Lonely Woman by Horace Silver
“A man sits at the piano, flexes fingers, starts playing. What comes forth is perfection. Sit, stand, walk around and marvel at this. Perfect for summer days too.”
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A man sits at the piano, flexes fingers, starts playing. What comes forth is perfection. Sit, stand, walk around and marvel at this. Perfect for summer days too.
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Not to be confused with Ornette Coleman's song of the same name. But just as lovely and haunting.
This is how I like my jazz ballads: basically just slow-tempo Latin funk.
Horace Silver, 85, Master of Earthy Jazz, Is Dead
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