13,088. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,056

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,056

BIG TIME JAZZ-BOOKING STORY - 

'(you can stay with uncertainty a really long time' )

Sometimes I just used to think

I thought about things way too

much. The sensation I'd gotten

was of spinning my wheels. The

same old feeling came through,

of achieving little. Sometimes I

did feel as if I knew more than 

others about what they were 

saying and doing, but even then

I kept to myself. Really, how can

you get that across to others, that

you 'knew' better then they did,

about the very thing they were

speaking of or being involved with?

Of all interpersonal endeavors,

outside of a pure, cold, silence,

that's probably the next to most

difficult thing to do. Let's just say,

Dale Carnegie would have never

taught anything like that ('How To

Win Friends and Influence People').

Only a stupid man would want to

walk around boasting.

-

I'd ride the bus, and watch the driver;

thinking to myself, what a dumb job.

In fact, what a paradoxical job, when

you think of it  -  sitting in one place,

for a full shift, doing nothing, but yet

going all over the place. Streets and

turns; highways and ramps; dealing

with audacious people, and having

to, at all times, manage it. Running

in place, on a treadmill, with wheels.

As if life itself was a personal, moving,

picture. How does one get paid for that?

And how long does it go on? Twenty 

years? Thirty? And then a well-deserved

retirement, with a million miles of going

nowhere, while gong everywhere, under

one's belt. Get that gold watch out, Charley.

I tried, believe me, I tried. A million things.

-

Terpsichords and violins, together, made 

the sound of an unusual jazz ensemble.

Tapping 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 and rhythm,

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. On 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 that 

night - a few late sets rolling way into 

the wee hours, but everyone was already 

set, and it all just rolled on. That sort

of music, when really good, and done

really right, was satisfaction alone, all

by itself, and it was unstoppable. Past

a certain point, everyone in the ensemble

knew they'd found it, reached that totally

sweet-spot. Function and form taken

over my meter and line. No one talked

about it, when it happened. To talk

about it would have killed it, like

self-inflation kills a memoir. A Memory.

'Everything still remains the same.'

-

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. I sure knew that feeling

myself, and I wasn't part of anything.

Someone once asked me a question,

and I was momentarily afraid. It had

thrown me way off, being approached'

directly like that while in some reverie,

elsewhere. Weird feeling. I guess I

snapped. The guys name was Horace;

he played some kind of horn, the one

with the little buttons on it. All these

guys were always emulating someone

else, be it black or white. Somehow, 

'Jazz', though black, was a white-man's

gig too. They never seemed to play as

well, or never had the same magic, the

white guys. The black guys had them

beat. But I never said nothing about

that either. These loft things, kind of

musical crazy-parties, were strange,

and anything was apt to break out.

I hung about, sometimes acting almost

as the servant to a bunch of maniacs.

Getting this, watching the elevator, 

dial  -  to be sure of what was coming

up or not; loft parties and such still

being illegal, as was, in fact, living

in the lofts, as well. There was always 

booze to fetch, and what else....Ladies

coming up from the stairs, or the

elevators, and, always, a lookout for

the cops. And sometimes a check on

the noise too. All sorts of factors 

could wreck these nights, and 

start some'big troubles for some

of these guys.

-

I learned a lot about subservience;

kind of my own reverse-slavery, by

blacks! But it was fun, and it involved

no chains. 'Things to come will be 

better than the present, always.'  

That's what Horace had said, and

then he asked me some question,

about something I sort of knew

it would be trouble to talk about.

So, in fear, as I've said, I turned

on him, sort of, and said 'Don't

go asking me questions, OK, unless

you're then gonna' be willing to

accept whatever it is I say, because

I didn't show up here to start a

fight or cause no trouble. So, think

twice before you ask me something.'

I meant it. And we never quite meshed

too well after that. Except he didn't 

know I was really protecting him from

either a hurt or a pounding, because 

it was about his woman, and I knew

what she was up to right then. I

don't know what he ever knew

about what I ever knew, but we

were never the same. Though I 

admit I'd never seen a black lady

in action before. But I left that

room real quickly.

-

Back to the white and black aspects

of the jazz being played, the funny

thing was how a guy named Paul

Whiteman was one of the early

jazz figures who's gotten all this

going. Something like the 1920's I

think. He was a miserable-looking,

blubbery white guy too; nothing

like you'd expect. And there was

this other guy, also pretty weird

(he died in his bed, in alcoholic

hallucinations; something about

natives with spears being under

the bed, trying to stab and poke

him up from underneath. Some

mysterious doctor pronounce

him dead. This second guy's

name, the jazz man, was Bix

Biederbeck. Check my spelling.

Biederbeck's claim to fame,

unique by my standards, had to

do not so much with the music,

but the format. Jazz and its early

recordings were troublesome. 

Guys used to wail and go on; 

horns and noise and all just]

slamming into each other. Live.

But, recording all that was a mess.

The 78 rpm only went for like 3 

minutes. How could a recording

smash ll that together? Bix B,

(Bixby?) solved the problem. He

was all about format : three minutes

sets, and he introduced the idea of 

solos within  -  to the praise and

benefit, I'm sure of a million

rick and guitar guys later. That's

a pretty cool thing to be known for;

the guy who set up popular music,

as it were. Instead of a mash of noise,

he segmented it and broke it down

some, for the modern day's 'recorded'

music and all its possibilities.

-

Then 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 not really an 

instrument at all, but also (as Terpsicore),

I found out later,   the name of the Greek 

muse of choral song and dance, which 

didn't really fit. But so what, maybe 

it melded well and I'd just missed it all. 

Some people out front were busying 

themselves at 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. Some Spanish 

guy kept taking them into the next 

building. This went on for a while 

as I watched, and I wondered how 

and why all these people had come 

to be - just going about their tasks 

each day too, and in such a wide-open 

world with all these closed routines.

And it was as if I saw the very future 

stretched before me in 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 amidst 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 than 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. 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. Realizing 

and coming to grips with that brought 

me nothing either, but maybe 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 a 

personal creativity that you could

answer to, and speak form and

proudly so, about yourself. What

the heck? What is anything else

worth that's so better than that?

-

Jazz was always weird to me. The 

scene, and the people; always

jiving, always jamming. I'd 

remembered now having read

something that fit this, by a writer

guy named Anatole Broyard, and

I was real glad to be the one to

have remembered it : Made me

feel worthwhile for 'something'

anyway. It was about a tribal guy,

in Africa, who had a grievance, but

couldn't get his case heard by the

elders, etc. So each morning, before

daybreak, or at, he'd walk under all

the thatched huts, which were up 

on stilts. He'd march and walk,

drumming and walking in a strange

march pattern; drumming to wake

them disturb their rest, invade their 

dreams, as he rehearsed his plea,

chanting it over the drumming, in

a strange, staccato manner as he

marched. Thinking about jazz, I

remembered that man and that story -

and I thought that jazz musicians 

were something like that.