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Isamu Noguchi . . . You killed him! You killed him.
In your God damned Brooks Brothers
suit, You son of a bitch.
Mumbo, Jumbo & Bumbo. Other local poets—Lawrence Ferlinghetti (Junk Man's Obligate) and Kenneth Patchen (Hurrah for Anything), et al.—have moved into the jazz clubs. "All these Kenneths," comments Kenneth Rexroth, "sound a little like Mumbo, Jumbo and Bumbo, each the biggest elephant in the world."
The jazzmen, in turn, have taken to scribbling. Lippincott. backed by his own quintet, recently recited a piece about how the guy in the combo feels when he is going way out ("We were all there waving at the hillside Picasso men who turned out to be saguaro cactuses . . . We were all there together, really, still, now, always, rotating, revolving, dancing, now, always"). The jazz accompaniments are both premeditated and improvised, but all of them are far too sketchy to stand by themselves. If the poets are sold on J. & P., most of the jazzmen are cooling on it. An exception: Dave Brubeck, who is reminded by the union of jazzmen and poets of "the Bards and Meistersingers."
The act continues to sell at a brisk rate. "At any moment," wrote San Francisco Chronicle Columnist Ralph F. Gleason recently, "I expect to see [Coach] Abe Saperstein announce T. S. Eliot in a coast-to-coast tour with the Harlem Globe Trotters."