devil women

Last night we braved a thin, persistent rain to go pay hommage to Chico O'Farrill. One of those accidental tourists who just "happen to be there" without ever knowing what's going on, asked me "who the hell is Chico O'Farrill". So, for all the accidental tourists who just happen to be here: he was the forefather of Afro-Cuban jazz, together with Machito and of course Dizzy Gillespie.

The city of New York renamed the corner between W88 and West End - not far from the O'Farrills' family home - after him. His son Arturo was there, together with friends and relatives and music of course. Members of the ACJO were joined by Mr. Wynton Marsalis on trumpet and Paquito D'Rivera on clarinet. The Lincoln center posse - BigA, YY, LilA, PS, E and TB - was in attendance, and yours truly was her usual appendix self. Standing in white pants and silver flip-flops and watching the former get soaked and definitely revealing, and the latter stain my feet, I asked myself "Is this worth the effort?".

Of course it was: it's always nice to witness deserved recognition and to succumb to reveries and tangents - i wondered for example if humidity affects the quality of sound. Maybe it doesn't affect horns, but what about reeds? After all, we're talking wood - 5 minutes there and I was starting to develop a blonde afro and the proteins in my hair are not quite like the cellulose in wood. But don't quote me on this, I am after all a Biology major and have a reputation to defend.

(I had already seen ACJO, with Claudia Acuna: I fear she's one of the victims, I mean, artists in the Diet Coke festival lineup. She and the orchestra were spectacular. I guess I can surrender to the dark side of artificial colorings and carbonated water and go see her again. I'm sure she'll be great, but I have to say Arturo and his guys (and a doll, Erika!) were the best back up she could have possibly wished for.)

At one point last night, watching Arturo address the crowd without mic - no generator due to the rain - and with the sole shelter of a dirty white plastic tent, BigA mumbled "Man, this feels like a communist rally". You have to imagine the scene: BigA is a quiet, towering, at times intimidating, very much observing guy. He seldom talks, so when he does, well, you listen and typically crack up. Unless he cracks you with his wit. He reminds me of Monk. There'd be some fine cats in a room, talkin about jazz and just back and forthing matters of pentagram, like curve balls. After they'd figured it all out, he'd go up to them and basically say: "You all talk a lot of shit, it's not like that at all, it is so and so" ad in 3 words he'd break down and rephrase - often much better then the others - the matter at stake. Then he'd leave.

BigA was right, of course, it did feel like a communist rally. But not as fierce as the "incident at the Iridium" me and YY had witnessed the night before. On BigA's line, therefore, me and my girl winked like consummated hustlers and replayed the rumble in our heads.



Here's how it goes in mine. It's Tuesday night at Iridium, Mingus Big Band's night. MBB has always striken me as an anomaly in the jazz scene, maybe because of the repertoire - all Mingus, much of which had political flavor even when not overtly stated - maybe because of the democratic lineup - musicians rotate and they took turn at bandleading.
I had always had a fantasy of those guys being refugees, dissidents, Russian novelists, scientists and chess champions, wanted by KGB and FBI and forced to hide in some secluded dacha in the Russian steppe. Drinkin vodka. And swingin, no less!
Well, now I know I'm right. They must be.

Saxophonist CH was leading.

He gets up to announce the second piece, "Fables of Faubus", from the album "Ah Um". C is tall and muscular, he has long dreadlocks a confident grin and has something of the Thai box-champion who doubles as a Yoga master to him. Physical and spiritual. He introduces the stinky character of Orville Faubus, a Governor of Arkansas in the late Fifties, a sorry individual who came to be known for his attempts to prevent integration of black students in his State. C naturally comments in a not too friendly way on the matter, then makes an off remark on some fil rouge going straight from the Arkansas of 1955 to the White House of 2005. People in the room cheer and applaud and woo-ooh and m-mmm. Save for one.

I still ignore what he looked like, as he was sitting in a corner and my view was blocked by a pillar. I like to imagine him as the character of Death in Bergman's "Seventh seal". With a big sickle. Unfortunately for him, we had the hammer too.

So, amidst the cheers and clap claps, this guy goes "da-da-da-dadada, I didn't come here to be lectured by you guys da-da-da-dadada why don't you do what you can do and just keep on playing jazz?"

Apriti cielo. Hissing, booing, "shut up you motherfucker" randomly dropping on him from all four corners. And, Mr. C, well, Mr. C. He's loving this guy, he's highly entertained and challenged, his grin is stretching beyond the laws of physics. "Look, man, this is a free country and I'm entitled to have my opinion ... or not?". More cheering "Go C, Go C!".

Sleek E - remember him? - keeps sweat to the minimum, grabs the mic and produces a Davis-style lethal hiss "You should know that jazz, historically... and your bullshit just makes us...". Slouches back in his chair, looking slightly bored. We loving fans of him know better than to be fooled, he is upset. You can tell by his right eyebrow: one of the hairs is not aligned.

Trombonist Seas gets up and does it his way, never conventional, so it's a giga dance for him, with a mocking face.

It's mayhem. I'm this close to jumping on the table, licking the apple strudel from my knife and going for the guy with the blade between my teeth. My girl YY is laughing convulsely. She's probably thinking of the opening of the set, when C was asking for us people's nationalities, cuz she's looking at me with her eyes big and wild and she repeats, feably, "Italy, Italy". It's mayhem.

And of course it takes a woman to bring reason and peace to our much heated mob. It's the gracious, elegant, commanding Sue Mingus. She walks up and talks about boundaries between jazz and social committment, about Mingus' political views, freedom of speech and respect of each other opinions. Then she invites Mr Death to go up to the bandstand and say his piece.

He doesn't. Oh well, oh well, ohwellohwellohwell.

C has one more thing to say. "We were about to do a ballad now, but you know what? We're NOT!". A-1, A-2, A-1,2,3,uh! It's "Oh Lord don't let them drop that atomic bomb on me" (remember, as I blog and brawl there's a beef between Usa and Iran re: nuclear weapons development) and otherwise shy saxophonist AB gets up and sings, a rich, church tenor voice and a shaking butt. We just havin a good time, he points his finger to Mr Death in the corner and goes: "Don't drop it, stop it, just BEBOP IT!"

Good times.

Oh, and by the way. Beautiful solo on soprano sax, by our man, Mr. C

the coolest nerd in town

A few days ago I was sitting in the lobby of the Beacon hotel with 16 years old Italian altoist FC, throw-your-hands-in-the-air-and-scream-hallelujah prodigy. Deserving of some kind of religious rapture (for some, others like me admire but cum ratio) is his young age, naturally, and how still so green in his merrow he's able to pair technical precision and feeling. What shouldn't surprise or shake is his nationality: after all Italian jazz is in full bloom.

I was there to interview him for the Italian magazine Jazzit. He was wearing faded jeans, shades, engulfing his babyface like some kind of Carnival mask, and an attitude - I had already noticed it the night before at the club he was playing for the week. I couldn't tell how much of his headache was pose, and i decided his wink and slight cockiness were signs of a common and curable disease: teenagehood, with the complication of a celebrity in progress. I knew I was right a few minutes into the interview: as he was loosening up, responding to my cues and, most importantly, to the mention of his friend and mentor, Mr. MW, I could almost see the layers peel off. And what was exposed had freshness and no nonsense.

I wasn't suprised by his quick change of regsiter, rather by a comment made by one member of his crew: "I'm shocked" he said, "you are the first woman, beside my wife (I spoke a mental "woa"), who is so passionate about jazz, and at such a young age!".
"And she's competent!" said F's father.
And there it hit me: not the clumsy, probably unintended sexism. Rather his surprise: I am young, female, vaguely attractive. Ergo, it is impossible, almost sacrilegious, that i should be interested in jazz. I know this is a common feeling in some social circles, yet i can't bring myself to accept, let alone fully understand it.

What is so uncool about jazz? - and by jazz i don't mean Nas' latest jazz-hip hop stint, or New Orleans rebranded hip-hop brass bands, or California's melodic, borderline pop-world music jazz. Or, I cannot believe I'm even writing his name, the Backstreet boy of jazz, Chris Botti. Naw. I mean the real deal. Yes, that vinyl with the torn cover your dad wouldn't stop playing. That 78 to which your Grandpa proposed to your Grandma. You know who they are, right, those guys with an instrument, little money, a habit and the history of jazz in their heels?

What is so uncool about jazz? Nothing. Believe me, nothing. If you stick around long enough, I'll prove it to you.

So, in case you were wondering if this is just some random ranting and/or venting, the answer is no. I'm going somewhere with all this.

I am on a mission.

small apple meets big easy

If Darwin was alive today and he was allowed to pick the score to his Theory of evolution - him being the genius I think he was - he would consider a couple of arias from Tosca and Parsifal, because of the grandeur, of the sense of majestic struggle, of the sweet and sour pulp of life becoming notes, flying out of the window eventually landing on sore spots all over bodies and souls. Then, him being the smart ass I'm sure he was, he'd pick up the phone, call a couple of the finest, fiercest cats in town, clear the living room of the specimens and iguana shit from the Galapagos, and he would set up a jazz battle.

A jazz battle is, undoubtedly, a lesson in survival, a crash course in life. Opponents cut each other and heal each other's wounds, all in the space of a blues, a ballad and an uptempo. There is dialogue - a little call and response - there's a parade of fortes - solos, solos, solos - there's reconciliation - cats swingin together - and sometimes the winner is the last man standing, sometimes the winner is a nod and a handhsake at the end. And the promise of more gigs to come. Or, "man, we should get in the studio, work some tracks". If RVG was here. If Rudy Van Gelder was alive.

He is not. In lieu of him we have BT, the "we remind you to keep your conversation at a minimum" and "we're about to embark on a musical journey" man. The man who careens on D club's premises, a Big Gulp of Diet Coke in his (pudgy) hands, always ready, willing and able - the man is a living jazz encyclopedia - to give you a pop quiz on tempos (what is this? uh, what tempo is this? 5/6!) and instant lessons in the history of the genre. All as he walks by and says something in French reminiscin' the good old days, fingers fluttering in the air.

T, sound engineering, watching him go by: "Gee, look how sweaty his fingers are. I hope he's not going to mess up the cds in my booth again. Oh shit, he's heading to my booth, isn't he? No, God, nonono, he's touching stuff, aw... crap, lemme go and take care of this. See you later"

Wondering off the top of my head if "Diet Coke - Women in jazz festival" was BT's idea. Hello sexism, not so good to see you again. I'm wondering if dress code will be twin set, pearls and flats. Will we have to check out tampons at the door? Will an extra 35$ cover be charged to those who can't quote more than 6 variations on the apple pie recipe? And will the mention of tarte tatin cause immediate disqualification - tarte sounding dangerously similar to tart, God forbid, we are all pious, modest ladies here.

Why DIET Coke?

Don't get me wrong though. BT is good and sweet too. When I first set foot at D club's, a private sound check prior to inauguration, he told me: "You're always welcome here". I reciprocated last night, complimenting him on the Jazz Journalists Association award he won last week. He was so flattered he gave me a copy of his last production, a Freddy Cole cd. Sweaty fingerprints and all. It's signed, "Laura, dance to the song in your heart". Luckily women drink Diet Coke: a little more sugar and I could die of diabetic coma.

I saw my first battles at D's. All the time FS and "Ernesto" calling out for blood - "blud, we want blud on the floor!", "blud" that's what it sounded like. No blood was spilled. Hate in jazz is a scary monster with no teeth. Eric Alexander battled Wayne Escoffrey on tenor sax: black tee and blazer vs. grey suit. WE leaning against the wall, fingering EA's solos as he was playing. And this is as raw as it got. Luis Bonilla battled Vince Gardner on trombone, ALJO meets LCJO. It felt like a Latin fiesta, a cookout, Phil Schaap offstage kicking it ballroom style, Bonilla hunching up shoulders, doing a little neck move, feeling salsa, eyeing chicks in the audience, smiling ecstatic at Gardner's slide.

BM loves battles. When he first moved to New York, word was out bout this new cat from the West who could play the tenor sax like forget it. He's got restless bones, rides the night smelling good spots for a fight. Ends up in this Uptown club, a bunch of older cats call him onstage, then start a fast tempo in D flat. BM tries hard but has no clue. "Man, that all you can do?". Feeling so sorry for him they couldn't even look at him in the eyes. Mental note: practice D flat.
Fast forward, BM is now himself one older cat. Young restless bones #2 calling him finished behind his back, saying he's a motherfucker. They meet at a club, YRB2 challanges him, BM says "you name your piece", YRB2 pumps his chest and goes "Giant steps". Fucks up the fingering midway through his solo. BM rolls up his sleeves, goes up, does his thing, Pork pie hat smiling down from wherever it is that jazzmen jam in afterlife. BM walks up to him and "now who's the motherfucker?" asks with his babyface all smile and politeness.

Irvin Mayfield loves battles. New Orleans is his feud, NOJO his court, Los Hombres Calientes his playground. Kermit Ruffin wears funny shirts and has a clown face. He plays New Orleans' Vaughn's and people take sides. This is one mean mob, won't even contemplate the possibility of a tie, it's either IM or KR. I'm in town for my first Jazz Fest, sun is scorching hot and the Big Easy feels like an old gentleman dying with a smile on his face. The Fairgrounds are sizzling, the context is calling for contests. John Coltrane tribute features Ravi C., James Carter and McCoy Tyner. Tyner plays monumental chord blocks, still has them under his nails. Carter is all dolled up in a three pieces suit, white smile flashing all the time. He's a crowd pleaser, plays neverending solos. Ravi glances sideways, cocks his eyebrow, shakes his head so slighlty it's barely visible. And this is battle Coltrane style.

On two opposite corners of North Carrollton, Mayfield battles Ruffin. There is a spontaneous call to prayer, it's a Sunday, this is the gospel of jazz, the street is suddenly a church, signals, billboards, lantern poles make pews for people in their sunday best. But even the guy who later tells me the story on a streetcar heading downtown, big Kermit fan, can't tell who won. Ultimately, even when it's obvious who walks away bruised and battered, it is not about the winner. It's about the dialogue, it's about the art of fencing notes and watching them go for your butt and your soul.

And good thing all these cats lost their afros in the seventies. My man .amp reminds me about is the origin of this species, the jazz battle. Losers got their heads shaved. Back in New Orleans when Joe Oliver was King, small combos used to cross paths on the streets. Lead trumpets would lift their bells to the sky and go clarion. And he who could play longer and louder would win. Clear the street, you, move aside, we the winners. Few exceptions to the rule, like King Oliver warning young Louis Armstrong, "Little Louie, when your band clashes with mine be sure I see you. You're not flesh for my cut".
Back then when the loser had to move aside and have his head shaved off.

And talking about trumpet bells lifted to the sky, Jon Faddis with the Purchase college jazz combo, playing a cathedral on Park Avenue. Watch Faddis aim the trumpet to the vaulted ceiling. Can you feel the sound bouncing all the way to the back and back to the pulpit, by means of your skin?