in.