13,084. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,055

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,055
IN PRETTY MUCH THE MOST AMAZING MONOLOGUE I EVER HEARD 

(a jazz story, Jimmy Goodenough, Aug. 1969):

"Well that's an improvement" the 

old timer said, while he was sitting 

on a concrete and stone half-wall 

separating the lawn from the shaded 

people. It wasn't just the tone of his 

voice that caught my ear but it was 

also the accent and his demeanor - 

both very interesting. So I decided 

to stop right there and spend a 

few moments with him, as I had 

the time. I'd been working the 

last 6 hours or so with Cheng 

Dao Lee, known as Charley, an 

artist who had a huge apartment 

w/studio on w86th where he did 

his work. 'Oblique paintings
of Chinese Hills,' we called
them. On this day some of his 

large pieces needed crating 

and readying for transportation 
(to Rosencrantz Gallery, e57th)

- which was simple enough work 

if one could be careful. It involved 

building protective transport-frames 

of 1x2's; a lumber-wood protective 

covering, and nails and all the 

simple stuff to construct around 

each 8 or 10 foot painting so it 

wouldn't get hurt during transport). I

used to do things like that occasionally.

A 30-dollar day, back in '68, wasn't

half bad for someone of my cheap

expense-level. When people back

then used to dance the 'Frug' (it

was some sort of dance craze about

1966) some thought it had been

named after me; short for 'frugal.'

-

Anyway, this guy on the wall looked 

over to me and said "Sit down - 

what are you doing around here?" 

and I proceeded to do so, as we 

started talking - this entire area 

by the 72nd street entrance to 

the park was always a favorite 

spot of mine - the geography 

right there is pretty active - 

little hills and vistas, the wide 

front of the Natural History 

Museum and the Historical 

Society across the street, and
nearby was some oddball place
called 'The Ethical Cuture Society,'

yeah, right....and all those walls and 

and benches and things which 
ran along  the walkway afforded

interesting views into the 

park or along the roadway - 

whichever one's preference - by 

which to wile away the time or 

just sit back on a nice day and 

take it all in. That was before

the really rich and the rock

star royalty types began buying

up the place too. Rosemary's Baby

had been filmed in the Dakota,

and the later John Lennon BS

hadn't yet hit. This old guy was 

just as interested in any detail 

I could tell him as I'd be in 

anything he told me - which 

meant like a half-interest just 

to help make a human-contact 

and pass some time. So I told 

him my current story  :  The 

art-school downtown, and  the 

various little jobs here or there,

anywhere, I'd undertake to get 

a  few dollars; and the varied 

ways and means of my wandering 

existence.  Of course, I'd leave 

out the usual jibs and jabs of 

what went wrong and who did 

what, but no matter. He'd said 

his name was Jimmy Goodenough 

pronounced 'Goo-den-ow,' which 

pronunciation he said was 'good 

enough for me' - which I thought 

maybe was a joke but never found 

out really. I figured, with a name

like that, it was all probably a

practiced routine that he must 

have done a thousand times already.

-

It turned out he was some old jazz 

dude, from the hep-cat days of 15 

or 20 years back  and he had for 

sure a certain attitude of his own 

to which I listened and was raptly 

startled and fascinated all together 

at once. Although I'd never heard 

of him I just let him talk - "...now 

you've got the opportunity, now 

you're young,  and you should 

be open to everything. You can, 

let's say, 'absorb,' you dig? Like 

right, so you got to always take 

a moment and look around. Take 

those moments too, boy, because 

they're precious, and by God then 

they just become scarcer and less

as you move along. I warn you that. 

And just as important it is to listen,

JUST listen ! No other thing, no 

other sound - just a note, like any 

person would hear if they would,

 if they COULD; you see, but they 

never do because the monstrous 

crossword puzzle of their dull 

mind won't LET them, wherein 

the wailing and the good sense 

of all that is, and remains, hidden 

by the four-letter word I am 

thinking of: 'MIND,' or maybe 

even 'JAZZ,' because they is 

BOTH you see the very same 

thing." I liked the way he talked,

the diction was off a bit, and

he shagged his words, almost 

like a drunk would. He talked

deep, and mysteriously, like

Miles Davis, in fact. It was old 

and intriguing, like when you

go to see a monument to

something old and forgotten,

one that no one ever visits

anymore. I thought it was

all that, and hip too. I figured 

probably - strong and enunciated 

and boisterous and exclamated; 

all at the same time, but sensitive 

and observantly wise too. Just

the weirdness of a voice with

a real past maybe. Super-real. 

I figured not to step in. What 

did I know, and so, instead,

I just let this old jazz guy go 

on (it did seem back then there 

were plenty enough of them about 

- in the waning days of old 60's 

jazz I'd somehow bump into 

them now and again, pretty 

often; and it was just like an 

inner 'urge' or something to 

come forth and be personified 

in one of these guys). I was

always looking for twisted

idols to pick up on. He was

one. I knew that, and he

continued:  "And I am thinking 

of JAZZ maybe again, or that 

be-bop hazing sound of evolution;

something like what went right 

past, say, Louis Armstrong from 

Fats Waller, without anyone really 

noticing (what am I saying - oh man, 

they noticed! Everybody noticed!),

until, POOF! right there was Louie, 

with Lucy Baba Louie, ruining the

 entire sell-out raggedy-muffin 

scene. Selling it all out for money 

and fame, CHEAP fame, mind you.

So much so like Louis had turned

white, or been turned, or let his'self 

BE turned, white! And some, and, 

backstreet-curb-assed excuse for 

nigger or hipster of jive or cool

whatever, right there in black 

AND in white, playing that white

man's game. And the most 

destructive thing he ever did was,

the worse move he ever made, 

was to co-opt the voice of the 

white-man's toady, that nigger 

Armstrong; that vain ego-bleeding 

sycophant circus-tent juggler, and 

them ain't MY words neither - they 

are exact words the words of Mongo 

Park his'self, or someone very much 

like him. That's all a quote, boy. Here,

have some of this." (And he handed me

a bottle in a brown, paper, bag).

"And then we let that whole ship o'shit 

pass on until now the scene shifts, and

right under us, to the ultra-cool hip 

of cigarette smoke, cocaine-induced,

heroin-rambling, spook-faced, dead-man,

sit-up tunes in any smoky New York 

or Chicago blues parlor, jazz club, 

speakeasy, big-hit: Hip tunes and 

supposed black nigger-tunes, and 

white-man's stupid poetics, tripping 

with the downtown jazz-girls, 

soothing voices talking back, ever 

so lightly to the sex-tinged super-cool 

waiters working for change or tip 

or lovin' or lip, or smack, or whatever 

you'd want. And it was right then as 

if the whole entire major fag scene too

erupted on New York's darkest backwaters.

None of that was anything new. It had

always been there, but none of those

new-Whiteys to the scene ever

figured for that!"

-

"It was then that everyone finally 

smiled, like even me; and down 

at the Village and the old Cooper 

Union porch and the Five Spot 

Corner, with suddenly fifteen new 

kinds of hepcats kids a day selling 

everything and anything they 

could, and it was all laid out on 

the sidewalk each day -  just 

piles of stuff : boots, records,

clothes, tools, artifacts, paintings,

junk coats, and - you see don't you,

that the point was to turn one 

or two dollars a day at least in 

any way you could so to survive,

and all that 'angel-headed hipster' 

stuff made no sense anyway because 

the only people buying were either 

themselves back and forth to each 

other, or unwholesome freak-faces 

from Long Island and New Jersey

strolling through this trinket-touristy 

life like it all already OWED them 

something. There was guys even

who'd sell their instruments, just

to buy them back maybe the very

next day  -  it was all like a pawn-shop

of the open air and for the poor

and the really down and out and beat

ones. It used to make me sick to

have to live that way, just a survive,

not a life. But no one made a move, 

and no one knew a thing, except 

that all of a sudden the hinterlands 

had come home to roost, and the 

best we could do was stay in place 

and survive while it all wilted. The 

beats died, the Jazz died, the real 

color died, and the only thing left 

was the co-opted motion of small 

time merchants and beady-eyed 

Italian neighborhood wranglers 

trying to make a buck off the blood 

and the spirit of dead kids already 

dying and struggling too. They 

labeled it this or they re-labeled 

it that, and they tried to make it

work : hippie-carnival-fantasy-land.

But it couldn't, and it didn't, and,

at the same time these very kids 

were wasting themselves, others 

of them were dying and frying in 

nowhere's land of another white,'

fantasy- vision-power-HELL Vietnam."

-

And so it seemed, he wouldn't stop

 and didn't, and it was really weird -

as usually I did hate old people and 

all their pontificating and bullshit 

about life's lessons and all that crap

they never did and had failed to 

realize, and blah blah, they just go on.

But this guy was different. He had an 

edge. He had some freaked-out 

wildman point-of-view about everything;

and it really did seem he'd done everything 

and been all around - which got rid right 

away of the fakery and the doubt and 

made me want to listen, at least, just 

for the hell of listening. And if I only 

knew then what I know now, I'd have 

started listening a lot closer, right off 

the bat there and then and how.

Because I knew I wasn't getting it

all, nor going to be remembering it all;

and it really was the start of something 

big; if only I had known.