Straight, No Chaser

Tonight, Eastwood's documentary on Thelonius Monk, full of the wonderful, discordant, elegant chaos hanging upon the adamantine frame of the rhythm section. The outrageous talent, coupled, typically, with the eccentricity and dysfunction that marks men such as these.

The rest of us like to dress up our own faults and flaws as the markers of greatness, but we're just pretenders, bringing some artistry or creativity to life when our good Lord grants us a moment to do so.

Either that, or we perpetually plot and scheme, endlessly gathering and building to be ready when the opportunity presents itself. More preparation than application, with occasions of self loathing expunged to bring some life to another unwarranted ambition.

Watching Monk turn circles on stage, unable to sit and play... His son describing how the man would pace for four days before needing hospitalisation, bouts of withdrawal and depression punctuated by moments of euphoria. We can only sympathise, and if course, pretend we don't see ourselves in it.

Right?