The Story of the Cedar Box

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The Death Queen. Cooper-Moore : diddley-bo, horizontal hoe-handle harp, ashimba, bamboo fife, twanger, piano, mouth-bow, three-stringed fretless banjo, percussion, synth, voice. Cooper-Moore has been active on the creative music scene for over 30 years. Recordings with artists such as David S. Ware, William Parker, and especially Triptych Myth showcased his considerable skills as a pianist. While this is the source of his greatest notoriety amongst jazz fans, he has also simultaneously developed instruments of his own design and occasionally invention.

Inclusion of some of these instruments with the large ensembles of William Parker, Bill Cole, and Butch Morris gave notice to the jazz world that piano is just one part of a much greater whole that is Cooper-Moore's music.

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The palette and emotional range of the music is quite broad, incorporating free improvisation, composed tunes, and the nether region in between. The first commercially available documentation of this music was issued in by 50 Miles of Elbow Room as a quintuple 7" set of solo recordings wherein Cooper-Moore played a different instrument on each side of each record.

The tracks include a diddley-bo lament, a mouthbow hymn, a high energy piano improvisation, an effects-laden banjo romp, the discombobulating sound of the twanger, and plenty more. Housed in a cedar wood box and pressed in an edition of , this went out-of-print rather quickly. Co-released with 50 Miles of Elbow Room, it is available exclusively from Cooper-Moore at these performances, and directly from here and 50 Miles of Elbow Room.

Some reviews of the original release. CD edition is now fully out of print. To begin, I must admit to being an incurable bookaholic.

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I always have been. My mother contributed to my addiction. I cannot recall her ever refusing to leave the sudsy pan, dry her hands, and follow me to the living room.

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A devoted amateur actress, she read with passionate expression. Carried away on the wings of her words, I would listen mesmerized. The books I remember best from those days were the works of Thornton W. My favourite among his bevy of loquacious animals was Reddy Fox. Reddy frequently outfoxed himself through some small flaw in one of his nefarious schemes.

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When I finally learned to read on my own, I experienced one of the greatest epiphanies of my life. There was magic to be found on a printed page. It had the power to sweep me away into another time, another place, another spirit. Words flowed over, around and through me, enthralling me to the core. While other children hounded their parents for toys, I begged for books, books, and more books.

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The Christmas season presented the paramount opportunity for my supplications. Consequently one special Sunday afternoon each November my mother and I would sit at the kitchen table with that lovely, plump book while I selected the books I most desired from the limited selection on the two pages that offered reading materials. My mother, knowing how I devoured the contents of books the moment they arrived in our home, never let me know when she was picking up the parcel at the post office. And definitely, never where she hid the precious package.

No book could remain unread anywhere within my ability to ferret it out. Thus, one day the year I was ten and desperate for a good read, I began my quest for her hiding place in earnest. I dug through closets, into their darkest, most remote corners and topmost shelves. I burrowed under sheets and towels in the linen cupboard, and even checked beneath the mattress in the guest room. I watched as she opened the cedar chest beneath the window. My father had handcrafted it for her on their engagement. She kept her most treasured possessions in it; things like her wedding gown, my christening dress, her collection of hand-embroidered linens and, anathemas to a Reddy Fox fan, a couple of fox fur capes.

Their presence had always made me shy away from the cedar chest.

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When she bent over the cedar chest to store her handiwork, I started to turn away. I had no desire to see the pelts of those poor, unfortunate foxes. Then something caught my eyes. Peeking out from beneath a lace table cloth, the top corner of a shiny, new BOOK!

My mother hastily lowered the lid and glanced in my direction. Had I seen it?

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She hesitated, then drew a deep breath and headed out of the room. My heart dancing with joy, I skipped along after her. I carried a small flashlight. Trembling with the thrill of the forbidden, I eased open the cedar chest, slipped my hand beneath the folded linens, being careful to avoid those fox furs and felt them… not the usual two but four, count them four, slick new books, their dust jackets as smooth as silk.

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I slid out the topmost volume. My breath caught in my throat as I read its title. The Secret of Shadow Ranch! Resting my back against the cedar chest, I squatted on the floor, opened the Carolyn Keene classic to page one, adjusted my torch and began to read. While I read I had to stay alert for the slightest indication that either of my parents was about to come upstairs. Oh, the bliss of those stolen moments.

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My bare feet felt like blocks of ice on the cold floor. I shivered in my pyjamas but I continued.