Saying “Those who love Thelonious Monk are pure of heart” isn’t moralizing; it describes a listener’s stance

Saying “Those who love Thelonious Monk are pure of heart” isn’t moralizing; it describes a listener’s stance. Monk trusts silence and space, letting the room around the piano sound. A “pure” listener resists rushing to fill gaps, dwelling in aftertones. Another kind of purity is honesty toward roughness: Monk’s seconds, tritones, and whole-tone moves push abrasive chords, asking us to accept reality’s grain. His rhythm lives in displacement, asking the body to fall into the pocket; melodies kink and dance rather than run straight. Hear the tenderness in “’Round Midnight” and “Ruby, My Dear,” the wit of “Epistrophy” and “Well You Needn’t,” the measured joy of “Straight, No Chaser” and “Blue Monk.” Not verbosity, but rigorous choice. Purity means not imposing your “answer” on the sound, welcoming surprise, and seeing differences within repetition. Alone your ear opens; together the beat sways—enjoy that paradox.