moribund raze here's chet baker digging into "my_funny_valentine" onstage eleven months before the end of everything. tokyo. 1987. he's less a man than a frail ghost. his once-beautiful face is caving in on itself, ruined by heroin and self-harm. but when he raises his horn to his lips, he's transfixed. transformed. for a moment, he's alive again. chet never practiced playing the trumpet. he coasted on his natural gifts and let his good looks carry him as far as they would take him. in his last days, after having his teeth knocked out by a dealer he was indebted to, he needed a steady diet of gigs to pay for all the poison his blood craved. he had to rebuild his embouchure while learning to play with dentures. he became a better musician as an unintentional side effect of expediting his exit from a life he wasn't fully awake for. which makes his music that much more remarkable. because it was helmed by someone who was never really there. nico sang the same standard when she was on her way out. i wonder what it is that drives an artist to reach for the songs of strangers when they know they're doomed. if i ever find myself sinking without a raft or anything buoyant to keep my head above water, the words i want with me are my own. and in my moribund mind, they'll be sung by someone i love enough to call kin. 251221 what's it to you? who go blather from