Jazz Man
He wasn't doing it for the $15 an hour.
The drummer, pianist and bassist all looked spent and I could almost smell their resignation three rows from the stage. The half empty beer glass on the piano and the smoking half cigarette between the first few strings of the bass perfectly complemented the vacant expressions of the players.
But not him.
Against the stained red curtain the thin figure stood tall and a few feet away from the rest of the band as if to distance himself from their contagious forlornness. From the way he expertly and lovingly handled his shining trumpet, I had an inkling that we might be in for something special.
The first shrill note that blew out of the horn rang through the bar and seemed to bounce around waking every dozing patron, snapping every couple out of their embraces mid kiss and even causing the glassy eyed waitresses to turn and look.
I was transfixed. That red curtain that moments ago had been the backdrop for a bawdy cabaret number suddenly seemed like it would rise any moment to reveal a grand orchestra and it looked like it had been designed to accentuate the black silhouette and horn that were profiled against it. I couldn't see his face but it didn't matter.
As he played on the chatter in the bar reduced to a murmur and then silence. There was no clinking of glasses, no clearing of throats, just the horn. Even the other instruments seemed almost incidental. Not a single drink was being ordered and all eyes were on the stage.
He didn't say a word, barely looked at the crowd and just kept playing. He rocked back and forth almost talking to and cajoling his horn into playing the notes he wanted it to. There was no tapping of the feet, no flamboyant movements; just a calm concentration to make sure that every note was exactly as he intended it to be. It was hard to tell when one piece ended and another began, so seamlessly and beautifully did they meld into each other. There was an occasional smattering of applause and the only acknowledgement it got was an almost imperceptible head nod from the tall, lanky figure on stage. Soon even that seemed like a hindrance and died down. As he played - no - made love to his horn a few clumps of hair came unset on his head and the slightly tousled hair added even more character to the silhouette I was seeing.
He probably played for an hour and a half though it seemed to me that he had mesmerized me for eons. He ended with a beautiful piece that had shades of Charlie Parker but was still uniquely his own. A quick bow and in a flash he disappeared behind the curtain.
I have heard the term pure genius thrown about carelessly and what I had just witnessed was beyond that. I had just seen someone in love with his craft creating and playing music not for me, not for us, not even for himself but just because it can be played and it's beautiful.
I took a few moments to recover from the brilliant performance I'd just seen and knew that I had to find this man, learn his name, know him, learn the secret behind his passion and go to his every performance. I went backstage and there was no sign of him. I ran into the alley at the back and looked frantically for him. He was nowhere to be seen.
I came back several times to the bar and others hoping to catch him again but never did. All people could tell me was that he was from New York. It was almost as though he existed just to play his horn for that hour and a half after which he melted into the night. I hope our paths cross again. Until then, play on Jazz Man.
The drummer, pianist and bassist all looked spent and I could almost smell their resignation three rows from the stage. The half empty beer glass on the piano and the smoking half cigarette between the first few strings of the bass perfectly complemented the vacant expressions of the players.
But not him.
Against the stained red curtain the thin figure stood tall and a few feet away from the rest of the band as if to distance himself from their contagious forlornness. From the way he expertly and lovingly handled his shining trumpet, I had an inkling that we might be in for something special.
The first shrill note that blew out of the horn rang through the bar and seemed to bounce around waking every dozing patron, snapping every couple out of their embraces mid kiss and even causing the glassy eyed waitresses to turn and look.
I was transfixed. That red curtain that moments ago had been the backdrop for a bawdy cabaret number suddenly seemed like it would rise any moment to reveal a grand orchestra and it looked like it had been designed to accentuate the black silhouette and horn that were profiled against it. I couldn't see his face but it didn't matter.
As he played on the chatter in the bar reduced to a murmur and then silence. There was no clinking of glasses, no clearing of throats, just the horn. Even the other instruments seemed almost incidental. Not a single drink was being ordered and all eyes were on the stage.
He didn't say a word, barely looked at the crowd and just kept playing. He rocked back and forth almost talking to and cajoling his horn into playing the notes he wanted it to. There was no tapping of the feet, no flamboyant movements; just a calm concentration to make sure that every note was exactly as he intended it to be. It was hard to tell when one piece ended and another began, so seamlessly and beautifully did they meld into each other. There was an occasional smattering of applause and the only acknowledgement it got was an almost imperceptible head nod from the tall, lanky figure on stage. Soon even that seemed like a hindrance and died down. As he played - no - made love to his horn a few clumps of hair came unset on his head and the slightly tousled hair added even more character to the silhouette I was seeing.
He probably played for an hour and a half though it seemed to me that he had mesmerized me for eons. He ended with a beautiful piece that had shades of Charlie Parker but was still uniquely his own. A quick bow and in a flash he disappeared behind the curtain.
I have heard the term pure genius thrown about carelessly and what I had just witnessed was beyond that. I had just seen someone in love with his craft creating and playing music not for me, not for us, not even for himself but just because it can be played and it's beautiful.
I took a few moments to recover from the brilliant performance I'd just seen and knew that I had to find this man, learn his name, know him, learn the secret behind his passion and go to his every performance. I went backstage and there was no sign of him. I ran into the alley at the back and looked frantically for him. He was nowhere to be seen.
I came back several times to the bar and others hoping to catch him again but never did. All people could tell me was that he was from New York. It was almost as though he existed just to play his horn for that hour and a half after which he melted into the night. I hope our paths cross again. Until then, play on Jazz Man.
