petr salidar
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petr salidar

New York City, New York, United States | SELF

New York City, New York, United States | SELF
Band Jazz Adult Contemporary

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Discography

A Salon of Refusals: Stairwell Angels, Giving Chase, Wonderful You, In Living Impromptu, My Temptation, Meditation 31, Accidental Brazil, Wynnefield Boy, Always Never Home, The Jazarabande, Alone For You, Under A Blue Moon Waiting.

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Bio

Beginning Reflections on A Salon of Refusals, and Sundry Items: Through a cordoned forest cinged of blood red glass flowers I walk chiselled and frayed reflecting a mortal trail.
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Late bloomed, partially forgotten and fashionably too late I began the practice at 22 years, propelling an anxious gyre through the landscape, a tightly twisted fashion through my work.
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The musics in A Salon of Refusals say My Temptation are more like cherished cacophonous pods than the delicate shadow puppets of my intentions. But for line, point and plane I am drawn with a graceful direction.
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Thankfully I've garnered a musical awakeness and ability for personal forgiveness to act as much a mainstay in my pursuit as breathing. As I ferociously aim toward the ultimate consciousness in my instances, my takes, I'll continually fall short of masterful recordings. But at the fittingly least I'm torched enough to proclaim, "you go right ahead and lay these out there for all the hits of criticism, indifference and the occasional exhalted comparisons to the classics." Even more so in this ubiquitous current where still the worst comment is no comment at all.
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My father was a Swing player on the licorice stick, a Dixie bandleader, a fine player to the core with a showman's understated carriage. And he actually told me a flick off the cuff as I originally approached him of my intent to play, and I still cringe saying this, I could never be a musician. I didn't have what it took. "You don't have it for improvisation and you'd've started too late for classical." Though to a low grade burble, this is what I hear everyday in the foundry, the basis of my wholesome positivity.
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Completely juxtaposed from his style, my original adolescent influences, the ones through which I envisioned a playing life at 22 years were early 70's Genesis high atop the list as well as all the great British bands; Yes, King Crimson, The Who, Procol Harem and The Strawbs. They pulled me out of my familiar surroundings from across the body water divide.
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But today while I enhance my musical vision, I actually aim toward elements my father gave away when I listened at his knee, be it Swing or all the distinctive Jazz periods that followed. Perhaps the implied swing triplet partially allows me the freedom in construction that Brahms accessed by writing so much in three with the tip toe hemiola.
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Composing. I was scared skinny of criticism and disregard at that germinal stage, holding all elders suspect. So I took to becoming self taught, feigning the slightest critique. As psychologically underdeveloped this may appear, and as private as my approach became, confidently I knew I was protecting something very important. Yet with no one dare I tell. It wasn't until my parents were both gone that I went to music school at 40 years, confident enough for traditional training.
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In these past five years I've worked feverishly to become a truer musician with that line of nameless days. In this disappearing act to those I was familiar, I've whittled down humility and courage to the name of tunes.
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I wrote Under A Blue Moon Waiting in three minutes, placing an homage on the spot to the flash memory of my sister. The complete focus that arose one morning while thinking of her, I stared at the remaining broken piece of pottery of all the ones she had worked up. A blended red, white, orange, blue and yellow stroked free form water pitcher in the curves of a naked voluptuous woman, the lid took the shape of her shoulders rising to her tilted head. And all that remained intact of this pitcher from her violent toss was this woman's head.
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What might rise up from the caldron to either spew venom or suggest peace.
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I composed more like the style of Under A Blue Moon Waiting until five years ago, when I decided to raise the ultimate stakes and make it Jazz. I lined things up so that my entrance into this arena was clean. Seemingly letting go of basically every secure connection I had.
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And My Temptation has everything in it to document where I was in the midst of this. It was composed rigidly, more like Coltrane's approach with continual improvements throug