I think I came across Cecil Taylor a bit later, in 65 or 66. That

Host: The jazz club was nearly empty now — just the slow hiss of a speaker cooling, the faint perfume of smoke and bourbon hovering in the air, and the lazy flicker of a neon sign outside that read, “Blue Door.” It was the kind of place where midnight never really ended, it just slid quietly into tomorrow.

Onstage, a grand piano sat like a sleeping beast, its lid open, its black lacquer reflecting the ghost of musicians long gone. The last few drops of sound from the evening’s set seemed to linger in the air, trembling just beyond hearing.

Jack sat at the bar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a glass of scotch in front of him. His fingers tapped lightly on the counter — rhythm without melody, thought without sound. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the piano, tracing her hand across the edge of the keys as if trying to wake them back up.

Jeeny: “Luc Ferrari once said, ‘I think I came across Cecil Taylor a bit later, in ’65 or ’66. That really impressed me — Cecil Taylor is an amazing character… Both his music and the way he approaches the instrument are astonishing.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Ah, Cecil Taylor — the man who made the piano sound like a galaxy collapsing. You don’t listen to him — you survive him.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Yes. He wasn’t playing the piano, he was challenging it. He treated the keys like they were barriers to be broken open. Ferrari heard that and recognized the courage.”

Host: The camera glided slowly through the space — over abandoned glasses, discarded sheet music, the ashtray filled with the evidence of creation. The atmosphere pulsed faintly, as if the room itself still hummed with the echo of the last dissonant chord.

Jack: “You know, what’s amazing about that quote is how Ferrari talks about approach — not just sound. Cecil didn’t play the piano. He attacked it. He approached it like a landscape, like he was excavating emotion rather than expressing it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s why he astonished people like Ferrari. Because Taylor didn’t believe in the distinction between noise and music — for him, everything could be sound, everything could be rhythm.”

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How chaos, in the right hands, becomes order. Cecil Taylor turned abstraction into intimacy. He made the avant-garde feel human.”

Jeeny: “Because he wasn’t chasing beauty — he was chasing truth. And truth, when it’s honest, often sounds like noise.”

Host: The camera drew closer to the piano. One of the keys — middle C — was chipped. The light from the neon sign caught its edge and made it gleam, a small imperfection turned into something holy.

Jack: “You ever think about what it means to be amazed by another artist? It’s not just admiration. It’s surrender — the recognition that someone’s doing what you didn’t know was possible.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And Ferrari, coming from his own world of experimental composition, heard in Taylor not just rebellion, but discipline. People forget that kind of freedom requires control — precision masquerading as madness.”

Jack: “Like a storm that knows exactly which trees to uproot.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. He played like he was rewriting physics.”

Host: The camera lingered on their faces — Jeeny’s eyes lit with reverence, Jack’s shadowed with contemplation. The air in the club was thick now, heavy with memory and philosophy.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always envied that kind of courage. The willingness to make people uncomfortable. Taylor didn’t care if you liked it — he only cared if you felt it.”

Jeeny: “And Ferrari admired that because he knew the risk. Every artist faces it — the choice between being understood and being true.”

Jack: “Most people choose understanding. Cecil chose truth.”

Jeeny: “And Luc recognized the cost of that choice. Astonishment mixed with empathy — that’s what I hear in his words.”

Host: The camera shifted to the bar mirror, catching both of their reflections — Jack’s still form, Jeeny’s poised silhouette, the glow of the dying neon. It looked almost like a painting: still life with ghosts.

Jeeny: “What’s fascinating is how Ferrari describes Taylor not as a musician, but as a character. That’s telling. He wasn’t just listening to music; he was witnessing a human phenomenon.”

Jack: “Right. Taylor’s performance wasn’t just sound — it was embodiment. He didn’t separate himself from his work. He became the piano. The astonishment was existential.”

Jeeny: “Ferrari saw that and thought — this is the next step. The merging of mind and motion, composer and instrument. The end of distance.”

Jack: “It’s funny, isn’t it? How true artists don’t imitate each other — they awaken each other. Taylor woke Ferrari’s courage.”

Jeeny: “And Ferrari honored him with words — which is what artists do when sound isn’t enough.”

Host: The rain began outside, gentle at first, then harder — tapping against the club’s glass door like a drummer who hadn’t quite left the set. The neon sign outside flickered, its reflection quivering on the piano lid like sheet music written by lightning.

Jack: (quietly) “You think we still make artists like that?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “I think we make them. But we don’t listen to them.”

Jack: “Maybe because we’ve gotten used to comfort. Taylor made people feel everything but comfortable.”

Jeeny: “Yes. He demanded your whole attention. And Ferrari loved that — the way the man turned an instrument of control into a vehicle of chaos and grace.”

Jack: “That’s what amazes me most — how Taylor made dissonance sacred. Every clashing note sounded like a prayer written in anger.”

Jeeny: “Or grief. Or ecstasy. He played like every emotion was on the edge of implosion.”

Jack: “And somehow, in that storm, there was order — but not the kind you could see. The kind you could only trust.”

Host: The camera drifted up, showing the ceiling fan turning slowly above them, slicing the smoke into ghostly ribbons. Somewhere in the silence, a single piano note echoed faintly — or maybe it was just memory catching its breath.

Jeeny: (softly) “That’s what Ferrari was really saying — that astonishment isn’t about complexity, it’s about courage. It’s about witnessing someone surrender completely to their craft.”

Jack: “And that surrender — that’s what separates talent from transcendence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Cecil Taylor didn’t play to be admired. He played to disappear.”

Host: The lights dimmed, leaving only the reflection of the piano in the bar mirror. Two empty glasses. Two silhouettes. And the faint hum of rain.

Through that stillness, Luc Ferrari’s words seemed to play themselves out — a melody built of awe, humility, and revelation:

That the most amazing artists
are those who stop being musicians
and become forces of nature.

That to approach an instrument
is to approach the self —
with both reverence and rebellion.

That astonishment
is not born from perfection,
but from witnessing someone
risk their identity
for a single, unrepeatable moment of truth.

And that in every true artist,
as in every storm,
there is chaos,
and there is grace —
and they are the same sound.

Host: The camera lingered on the piano — its keys half-lit, waiting, listening.

Jack reached out, played a single dissonant note —
sharp, raw, alive.

Jeeny smiled,
and somewhere, beneath the hum of the neon,
the spirit of Cecil Taylor answered,
not with melody,
but with motion.