I've been getting into jazz lately, with the help of Cooper, a warm, sweet old jazz nut who works at the Dusty Groove record store on Ashland Avenue.
Like a kind of musical tailor, Cooper has carefully sized me up by dorkiness, mutliplied it by my yuppiness, subtracted my willingness to improvise, and he has gently guided me into Miles Davis and Charlie Parker and John Coltraine and Thelonius Monk.
It's a program he's put me on, and I go and get a new CD every couple of weeks or so.
I told Cooper I want to get a CD of the jazz saxophonist David Murray, that bugaboo of my self-Googling sessions.
"He's my namesake," I said. "And I've always wanted to hear his stuff."
Cooper paused, trying to figure out just how to say it.
Then he shook his head and said, gently:
"I don't think you're ready for David Murray."
Maybe I’d hear the same thing to me about my Google-bugaboo namesake if I were to meet a purveyor of UFO art.