I imagined John Blanke as a time traveller, a temporal, as well as geographical ‘advanced guard’, stretching Tudor ears with brand new shades and syncopations. He carried the secret formula to a new music, dropped it, but refused leave it when he moved on. Like Miles in 1957, he signalled the coming of something new, something literally ‘Miles Ahead’ of the norm. All he left us was a thumbnail sketch, and a submerged sonic time bomb set to explode in the middle of the 20th Century.
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137 keith piper