Everybody else…was playing jazz. Chet Baker was playing the song…
I played it all the time, morning and night, and it spoke to me then of a special kind of elegiac cool; it dispensed with all pretension to musical heroism without repudiating the idea of heroism itself; it muffled the sentiment of the sung lyrics without denying the possibility that somewhere, at some time, for someone, such sentiments might have had a certain validity. Today, having written some songs myself, I see that Baker knew what all songwriters know, what singers like Judy Garland and Patsy Cline and Karen Carpenter knew most profoundly, that all songs are sad songs, borne as they are on the insubstantial substance of our fleeting breath.
Wenn es ein musikalisches Gegenstück zur „Neuen Sachlichkeit“ gibt, dann hier.