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?
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