Turning the car radio's dial from Classical to Jazz, I stopped for a red light. A heavy throb of rap pounding in from a nearby car reminded me that Cybele was regularly believed to issue from bare cliffs beside which fresh water rose, and between the eighth and sixth centuries B.C. great facades representing her temples were carved on such rock faces in the specially sacred plateau between Eskisehir and Afyon Karahisar, where the sacred Phrygian rivers rise Jazz and Rap were born on the same desperate streets. But while Rap chants for instant recognition, Jazz initiates a discrete lifetime of elaboration. And while Rap's words explode and die, entangled with the daily news, Jazz primes us with a living, aging, body of art, I thought, as the light changed from red to green.


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