Ornette Coleman: Doctor Unorthodox

I WAS working in a Licorice Pizza in North Hollywood six years ago, when I decided to play my Best of Ornette Coleman album (Atlantic) to provide a little break from the in-store turntable's usual punky reggae party. About halfway through the first side, a woman in her mid-thirties sporting a kid on one arm, a West L.A. T-shirt and unzipped black pants came marching over to the register to announce that it was the worst music she had ever heard in her life.