Jaco Pastorias was the thin junkie with the strange hats that hangs out in the schoolyard in the evening shooting hoops with the guys. And you could hear it in the way he played. It always sounds to me that if his playing was eating, he would look at you with a smudge of mustard on his chin. Big bites. Big.
Yes, Jaco definitely knew how to live. How to die.
And his bass tells the whole story, from birth, to adolescence, to rebirth, and another one, and growing, and changing the speed, and for a minute remembering something. Each solo was a full book, a full life.
And then there were the rhythm parts. Or were there any? It seems the chatter of the thick strings of that old fretless bass had a lot to say, and in most cases a very real sense of urgency in saying them.
Arpeggio chords break in midstream jumping to a couple bars of a funny anecdote, swirling around a bit, like digressing and then going back to the original thought to continue the sentence.