untitled....

christmas came early this winter
we learned to be thankful the days
we felt the winter when the power went out
and from the warmth of our layered blankets
our ears peirced with an icy cold no colder than
the dog house tents that house the homeless
our breath like mist exhaled in clouded puffs of desperation
we were cold and we were reminded that the true spirit of christmas
the true spirit of giving...
can never be experienced felt or even known
in expensive gifts of jewerly or clothing or electronic trinkets that
alienate us from one another, as we covet our neighbors toys
and as we even covet our neighbors means to give
this measure of vanity
this control
this manipulation
this evil
is not of Christ
it is of man
for the true spirit of giving
is to give the gift
of love

machine watchers

machine watchers
orbit the circle of sky
seeing me
in satellite resolution
pinpointed down
from the eye of heaven
to the speck of earth
in which my concerns are occupied
I don't feel so small
as big as big is
I'm bigger than the smallest small
right about now
this micro giant
this self-importance
this billioneth creature
living a segment of time
on God's infinite wrist
finds an importance in the singularity
of it's own uniqueness
or just a number
like never before
or never again
another child
flicked off like an insect
into the dung heap
of universe
a daily framed reference
known as the real
not in sleep, or dreams
or thoughts
but now like reality
this billioneth creature
looking up
my eyes
to Hers

coffee men

conversations
backdated political aphorisms
spoken as words
known as memories
and huddled outdoors
in banned smoking sessions
whose newspaper obituaries
read in silence
give meaning
and conviction to the dysfunctional sacrafice
of sons and daughters

the coffee men
gray old and irrelevant
warmed in the pressed crotch of ironed underwear
from sitting too long on padded transient cushions
starched starbuck deniziens
sitting in favorite seats
speaking familiar phrases
good mornings and false hello's

men with time
of bowel irregularity
and frequent unrination
of routine morning rituals
and obssesive cleanliness
men whose wives
want them out of the house
every day even if only to do
nothing

conducting the pretense of business
in donut house offices
setting tentative appointments
making empty lunch dates
with high-minded insincerity
these tired old men
whose lives are made up
of telling old and worn stories
in vain repititions

one day will I be such a man
I can only hope
to find this grace of expiration
every hour of
every morning
without cream or sugar
the mystery of the commonplace
in the blackness
of coffee

the day the oil ran out I didn't feel so cosmic........

at 4:30 in the morning
when only the papermen
insomniacs, long distance commutters,
graveyard shift workers, and crackheads are awake
this is the time poetic thoughts converge and awake
like a hollow hand possessed with an impish inspiration
sawtoothed index files collate brain matter
towards that clear incandescent thought
or just another bright idea
and 10,000 years from now will that idea warm the insight
of a random passerby on the cosmic highway of intuition
or will the words fade away beyond the opaque shadows
of lost memories
whimsicals, thoughts and prayers
in units of floating elements
drifting through the ocean of consciousness
vacuous, black and eternal
never finding their way ashore

it was a winter's cold
a cold like living out doors
a homeless cold
without the oil burning
that 52 degrees
was 20 degrees above outside
I didn't pray that morning
It was that 20 degrees of seperation between me and the homeless
that sent me to church
church was warm
and when I looked at that fat gospel preacher
I resented the fact that his house was warm
while mine was cold
can you tell a hungry man about Jesus
can you tell a naked man about Jesus
can you tell a homeless man about Jesus
yes you can
but will he hear you as the pangs of hunger
saw knots of shame in his rumbling gut
and will the naked man hear you as the cold
penetrates his bones and chills his joints to icy regions of anxious pain
will the homeless man hear you
as your fat Escalade's $5000 wheels splash water on the edges of his winter encampment
yes they will hear
but can they listen
to your sanctified boast of a hereafter
a hereafter paid for with latent indulgences, tithes, and material vanity
even their ears are frozen brittle
so how will they hear
at 4:30 in the morning

beyond beyond...

God plays the blues
each time She reigns
the love
that is supreme
the veil of tears
that is my joy
each time I cry in prayer
each day the vision of His promise
turns a page
from east to west
from pain to strength
from unknowing to knowing
from rock to soul
the body that is my prison
ages to freedom
to unity in oneness
revealing the wonder
that is life
a walk through the garden
on the placid face
through the waters
beyond good and evil
light and darkness
neither male nor female
but spirit
screaming life like Coltrane
showing beauty as a child
all knowing
all powerful
limitless
and black
black as death
or the eternal expanse
of space and time
and beyond beyond
neither in time nor space
but in spirit

a love supreme

rp: piano and instrumental programming
recorded Seattle,WA 2006

© 2006 peguesmusic

the last few seconds...

the winter of life
or just the last few seconds
when death flashes by
necromantic hesitation
will I flee
what I fear
will I wake
september ensues
on the trail of november
the trials of december
folding time in to
dusty corners
on the edge of forever
falling
flying
on the wings of Coltrane
Chim Chimeree
The Trane comes in
at the end Tyner's piano
and for a moment
reaches into the sublime
walks on water
knowing bliss
or just imagined
through him
in Him
or just the last few seconds
of 2006
will I flee
what I fear
will I wake

...and monk was blue

thelonious monk - monk in oslo - apr 15,1966 - blue monk

tonal
atonal
dischordant
harmonic
tension
release
and Monk was blue
you could hear in his concepts
he dared to different
sparse and like outside man
he played where no man had played before
he was cool
yeah
shit
the dark shades the cigarette
the turtleneck
and Monk was blue
he redefined melodicity
he redefined harmonics
he defined music
bebop was underground music
known only to the hippest of the hip
those who couldn't dig just kept on swingin
that's ok
if you can't listen
if you can't hear
jazz sounds like
confusion
tonal
atonal
dischordant
harmonic
tension
release
and Monk was blue


rp

and monk was blue...

rp: piano
clipper anderson, bass
steve hill, drums
recorded Seattle,WA
© 2000 peguesmusic

© 2000 peguesmusic

fresh fire

the fresh fire
white hot to the core
dances within the entity
that is my soul
the I
that I am
warming the coldness of my temporal
existence, concerned
with utilities
back payments
and delinquent accounts

death is never so near
as the risks that I take

the fire
that transforms
the fire
that lives
the fire that cleanses

one slip away
one breath away
one trigger away
the cremation fire
is my funeral pyre
it longs for the substance of my hope
I retain my optimism
despite my impending demise

buried or burned
the question that
divides a generation
my father feared
his children might burn him
he made my mother promise
it would never be
and I the son
fear the ground

the fire
that transforms
the fire
that lives
the fire that cleanses

now he rest in the ground
quietly, sealed, dressed
without shoes
pickled and hardened
as a mounument to a life
long passed
real estate sacrificed to
mounuments of those
long dead, should not
the homeless and helpless
pitch tents in grave yards
all across America
out of respect for the living

daily I die to the flesh
each day into blackness
each night into light
my life, my heart
is reborn in spirit
cleansed in fire
a ghost, a spirit
a vapor, a glance
an instance
of being

the fire that kills
the fire that burns
the fire that consumes
the fire
that is

papers

I've noted and measured out the responses
urban kitchen left overs
the unfinshed business that is my life
with all it's problematic shortcomings
unattended, ignored and disregarded
deemed irrelvant due to lack of hope
the mountain of paper that is my life
rises from the ocean of my own personal mystory
administrated, appropriated, and propitiated,
I initiate the scraps
organize them
in alphabetical order
by time and date
by subject and code
the scraps of my life
much the same as a clerk
orders, bills and invoices
notes,and follows up
inboxed out
on unfinished business
like seeds planted in a confused bureaucracy
left alone they will grow wild
and as vines wrap me around
into the monster that is my
personal Frankenstien
a monster made of scraps of paper
wrinkled dirty scraps with ragged edges
and dog eared corners
the papers of life
private papers
some as old and worn
as my own
why should the task
be forced upon a mourner
in that time of longing and bereavement
to clean up the scraps
to divide them
a stack for the trash
and another for the children
impotent keepsakes
illegible memoirs, half-written
in a language too hard to understand
or even learn
in the corner table of our most familiar coffee shop
I looked and the seat was empty
vacated years ago when the bullet entered his skull
and stopped his brain
and now
all that remains
of a life
a life of power and prescene
of beauty and thought
of touching and being touched
are scraps
of paper

we are the pegues project

Captain Kirk showed me how to mack
to a woman
even if she was an alien creature
pretending to be a woman

Dr Spock taught me
to never let my emotions
out in front of company
and how to do
the mind meld

I learned politics from the Transfomers
Optimus prime is a big rig
he is the heart of America

star trek was a love ship
with nubians, russians, chinese
everyone got along
everyone had sex with one another

and Captain Kirk
Mr Mack Daddy
Mr Neverletemseeyasweat
Mr Getouttaanysituation
Mr Lovemiester
Mr Method Actor

why can't
I be
just like you

circle talk

I like to invite her over
and know that she's
lying in bed
a room away
while I sit at my wooden table
on my plastic computer
searching for
immortality
on the internet
or in the blackness of space
as God cradled in the womb
of an African Queen
spinning around you
concentric circles
from universe
to galaxy
to earth
to moon
at speeds
like bullets
moving through heaven
the journey from heart
to spirit
reaches as far
as the farthest star
as we coexist
at once
and yet removed
from time and space
my mother, my child
at once
being everything
and nothing
being apart
and at once
the same
being

atomic da bomb

my greatest fear
is not the cold dark
grave of my winters existence
or the slow burning decomposition
of my youth into frailty
my greatest fear
is not the blade and rope
of the random psycho killer
white male mid 40's
sexually impotent loner
or the political statement
of the radical dispossessed
my greatest fear
is not the instantaneous fire storm
of nuclear annihilation
my greatest fear
my greatest fear
is not the clock
that ticks the time of my life
away in measured
pieces
as I wait for
death
my greatest fear
is life
this life
that I've been given
will I live it
or will it live
through me

holiday hunger

the wages of war
is world hunger
although
food banks give away turkey quarters on Rainier Avenue
and all Christmas day corporate celebrants sponsor unfortunate ghetto children
Santa Claus is no Jesus
can I help the needy
I need a hit
I need a beer
I need some love
what I want
may not be
what I need
do I want death
if I need a gun
do I want Christ
if I need to be crucified
do I want a child
if I need sex
No
No

because Santa Claus is no Jesus
Rudolph is no disciple
the real Jesus
No not the Easter bunny
the real Jesus
he' s not at the food bank either
Christmas only comes once a year
my daily bread
my daily bread
war causes hunger
man causes war
since greed is of man
greed causes hunger


we worship
men,,,,,dead men
we worship dead men
because to worship
a living God
too much of a reach
too big of a concept
the real Jesus

the weapon

killing man
killing child
killing man-child
in the name of God
in the name of Allah
in the name of wrinkled colorized photographs
in golden glitter frames
of Chairman Mao
swaying back and forth beneath rear view mirrors
in Beijing taxicabs
can you hear them
the dead can whisper
when the dust bleeds like ruddy mud
hardened droplets
on newly forgotten graves
irrelevant and banned from tv broadcast news
by the alliance of evil

at one time I thought myself as a killer
trained, ordained, pledged and sworn
to Orwellian symbolic virtues
killing mind
killing time
killing thought
while they strapped the weapon so tightly on my shoulder
my arm grew numb and my heart and that rifle were as one
and my swinting eye traversed her length
my cheek pressed to her butt
in my arms as a woman
known to me in secret affection
I lay with her that afternoon
prone...
ready...
cock fire

a time to murder
a time to rape
a time to go insane
while white coats and IV's and perscription medicines pump through unsuspecting
martyrs, heroes of the new world order...
defenders of liars
and the father of all lies
concealed behind the greatest lie
that demons are angels
and devils are gods
that God is Satan
that black is white
that death is life
that freedom is apathy for some
and tyranny for all the rest
while I sit comfortably in my naive deception sipping coffee, reading books, smoking
and discussing questions of hypothetical importance
finding conclusions of philosphical simulation...
killing hope
killing fear
what weapon will give invincible virtues...and
if the greatest weapon is love how can the dead be trimuphant
while the murders rape the women and children
and set the fields afire
what is in the mind of the murderer to supply an invincible righteousness
while he sleeps at night, so soundly, serenly, complicit in ignorance,
bathes his children in procelian tubs ringed with brass
and shiny ornaments, under track lighting, skylights, custom made home alarms,
gun closets, wandering pit-bulls and private security
killing truth
killing love
killing me
killing you

spider mummies

the dusty lace
weaved by spider mummies
buried deep in tombs
and caves
bunkers of Babylon
those same cobwebs
wrap around
light fixtures
holy halo's
glowing yellow
shinning in the white midst
of a celebrated indifference
an acidic pall of inhumanity
read aloud by a canine ingenuity
I looked and saw
the forgotten light prisms
spectrums from a time
when God was a memory
in the mind of children
possessed by demons
inside double minds
on temporal thoughts
of pleasure
somehow knowing that just by
holding her
and touching her
beneath the lace of her impurity
the lace of her thigh high
a lover without love
a lover that needs nothing
asks for nothing
is nothing
let me see
under the blinders
beyond the horizon of name and face
numbers and assignments
and census bureau feedback
there beneath the mask of personality
a woman
imprisoned by shame
wrapped in silken misty dogma
court briefs and private papers
and institutions
a hardness
penetrated soft
knowing only that lace
and softness
the measure of our intimacy
2 lonely bodies
laced
wanting
both
privacy
and intimacy

run run......................

bullets drop from the sky
as pre teen asian girls
run naked
crying
burning
singing the song
of napalm
reigning through the hardened globe
casting a new dimension on Iraq
my brother told me he would
drive a truck for 500 thousand a year
until his head was severed by a large knife
and seen on the internet
in cold acquiescence to an unseen power
my sister is apolitical
a defense contractor lackey
paid off with bourgeois trinkets
for we all shall surely die
some rich
some poor
all dead
and what does life mean
once my $200 toaster sits on a shelf
at Value Village for $15
and my beloved car is transformed into a mobile
teenage party-mobile
and my body
puffed up and saturated with
fluids like a decorated cadaver
lies in a tomb
beneath the earth
as the bombs fall in Babylon
as flies swarm over
hungry
naked
black children's swelled bellies
under hot African sons
on the sands of power
greedy people
having all but never
enough
as ignorant people
committing violence
from America
live
over the internet
in the name
of Freedom?
killing
in his name
live
over the internet
of Freedom............

boomtombtomb..................

© 2000 peguesmusic

this scratch vox of boomtomb was recorded last night with peguesproject sound engineer Jonny Mendoza on guitar and Rog doin a scratch rap.............have a listen..................Y2b the nu-jazz hip-hop cd will debut ealy next year.....

cafe vega is on the move.........................

the movement is growing..........................

Be there.....................................................

Once again..............this Saturday, 8pm @ cafe vega thepeguesproject, the experimental nu-jazz performance art collaboration


featuring Das Anderson and keyboard master Rodger Pegues, will perform 2 sets from 8pm until 10pm



Be there and experience the sublime...............................the heart..................................the music.................



the wonder........................................................................................................

Cafe Vega presents..................................

thepeguesproject the ultimate nu-jazz performance art collaboration Saturday night 8pm - 10pm

Cafe Vega, located on 19th and Yesler at 1918 East Yesler features thepeguesproject every Saturday....


for more info and mp3's check the blog at:

www.thepeguesproject.com/blog.html

and

www.peguesmusic.com


thx


r/Y2b

listen: softly.mp3

softly
the glove of life
slips over reason
slaps the knower
and slides
on the hand of the spirit
a black soul
as the darkness of space
black not like emptiness
but as mystery
moves over the waters
shinning
pulsing
streaming
surpassing all my most
eclectic expectations
she is night
and I wait for her
with each hushed breath
heaved open in my chest
captured in my throat
as a vision of love
the manifestation
of her naked beauty
wet
wanting
wonderous

listen: softly.mp3

listen: sublime

the soul reaches out into the blackness
that is space and time
death and rebirth
and searches
for soulfood
consumed with hands made in fire
like steel tempered in ovens of hatred
as love it returns more than was sent
as grace it ask for nothing in return
like Coltrane the beauty
screaming like death
is lonely
meaningless to all that think
yet
with the naked touch
warm to all that feel...........................................

listen: sublime.mp3

rainy day................

the Pegues and Carson project captures the essence of the traditional jazz standard once again with this exquisite rendition of the classic jazz standard, "here's that rainy day".....don't miss Rodger every Saturday night at Cafe Vega @ 8pm, and Tim every Thursday night at 8pm at the Cafe...

jazz at it's best .....and all this in the heart of the Central Area... Cafe Vega.....20th & Yesler....don't miss it..

Rodger playing Tim Carson's piano

Solar +


• 
  

when Rodger dropped by Tim Carson's house Sunday afternoon to check out his keyboard and recording set up, Rodger played this impromtu interpretation of the Miles Davis tune solar.............juxtaposed with Moon River............

Tim Carson's.....appearing Thursday nights at Cafe Vega.....Das and Rodg every Friday................8pm..........neobop..........and experimental avant garde jazz.......................all this in the heart Central Area...20th & Yesler....don't miss this..

why2be

nothin really matters
nothin really changes
same old scene
never rearranges
go through life
go through stages
womb to the pain
through ages
child to main
like the sages
all the rage is
turn the pages
can't be faded
I'm elated
satiated
never hated


I never look back
gotta keep pushin
even when the love of life
goes missin
that's where she's at and I cain't
I member even moma said was a ho
but love is blind and lifes a fool
thought the benz and the big booty made me really cool
rollin out to nowhere, pedal to the gas
missin lots a payments, givin her my last

to the dope man , to the race track, to the jewerly store
you'll never get it back

to the hotel, to the hoe stro, to the main line
you wanna feel it mo

thought I had control, thought I made the moves
thought I was the thang
thought I felt the groove

but the real was
never was a man
never had a chance
never had a plan

many are blind many are wise
but does it really matter
when your life flashes by
but then it's too late
the haters caint hate
you body lays in state
I'm at the pearly gate
somehow I can't relate
my dream turned to fate
because I couldn't wait
I wanted to be great
but I'm just a man
wonderin why2be


I wake up everyday 4:16
with my vision in my mind
my life is passin by
I'm runnin outta time

I never sold crack
I never drove a Lac
I never pimped ho's
with the diamond in the back
I thought I was man-child
so I'd play a while
so I went to school
not to be a fool
learned my history
it's not mystery
all the things we did
built the pyramids

Amon ,Mhotep
never outta step
Martin Luther King
ya cain't kill dream
St Louis Blues
never made the news

Mile Davis
came to save us
John Coltrane
was my main thang
M Tyner
nothin finer
H Hancock
don't ya ever stop
never owned glock
wanna stop the clock

stop the world it's movin too fast
why am I so special
only nigga in the class
world trade center
on fire
Condelezza is a liar

we gotta wake up
we gotta go down
down to Texas
to the ho-down
but if I hate you
how can I be true
if I love all
all the things you do

they did it, they made it,
they worked it, they laid it

they set it up, they torn it down,
they wore it out, they ran it around

they thought of it, they wrote it,
they appointed it, they voted it,

we lived it, we fought it
we survived it, but we bought it

they is you,,,,,

born for a reason
vision in motion
every cause
every act
every notion

has purpose
greater than me
every man has a reason to be
every life has a destiny
every thought
has originality
every mind
is a pity to waste
every truth
it ain't easy face

to the wise man , to the alter, to the secret place
I'll never falter

to the preacher, to the teacher, to the rugged cross
I wanna know that grace

thought I had control, thought I made the moves
thought I was the thang
thought I felt the groove

but the real is
now I am man
now I have a chance
now I have a plan

my Boo..........

she came to me
in the night
her love
and my life
weaved together as one
through struggle
and fury
pleasure and pain
like oils
we mix
naked sweats
thick like heavy
cream
until sunset
and the questions
begin
suspicions
and lies
after
a night of love
as water and oil
captured by grace
my mistress
my lover
my wife

Jesus in the Park...

and that evening at the park revival
at Pratt Park
he sang about Jesus
and as he sang
he walked
and walked toward the street
towards a bench
a bench were the young drug dealers
openly sell drugs
as the police drive by
as the children play
as the crack heads
(who are people just as we are)
with a sickness
worship a temple
of white stones
that melt
and sizzle
like false embers of
hidden pain
as the mothers
and fathers of our community
sit in their houses
in complicit silence
in obsequious submission
to children
sitting on a bench
wearing gold
and expensive tennis shoes
and sagging pants
this park bench
our Pastor
walked right up to those
children and sang to them
as a Man of God
a manifestation of Christ
confrontational
revolutionary
as Jesus
a man of 5 feet and 5 inches
in this action
in this stand
I could see the promise of the world
if we all
one at a time
would confront evil
speak truth to power
speak love to wrong
speak right to hate
to the bench on 21st & Yesler
and we can only imagine
what those innocent young
boys possessed by the demon
of our urban drug culture
learned that day
about
themselves
and about
Jesus

she is creator..........................

she is the mother of the universe
of every being and of every race
of every star
and of the cosmic dust that formed
the man from the earth
her womb united with creation
at once
in the birth of time
and of space
as in the beginning
and still my mother
an old black woman
in all her bourgeois pride
and arrogance
and ego
and love
respect
and humble purity
this blood
the blood the washes away
the sins of the world
still this blood flows
and bleeds,
the heart of this love
that gives food from her own plate...
to mine
this blood
this woman
this creator

8pm this Sat Das & Rodger @ Cafe Vega.......nujazz.....eclectic fusion beats.............

Das, guitarist extraordinaire & the keyboard master, Rodger Pegues,,,,,,,,,return once again to the stage at Cafe Vega this Saturday @ 8pm. These two cats flow like Mt St Helens. From the avant garde to funkified computer beats dey be layin it down.......I aint playin.......I ain't playin........I ain't playin....................

Tune in this week..................be there.....................


see | hear | feel | know | understand | and be changed..............................

the pegues project @ Cafe Vega 20th & Yesler every Saturday 8 - 10pm...

last night Das and Rodger played everything from eclectic jazz to classsical latin..........a few sound issues got them off to a late start.................................when the music started, however, the voice of fresh risk-taking, emotive, experimental avant garde sounds streamed throughout the cafe....................the solo pieces are exquisite.......................and when these two local GIANTS of modern jazz play together it's as if they are one.................................... see ya next week................

comment liberally....................

vids coming soon....................................

pleasure/peace/reason & love.....................

daMan

like a dirty rag

her toes are black
like fingers
nubs of hardened crust
blackened with time
and care
a forgotten ghost
invisible
to all that
wish not to see
sister, mother
daughter
a baby crying
for want
of smoke
that thickens
and swirls
the glass of time
as yellow and red
as fire
in night
to sell
my soul
for hope
and want
of just another
hit...
another...

a love supreme

a love supreme

Das sez I trash a sacred song........................that's his spiritual opine..................so sit this one out............
everything I do is spritual................I'm a physical man living a spirutal life..................

doriaghtbaby.mp3

doriaghtbaby
the blues...........the blues.............I got that blues...........since my baby done left me................................
I like to be alone....................right after sex...................okay.........................

once my ibaby 700mhz g4...........256 ram is upgraded...........to 512...................sounds will abounds...............
until then,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,lets ask gear god B-Heart daMan to sell us the Power Book in 2 payments of say............
$150................................

Reason software is great!!!!!!!!!!!!but Scotty needs more power,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
Let my music go beyond the limitations of cpu .................................or
is too little RAM the mother of invention

tune in next time......................................

acoustics and beats this saturday @ cafe vega 20th and yesler...

rodger and das will be back this saturday with more cutting edge acoustic experimental jazz progressions....
the computer , programmed with nu-jazz, jazz-raps and techno-funkified beats will be kickin out some compin too....
hopefully,,,,and everyone pray about this..............the master of sax................the HARTMAN B-boy will grace us with
the creative vision of his musicality..............................let's keep our reeds crossed,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,aight......

a new piece (demo version) entitled "logic"

logic.mp3
this my latest sequence...........we are waiting for Brian Hartman..........saxophonist extrodinaire.....Flash designer,,,,,,,and pimp daddy sound engineer to master us up................................the cd will happen this year,,,,,,,,,a life long ambition.......at 47 years old finally something I should have done at 14 ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,but of course the CD techonology didn't exist in 1974.............so laugh at this Doug B,,,,,,,,,,,,,I'll call it a record,,,,,,,,,,,,

rodger pegues and das anderson, guitar piano duo, sat nites 8pm @ cafe vega...

the gig that started out on Wednesdays.........................rodger and Das @ cafe vega,,,,,,,in the CD on the corner of 20th and Yesler ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,this gig has moved to Saturday,,,,,,,,,,,every Saturday...................8pm.......

Now last nght,,,,,,,,,,,,the duo was in true form,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,some of the pieces, the spontaneously improvised ones,,,,,,move like a journey,,,,,,,,,,,,,,Das started off the second set with 3 solo renditions that were intricately personal and delicately beautiful,,,,,,,,,,,,,pegues followed up with a slow piece that fused folk........and new thing free jazz,,,,,,,the playing moved from unconscious trance to flights of bliss and acoustic emotion.................

Finishing up the two musicians play together,,,,,,,,the convergence of styles is like Wes Montgomery meets MsCoy Tyner.....

this performance can do anything,,,,,,,,,,the duo is jazz that comes from the deepest place in the heart,,,,,,reaches out ,,,,,............

and touches YOU.....................................................................................................................................................................

Seattle Pianist, Rodger Pegues working on 2006 audio project...

I'm writing tonite. I use propellerhead's reason software. It is an amazing composition tool. I want to make an audio composition tonite that will write itself. It will tell me what it sounds like and I will be an agent of the composition.

How can I write a piece without pretense?, (often I play: ' what will they think about this or about that, or how will this represent me or the genre' ), but I want it to be a representation of itself. I'll give you a link tommorrow to the piece...........gnite.......

my purpose, my vision, my hope, my love, my life, my music...

the pegues project

in creativity as in life one must take risk...................................I want to touch you.....

when art makes me cry or makes me think........it has touched me................