We were in her hotel room because my tiny place had been made even smaller by the still drying paintings. Even though she was going home at the end of the week and there were parts of Vienna that she still wished to see, I stubbornly remained too sick to go out for more than a quick meal nearby.
While using her full bathroom mirror which allowed for a better shave than that of my small circle, as I smoothed my left cheek I once again told myself that I really was sick but that I could make far more of an effort, this debating continuing onto my right cheek.
A beautiful day, the windows stretched out their wings wide, reaching towards the Stadt park. We drank vermouth and sodas lying atop the covers while listening to bop.
I put on my most unwrinkled shirt. We ran all over the city and when her legs became tired we barnstormed with a crazy Serbian taxi driver. I loaded her up with chocolates and kirsch for her journey home. Sneaking into the opera house to see the Rodin bust of Mahler, my wet shoes squeaked but still didn’t give us away.
Now she is gone. I must find a new framer since Marc ran away with a student from Algiers, at least temporarily.
I find myself going back to all the places we had been; as if there were a chance of glimpsing at least her shadow and then by stepping on it she would be unable to leave. I play our records over and over but I would have anyways.
I am sitting in the Stadt park sketching. A few benches down from me a girl stands, thighs holding her bicycle as she throws something in the trash. Her figure is made to seem plump by her sky blue capris and white ankle socks. I notice her brown mole above the corner of her right lip which slowly twitches in concentration.
As I turn to a clean page and settle she is already off. I do some detailed studies of acanthus and some poppies. I want to enjoy the weather but now indirectly so I stop at a café on my way home.
At the counter is the girl from the park whom I now find myself standing beside. She is taller than I, which had earlier been camouflaged by the bicycle.
I think of a passage from Don Quixote. The Don had told his man Sancho to go by himself to see the Don’s raison d’ etre, Dulcimina. In doing so, Sancho would then come to understand the reason for the arduous mission that the Don and he were on.
Sancho went and not being beset by passion or delusions as was his master reported back a far less superior picture including the descriptive phase:
“A horsey scent.”
Of course she had been out in the sun riding a bicycle. Two people together do not always produce roses either but it was made more tolerable by the activity which went into creating the bouquet.
I came out of my musing to sip my coffee. The girl was gone, replaced by a man with a camera around his neck carefully unfolding a map.
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A true legend has passed.
The music world lost an interesting figure suddenly, violently, strangely. I had interviewed Terry back when I was writing for All About Jazz. After a brief email exchange it seemed he was leaning more towards talking about his work conducting the oeuvre of Tchaikovsky, of which he was a leading authority. He was generous of his time and very much a perfectionist in wanting to get across the points he was making.
For all the pages of typed up transcriptions there was plenty left out as it was variations on what he was trying to say. Over the week that I was typing he would call several times a day leaving messages on my answering machine about other things which had since the interview come to him. Admittedly, at the time I did start to become a little annoyed. Terry made up for this though by sending me on his own initiative stacks of CDs, his music and him conducting Tchaikovsky.
I credit Terry for igniting my initial interest in the composer with whom now I am well versed and greatly enjoy.
Terry also composed his own music, which has a sort of Aaron Copeland /Walton Piston type feel to it.; American pastoral impressionism.
He leaves behind a body of work of which anyone would be proud to call their own.
Coming in from lunch as always, unless it is nighttime and I have finished working, I am alone. In my solitude I remain silent, not feeling the need to make a show of how tired I am after my long walk back on a full stomach.
A plump fly sits on the edge of the bed, perhaps confusing the brown duvet for soil. Like me, he wants only to take an hour or two to sleep in the warm sun. When I stir, no matter how fast he flies away, later on I will still manage to capture him with my prose.
I must be careful though, to not metamorphose him into a type of insect which could bite and make me sick.
Not too long with my head down and I wake up having left my food stupor behind. I work for a few hours, the words mount up in pleasant cascades which make me giddy until everything seems to be covered in ink and one would have to lie on their belly to write on what remained of the whiteness of the wall.
Now I can go out and work up an appetite, accompanied depending upon what pattern of people the city is wearing, by the heat of desire.
I grab my book bag from its place by the door. Locking up I take the stairs and pat my pocket three times for luck. Once I own a home I will keep the keys on an oval brass keychain as would have been handed to any gumshoe in an old film.
I will still travel the world and even though I would not need it again until I was once more home, no matter where I was, I would keep it in my pocket letting it weigh my coat down on the left side. After becoming used to the weight and learning to keep my pen in my right pocket as to prevent any knocking together with the brass, I would not even need to go home. I would carry it with me, embodied by the brass in my pocket.
Amy did not understand why I did not merely buy the so often described keyring instead of the ordeal of working towards becoming a home owner of which she suspected contributed to my moodiness. No, no. It was a phony faith which I feared. An act, such as just totting around the keychain, was a pantomime of satiated ambition.
The poet in me once said during a party by way of dramatically filling in a dull silence that we carry our homes in our hearts, particularly with the food we cook and the songs we sing.
A correlation between cooking and music, specifically jazz is that one can have a recipe but then depending upon location, available ingredients and even mood there are changes or improvisations made from the established conception. Just as a musician may improvise off of “Melancholy Baby” so too can it occur with a pot of gumbo or Coq Au Vin.
Stylistically, whether it is food or music sometimes there is a sea change within the creator which is not about rejecting the familiar ancestry but building off of it to create something new but still containing recognizable components.
The debut of John Schott’s new album and trio Actual Trio travels along such lines. The trio’s set up is that of a classic guitar trio, this familiar ground serves as a sort of jumping off point. The material on the album is all original compositions. While not a radical stylistic departure from its trio forefathers neither is there any museum glass stagnation.
“Frequently asked Questions” has a laconic strolling quality to its structure. There is an almost programmatic feel to the piece. Me, someone, flapping madly the lapels of my raincoat as I hit the street. Daydreams and inspirations as befitting a flaneur. Within the DNA of the piece are elements of Grant Green and Wes Montgomery combined within a generation also equally exposed to rock, blues and modernist composers such as Babbitt, Berio and Schoenberg.
John’s tone is a clean sound akin to the cadence of those from vintage Fender Guitars. Throughout the album he eschews use of effects to alter or gild his instruments voice. The interplay among the musicians is immediately apparent and made more impressive by the fact that the entire album was recorded live in the studio in one session, without overdubbing. All the playing is top notch yet there is never the distraction of overly fussy to mire things down.
“Hold On Sheldon” is a sort of samba as if done by James Brown late at night when a good portion of the band has gone home. The varying components within the piece show what big ears the trio has. The bright punch of John’s guitar declaiming single note runs, a Morse code to get funky morphs into bent string chiming; the mission bell in the land of the blues calling people in for catharsis or to dance. John Hanes drums do not merely keep time nor add density to the piece but provide a sort of forward thrust feeling. Especially starting at the midway point to the song. He incorporates intricate polyrhythms and touches of louder rock leaning heaviness, underscoring that is not merely a lead voice being backed by two others.
“Egyptians” starts off with the guitar peppering Dan Seaman’s rich bass pattern. The initial tempo suggests an air of slinky contemplation. A descending guitar pattern followed by a brief series of volcanic rumblings and the tempo and general feel of the song drastically changes. The funk of a Saturday night circa the late seventies. The trio lock into a deep groove. If we are not fighting or crying then we should be dancing said a neo-Greek chorus from atop their barstools. The trio show an inherent taste regardless of the tempo or tempo changes in a song. Absent is any kind of stylistic Achilles’ heel in regards to performance ability.
The entire CD finds great interplay among the musicians. With the manner in which the CD was recorded, it has a great organic, warm sound. Who these musicians are may change down the line with time or travel. This CD offers a compelling snapshot of their here and now, well worthwhile.
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The cat knew that she was not supposed to be on the jacket despite the fact that I had earlier lazily let it fall to the floor. Staying low to the ground, she approached it from across the room with the slow deliberate steps of an actor in a Noh play.
The end of the day found the swallows returning the night, their spread wings carrying the blue black back up into the sky. In this season, so swift was their ascent that the motion, seen peripherally did not take attention away from the garment.
Finally she pounces on it, looking up at me to gauge my mood. I can’t be bothered to reprimand and after a moment of silence she comfortably settles down amongst the folds. If only I could make everyone, someone, as happy so easily.
I pad into my office. The top of the lowest of my bookcases where I keep my blank notepads also has a vase. I keep flowers as often as I can remember but not for the obvious reasons. Always a cut flower has already received its death sentence. I like this subtle reminder of the terminal futility of beauty. I used to keep the vase closer to my desk but depending upon the type of flower, the petals would fall onto my workspace mixing with the pencil shaving butterflies.
An important component of all great works of art regardless of medium is its ability to seemingly speak to each person individually, calling for it to be incorporated into our lives and selves in some manner of totem. For every person it will vary, which is fine so long as there is not too great a deviation from the artist’s initial intent.
Outside, the huffing of trucks dropping off palettes of things for the restaurants, the murmur of a crowd whose bodies are in constant motion and the intermittent testimony of impatient car horns. The dichotomy of civilization, all the places of man, and every city, have the same noises yet each place has its own subtle variations which flavor it. It is the same with birthdays and funerals. I grab a book and record off of the shelves.
Poetry and jazz share certain key qualities with cities. Within works of both are specific intents, executed in such a way as to leave room for the audience to fill in the blanks as is meaningful to themselves. The effect is akin to hearing a story and without changing the narrative structure, each of us imaging in our own way what the characters look like.
All poetry is poetry, yet there exists within this blanket term a myriad of genres and sub genres. The same can be said of jazz. Each has its cannon which is revered and passed down from generation to generation even while the art form(s) remain in flux and ever evolving.
The current album by Wayne Horvitz underscores how well the two art forms mesh. Some Places Are Forever Afternoon is paying tribute to American poet Richard Hugo (1923-1982).
Richard Hugo is a perfect fit for Wayne’s genre defying music as neither can be pegged down to a specific time or rigidly within any one specific school. Richard’s writing was rhythmically complex and forward thinking, yet was sometimes framed within the older structure of an epistolary format of a bygone era. Wry humor, heartbreak, nature and bars coexist within Richard’s work providing the perfect mercurial templates off of which Wayne works from.
The music while not programmatic is inspired by the poetry with which it directly emotionally resonates. One need not be familiar with the writing to enjoy the music but when paired there is no feeling of the sonics being a lesser artistic sibling, so organically do they enmesh themselves.
The ensemble is made up of long time collaborators from two of Wayne’s bands; Sweeter Than the Day and the Gravitas Quartet. The instruments which comprise the band are far from that of the usual jazz ensemble which subtly underscores the lack of sonic borders.
The track listing gives the name of each song and also the poem that inspired it. Also reproduced are the poems along with some photos which are visual works of poetry unto themselves. The photos show, if not exact locations of Hugo’s life and work, then places cut of the same cloth.
“Money or a story” exists within a quick groove which is not overly frantic, its steady engulfing pace, like a poetic metre. Each of the instruments offers up their voice in long lines, the similarity of declamation creating a density usually achieved by complexity of changing tempos but here made more by a layering. The effect achieved is even stronger for its departure from the normal technique.
Starting softly, “Those who remain are the worst” unfolds into a near waltz like feel with an organic casualness. The richness of the cello at the piece’s introduction is counter balanced first by the plink-tink transition of the piano and then the coronet and guitar. So different but go together well are the guitar and horn; that they conjure up the feeling of a sort of musical signpost within the piece’s landscape along with the people who stand by them waiting, in conversation. The work ends with the woody murmuring of bassoon, the secrets which we softly tell ourselves and the odd things that remind us of them.
Slowly revealing itself, “You drink until you are mayor” is one of my favorite pieces on the album. It is dark but not in the artificial milieu of theater. The darkness is more akin to the repercussion of deep thoughts as occurring when one is honest with themselves late at night or early in the morning. A pulsing drone of piano, bass and guitar with near subliminal discordance in the background shows that there is some Walter Piston and Ned Rorem mixed into the artistic DNA of the piece. It is all legato beauty, illuminated darkness as reflected in the curved brass railing of the bar. As the piece nears its end, the instruments stagger their statements. The silence between adding to the feel and being of equal importance before elliptically the work ends as it had begun.
Poetry and jazz each in their own way offer a myriad of emotional, spiritual and intellectual possibilities. This album shows how well these two universal art forms can go together. It is the power of the commonalties which we all make our own yet allow us to still sympathetically shake our heads when hearing of someone else with the blues or stretching their arms skyward in ecstatic joy.
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