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
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