Brooklyn, NY
Brooklyn, NY
Or Kathy Norris,1 was a cellist here in New York for a few years in the mid- to late-1960s. She played on two of my favorite records, At Judson Hall by Noah Howard and Intents And Purposes by The Bill Dixon Orchestra.2 She also appeared on a Dixon-produced record by The Robert F. Pozar Ensemble, whose namesake was also known as Cleve Pozar. I came across Cleve Pozar via this terrific piece by Hank Shteamer and some other info at 50 Feet of Elbow Room, and to be frank, Pozar is a whole rabbit hole of his own, worth pursuing but not so deeply with regard to cellist Catherine or Kathy Norris.
In a way, it’s no surprise that I can’t find anything about her or evidence of further recording sessions. To those of us who listen to Noah Howard or Bill Dixon or Cleve Pozar, these musicians are titans, progenitors of music that pushed the boundaries of both jazz and solo and ensemble improvisation. But they’re either major minor figures or minor major figures in the broader history of creative music. Their current stature is defined by their status as makers of nearly irretrievable music, makers of records lost to the fray of their original moment. That is, this is not music that was ever popular, and however much “everything” is available online, anyone who has spent anytime looking for these outside, fugitive recordings knows this isn’t true. Collector’s prices can be prohibitive for titles that were privately printed in small numbers, and unless a fellow traveler has made a rip available, there’s maybe YouTube and probably nothing. And if one is looking for a session player, there’s little or no chance at all of finding them elsewhere.
But for the moment, I wonder if Ms. Norris is easy to find but not where I’m looking, or if she left New York and stopped playing music, or perhaps she’s due for renewed interest and someone is working on it right now?
Not to be confused with Kathi Norris.↩︎
This one isn’t streaming anywhere as far as I can tell.↩︎
Brooklyn, NY
You can find my favorite albums from 2025 at Album Whale. It was a year of considerable discovery for me, a year of both more and less obscure listening, of both familiar and surprising instrumentation and dynamics. Hopefully you’ll find something to enjoy there.
Not altogether unrelated, I’ve started keeping a running list of notable listening and reading at an In Rotation page here at the site. Not a best of, exactly, but stuff that seems worth mentioning. If I come to sense a lack I might add viewing to the list but right now books and listening is enough.
However inclined one might be to consider Patti Smith simply a rock star who writes, a pass at the prelude of Bread of Angels should confirm that she is, rather, a poet who has made some records.
However inclined one might be to consider Patti Smith simply a rock star who writes, a pass at the prelude of Bread of Angels should confirm that she is, rather, a poet who has made some records.
Not sure who is a crossword solver here but my brother wrote tomorrow’s (Wednesday 12/3) NY Times puzzle. So if you take a swing at it, let me know how you do!
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.
— Frank O’Hara, “Why I Am Not a Painter”
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.
Brooklyn, NY
(via kottke.org)
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There are a million ways to live your life, but one choice is to do it with gratitude.
Laura Dern Has the Spirit of Seventies Cinema | The New Yorker
Chicago, IL
Chicago, IL
Chicago, IL
Brooklyn, NY
Both of their names are misspelled: we spell our name Barocas, not Barokas, and my grandmother’s name was Flora Gatteño (or Gattegno, it’s not quite clear).
New York City, 1916