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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 111 | volume  | January, 2017



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 111January, 2017
Sound Reviews

The Crucified Trumpet Player, A Love Story

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p. 1
Meša Begić

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The Crucified Trumpet Player, A Love Story

Translated into English by Elizabeta Bakovska
    
      
    I

      
    It’s three in the afternoon and the phone rings. Instead of approaching it, you turn on the music. This has already become a scary tradition which is crowned with statements that sound something like this: “Just don’t let me become an inventory of dark spaces!”, or “You’d rather open your mind to new kinds of despair giving in until the end.”
      
    And then you disappear, you drown in the smoke of your own cigarettes and let yourself in the hands of the record that turns a new circle. The one for today is Cool Cat, an album which Chet Baker recorded in 1986 in the Netherlands, two years before he ended on the pavement two floors below his hotel room.
      
    His trumpet could always find you easily. You have celebrated sleepy nights together, the walks along broad avenues, small hotels and their balconies, it gives you clear indications that you need to remember and which palm trees are no longer worth memorizing. His trumpet finds you every time you think that a withdrawal has been ordered.
      
    Is it by accident that this room belongs to you now? Wake up. Life is not a song in the improvisation that you keep dreaming about. Improvisations very rarely end well. Especially if you don't stop them in time. You never knew how to stop anything. You smell of politics and envy. Use the beautiful bathroom. After that, get your act together and pick it up. You used to have a similar phone in one of your houses. An elegant, black one. With a dial that tires. Even its living signal was used for decorative purposes.
      
       Chet Baker – Caravelle
      
      
    
    II

      
    Speedball baby, it’s clear that without junk there would be no melody. Some people know no different. Your vein has to be happy so that the lips could talk. When you are on it and without teeth setting the trumpet apart to simple factors, but you still van not fly, the concrete under your balcony is the only certainty.
      
    The sound of the phone again. It is covered by the jazz quarter in ecstasy at the time when I recognize alienation as a completely new way of subduing, a scared black bird lands on my thoughts. It cracks: “Blue moon, you saw






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