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P.O. Box Paradise.


Dear Mr. Davis,

You surely did not put people at ease. But now you’re no longer here, and God only knows where you are, all is watered down and likeability is no longer necessary.
That Infinite Blues of yours was a thing of pure beauty, let me tell you, even if you do not know what to make of my appreciation. But I will say it… to the blues itself, if you prefer. 
Rest assured, you were also elegant – and this I appreciate – since this alone is already the realm of the artist. Innate elegance is a gift, albeit a minor one. And it must be worn.
On the issue of your nickname “Divine” I would rather not comment, it’s not worth it. You know, even Alfonso de Portago – Master of Sport – had your same raw elegance. In this he wasalso an artist, an artist in the Grand Prix that is life. Art hides even there, I assure you.
That day, in Rome, you were recording a television show, next to us who were also getting ready for the almost live broadcast. You, unreachable.
It was, however later that I enjoyed myself (you, most surely, had already left, alone and with a limousine driver). Once you and we had finished playing, another musician came to visit us in our dressing room. He was a young Modern Jazz professional, of the likes that are mass-manufactured by jazz schools, perfect, all identical, infallible and with a  diploma that reads: trumpet player. Perfect execution and, at the same time, so boring in his performance.
Do you know what he asked us, we who had just finished playing Dixieland?
He asked enthusiastically, what was it that we were playing!
Miles away.