It was another gig, one of the thousands he'd played over the years. The Music Stop was a decent place as bars went. This one was clean, held about 400 people, and had a nice sound system, though they'd only be using it for announcements tonight. After years of gigging as the jazz hipster gun for hire, he'd finally reached a stage where he could eke out his modest existence by playing the music he chose to, which was acoustic jazz. No more blues bands, rock bands, wedding gigs, he spent his time touring with his own group, making records (his own and as a sideman for others) and soloing with the occasional big band. Additionally he sometimes did clinics at high schools and colleges and the odd TV appearance. Life was good. He was 64 years old and an ex heroin addict and alcoholic, and his zig zagging around the world all of his life was written in the wrinkles and hollows of his ruddy face. At 6' he was tall and thin and now stoop shouldered after years of hanging a tenor saxophone from a strap around his neck. He was playing better than ever, at the peak of his technical and creative powers.
They'd gotten in to Atlanta around 5:00 after driving all day following the previous night's gig in D.C. and gone straight to the club to check it out. Then it was to his hotel where he rested, bathed and dressed for the gig. As he waited in the hotel lobby for his ride to the club an odd forlorn feeling overcame him. A depressive feeling that engulfed him and seemed to drain the energy from his whole body. He had been experiencing this feeling more and more often over the last couple of months and he was unsure of its origin. He wasn't a depressive person and tended not to dwell in the past but he had been thinking about his failures more lately than usual. There were the ups and downs of his profession and all that it entailed, and there were 3 ex wives and countless ex girlfriends. Being a musician was hard on relationships, as was taking narcotics and overdrinking. He also found himself musing about his childhood of all things, growing up in New York. Yankees games, delis, the bronx zoo, his Mom and Dad, all of the things that were great about his youth. He thought about these things as he waited and tried to summon that inspiration and clarity of mind with which he usually started a gig.
Arriving at the club he noticed the healthy crowd in attendance. Looked like another decent week financially. He went to the bar for his traditional ginger ale and engaged in some pre set chit chat with the members of his quartet. Looking at his watch he noted that it was time to hit and led his musicians onstage.
Things were going well. As they wound their way through the third tune of the set he suddenly felt the forlorn feeling again, this time more powerfully than ever. It caused him to contemplate his life. Had he, in total, been a good or a bad person? Could he have done better? Should he have lived his life differently? It was all a quandry for him and not the kind of thing he usually thought seriously about in the middle of a gig. He played on wondering about the sensation and starting to experience an odd sort of panic. Jazz musicians excel at improvisation. This is a very difficult skill to cultivate and takes years to master. Firstly, one must master the instrument technically, one must also master the theoretical aspect of music, they must cultivate their ability to hear music and execute it on their instrument instantly. And the final skill an improviser must develop is the ability to forget all of those other aspects that he's worked so hard to develop and simply get rid of the instrument. That is to say, he must reach a psychological state in which he doesn't think, he's unaware of the instrument, he just creates. It's a rather Zen concept.
As the night wore on, the feelings persisted. Finally the band kicked into its closing number, a jazz standard played at extremely fast tempo. He started his solo, still contemplating the strange feelings that had beset him, at the same time maintaining his jazz man's detachment. As he played he became aware of another feeling invading his consciousness, it was a physical sensation. Pain had begun to spread down his arm and he suddenly felt slightly nauseous. He kept playing, reaching for the artistic release that would 'raise the bandstand' as Monk had called it. There was more intense pain and cold sweat and he knew the race was on. It was suddenly clear to him that the forlornness he'd been experiencing had been signifying something profound. He suddenly choked violently and let go of the horn which hung there on its strap swinging from side of his body to the other. He felt a crushing pain in his chest, started to lose his sight, and fell dead to the floor.
There were memorial services which included jam sessions with the players that had known and worked with him over the years. He had left one album in the can which was eventually released to good reviews, and there were obituaries in all of the major jazz publications. They all noted the ferocity with which he had played right up to the minute of his death.
They'd gotten in to Atlanta around 5:00 after driving all day following the previous night's gig in D.C. and gone straight to the club to check it out. Then it was to his hotel where he rested, bathed and dressed for the gig. As he waited in the hotel lobby for his ride to the club an odd forlorn feeling overcame him. A depressive feeling that engulfed him and seemed to drain the energy from his whole body. He had been experiencing this feeling more and more often over the last couple of months and he was unsure of its origin. He wasn't a depressive person and tended not to dwell in the past but he had been thinking about his failures more lately than usual. There were the ups and downs of his profession and all that it entailed, and there were 3 ex wives and countless ex girlfriends. Being a musician was hard on relationships, as was taking narcotics and overdrinking. He also found himself musing about his childhood of all things, growing up in New York. Yankees games, delis, the bronx zoo, his Mom and Dad, all of the things that were great about his youth. He thought about these things as he waited and tried to summon that inspiration and clarity of mind with which he usually started a gig.
Arriving at the club he noticed the healthy crowd in attendance. Looked like another decent week financially. He went to the bar for his traditional ginger ale and engaged in some pre set chit chat with the members of his quartet. Looking at his watch he noted that it was time to hit and led his musicians onstage.
Things were going well. As they wound their way through the third tune of the set he suddenly felt the forlorn feeling again, this time more powerfully than ever. It caused him to contemplate his life. Had he, in total, been a good or a bad person? Could he have done better? Should he have lived his life differently? It was all a quandry for him and not the kind of thing he usually thought seriously about in the middle of a gig. He played on wondering about the sensation and starting to experience an odd sort of panic. Jazz musicians excel at improvisation. This is a very difficult skill to cultivate and takes years to master. Firstly, one must master the instrument technically, one must also master the theoretical aspect of music, they must cultivate their ability to hear music and execute it on their instrument instantly. And the final skill an improviser must develop is the ability to forget all of those other aspects that he's worked so hard to develop and simply get rid of the instrument. That is to say, he must reach a psychological state in which he doesn't think, he's unaware of the instrument, he just creates. It's a rather Zen concept.
As the night wore on, the feelings persisted. Finally the band kicked into its closing number, a jazz standard played at extremely fast tempo. He started his solo, still contemplating the strange feelings that had beset him, at the same time maintaining his jazz man's detachment. As he played he became aware of another feeling invading his consciousness, it was a physical sensation. Pain had begun to spread down his arm and he suddenly felt slightly nauseous. He kept playing, reaching for the artistic release that would 'raise the bandstand' as Monk had called it. There was more intense pain and cold sweat and he knew the race was on. It was suddenly clear to him that the forlornness he'd been experiencing had been signifying something profound. He suddenly choked violently and let go of the horn which hung there on its strap swinging from side of his body to the other. He felt a crushing pain in his chest, started to lose his sight, and fell dead to the floor.
There were memorial services which included jam sessions with the players that had known and worked with him over the years. He had left one album in the can which was eventually released to good reviews, and there were obituaries in all of the major jazz publications. They all noted the ferocity with which he had played right up to the minute of his death.
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