TAKE MY HANGING BASKET
- the Jazz Loft, pt. 9, 1967 -
There was a period of time, one March
and April, when for a while I got a
little involved, through all these guys,
with some Friday night and weekend work.
It was pretty cool, and a real different
experience for me, and I ate it up. Real.
A few different jazz-clubs, music bars,
and cabarets beckoned. I started moving
around a little, uptown stuff, with some
of these loft guys, twittering away some
time while they talked fast and constantly
seemed to be on edge and always practicing
or warming up. Just a form of playing.
Terpsichord and violins together made
the sound of an unusual jazz ensemble
tapping those sounds on tipcloths and
bottlecaps - it was almost as if, right then,
at that time, there was 'time' being made
- cool guys on platforms wearing tophats
and blowing tight horns while their feet
kept time and the bodies swayed and
in the background a wild drummer
interspersed their time and rhythm
with his own time amidst a wild staccato
beat broken only by moments piled
upon moments and no words could
suffice ever to break in through the
haze of sound and the cacophonous
ride of scale with music. Out front and
lounging along the few tables and
chairs nearby, were half-wasted people
with twisted faces looking up just to
watch what was happening and maybe
getting it maybe not but in either case
present for the execution. so to speak.
And even though this was but a final
rehearsal, they listened and the real
playdate was a few nights off - a few late
sets rolling way into the wee hours but
everyone was already set. One time I was
on the street while the trucks lumbered
by - delivery guys and freight-loads
coming and going - and it was a lame
mid-afternoon day in a cold grey late
winter climate and everyone seemed
tired of the cold tired of coats and
tired of just being but it was that time
of year too when a person knows things
are about to change and the body can
sense the new light and absorb somehow
the new temperature and movement of
the very air so that any unsettled feelings
of cold or weariness can be withstood
merely by expectation and hope alone.
It was that time of year when the things
to come - you just knew - would be better
than the present. I looked at the poster
on the entrance-wall and realized I'd
mis-read the word and that Terpsichord
was the name of the ensemble playing
and dancing, and not really an instrument
at all; but also (as Terpsicore) the name
of the Greek muse of choral song and dance
which didn't really fit but so what maybe
I'd just missed it all. And some people
out front were busying themselves with
the back end of a big station wagon
which was filled with bolts of carpet
or something which they were throwing
onto the pavement nearby as some
Spanish guy kept taking them into the
next building and this went on for a
while as I watched. I wondered how
and why all these people had come to be
- just going about their tasks each day
in such a wide-open world with all these
closed routines - and it was as if I saw
the very future stretched before me and
that I was knowing that at some point
I too would have to come to terms with
life in that respect - what to do with all
these days and how to go about that
vapid routine of living and as the things
of time came by me over and over in
repeated manners I sometimes thought
to myself that 'anything' would have to
be better than that - better than taking
the place and the station amongt the
haphazard rank-and-file I saw around
me repeating their daily chores but I
saw too that I had nothing, I had no
more promise to go on then did the
window-washer across the way or
the Spanish guy hauling carpet and
even though I was for now in the
advantageous position of just 'being'
without connection it wasn't going
to last forever but a part of me didn't
want to engage just didn't wish to
come up to the cruising speed needed
to mesh with what was around me and
I realized then that THAT was the calling
of art or music or at least the finesse
of sensitivity which made creative types
always outsiders. Yet, realizing and coming
to grips with that brought me nothing but
comfort and in my way I sensed that
maybe a comfort level of such a personal
dimension was - in reality - the entire
purpose of life anyway but NOT in the
self-indulgent way of merely doing
(or not) what one wanted, but, instead,
in reaching the inner achievement or
attainment of personal creativity -
so as to make and weave the thread
of one's life into a sensible form or at
least some resemblance of that to
those who watched (and to whom
I guess it mattered). Outside the
studio doorway, on the third level
of the building, was a sign which
read, in a really nice type, 'Matador
Productions - Management and Booking -
fine art and jazz ensembles' and, believe
me, it sounded bigger than it was. In
actuality it was merely a booking agent
for 'talent' which in this sense meant
jazz quartets of whatever merit which
were booked around town at any
of the various nightclubs and
cabaret/restaurants that wanted
to 'trade' on the Jazz name but were
more than happy with second or third
tier acts that no one really cared about.
These are just the sorts of things you
get used to when clawing your way up.
And this is what I had been listening to
- another set by another small groups
of guys heading out for their night's gig.
It was all run as usual by some chubby
guy in a cheap suit and plenty of sweat
and humidity, named Goldsmith or
Goldberg or somebody like that - usually
a failed perfume salesmen or a sixth-grade
history teacher who'd chucked one career
for another but got by in both cases by
doing nothing and trading off the work
of others. There were lots of these types of
guys, preying and not, and they'd sit around
and throw promises like darts and wait to
see if anything stuck, so that there were
always people around dumb enough to
believe all this crap and who figured
they really were on the verge of stardom
and discovery by playing maybe just
two more weeks at Hanley's Chop House
or Trolo's Bistro and Cabaret or the
Big Fixx Club or whatever. I saw lots of
that, and this on night here wasn't all
that special except that for me it was a
eal change of scenery. The people were
more prime, the girls and ladies more
prime. I guessed it was, like they said,
'Money talks, nobody walks...' It was
all the same and nothing ever mattered.
These scroungy-type guys got their 30
bucks a night and they stayed late,
probably three or four nights in a row,
dicking with the chicks or getting laid
easy and then they waited for the next
one to do it all again. Anther night,
another gig. Hopefully. And Goldsmith
or whomever it was always got the big
take and always talked big and got the
next schedule card to fill out all over again.
Aand - yeah, yeah it just went on. These
were always cheap green offices with
poorly painted green or ivory colored
walls and extension cords and phone lines,
brought in on temporary hookups - all
cheap and all tack,y just like Goldsmith
or Goldfine or any of the rest. What I'd do
was, for ten bucks a day or so, move things
around, or pull wires from here to there,
or hammer together another pedestal
box for some jazz-cat to stand on and
limelight his solo. Once in a while I'd
get to plunk away on a piano as some
form of accompaniment to whatever I
was hearing - no one cared, and no one
stopped me either, though I was never
sent out with a job-crew or anything and
I never cared. But there was one time I
was let out to fill a drummer's roll in a
song or two in a sot of warm-up or
practice session, while the 'drummer' was
'out' doing whatever, and twenty minutes
later he was back and I was done. That was
at some east-side club out by the UN in
the 50's somewhere, and yeah, it was fun
but I had no card nor license or nothing
of that nature so it was on the sly anyway.
And, yes, fame and stardom, like all the
rest, that eluded me too - but I was able.
at least, to stay steady and just dig
the chance given.
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