To Newport and Beyond

 

My grandmother gave me two Brubeck albums when I was a teenager. One of them was recorded at the Newport Jazz Festival. Dave used the occasion to introduce two new tunes to the public, both of which he had recently recorded as solo piano pieces. "In Your Own Sweet Way" is a ballad dedicated to his wife Iola. I learned that tune, and had the thrill of playing it with the composer at his home in Connecticut.

The other was "Two Part Contention," a nod to J.S. Bach, who was Dave's favorite composer. My piano teacher had assigned me a couple of Bach's "two part inventions." They were difficult. My brain had to split in two directions. Yet when I heard Brubeck do it, it sounded like fun. He and Paul Desmond were inventing melodies on the fly. I was enchanted - and have never lost the sense of elation. Or was it euphoria? Or ecstasy? Who knew that you could get high simply by playing music? 

We enjoyed a day trip to Newport, not far from the place where we were staying. What a gracious, beautiful town! There are a number of nice houses that might make good writing shacks in the future. Of course, we circled around to Fort Adams Park, where the annual Newport Jazz Festival will take place after a Covid-19 hiatus. The dates don't square up with my schedule, but I hope to attend some time. The stage faces a bay full of sailboats and yachts. What a view!

The best gift of Newport was dining with our friend Mary Ann, who moved there a few years ago. It was a long dinner, filled with laughter and great affection. A couple of hours into the meal, two of her grown daughters suddenly appeared at the side of the table. "It's 8:00. Do you know where your mother is?" We roared with laughter.

On our way back to Pennsylvania, we met one of my college students for lunch. He recommended a beer and burger joint near his home in Connecticut. Of course - he's a college student. 

Adam is a guy to watch. A wonderful saxophonist, he is also a natural leader. He created the first jazz club on the campus of his university. It is a student chapter of the Jazz Education Network. He aspires to create a jazz festival for the university, which means he will negotiate campus politics and chase after funding. It hasn't slowed him down one bit. Adam has a can-do attitude, and he's a joy to be around. 

Some of the readers of this blog have encouraged me to enjoy this sabbatical and not fill it with productivity. OK, check. I'm on it. Regarding the book, I'm glad to report that nine chapters (of fifteen) are done. There is a squad of readers (theologians, musicians, and normal people) offering  feedback as I send them my work. I'm ready to employ a talented copy editor to polish the paragraphs and find the missing verbs. Soon I will negotiate with another professional who can help with a manuscript proposal and lead me through the publication process.

As for having fun, well, I'm sufficiently self-indulgent to have no problem with that. Last Sunday, we enjoyed an outstanding concert by the Gerry Mulligan Tribute Band, led by our compatriot Ron Vincent (who recommended last week's chili dogs). The band is incredible: Scott Robinson on sax, Marvin Stamm on flugelhorn, Dean Johnson on bass, the incomparable Bill Mays on piano, with Ron playing the drums with a great big smile. 

It was Bill Mays who once quipped, "There are three signs of a good gig. Is the music happening? Is the bread green? Is the hang happening? Two out of three is a good gig." The "hang," for the uninformed, is the hang out, the collegial fellowship of musical souls after a concert concludes. In this case, the hang happened at a swanky restaurant where the food was delicious, the beverages were flowing, and the conversation was spirited. We returned home about 11 pm . . . after a 4 pm concert. 

Yes, the hang was happening. That was the theme of the week. 

Avoiding distraction, best I can

The writing "cabin" this week is a bayside home on the coast of Rhode Island. We call it "Nancy's-By-the-Sea," in honor of the good friend who has offered it to us. It's an extraordinary setting. I sip my morning coffee in view of sailboats and yachts, welcoming the daylight as the mist evaporates off the bay. Today's weather will be the best all week. It could become a distraction.

But it's not the only distraction. I am diving into the complicated history of jazz, a subject that I thought I knew well. Yesterday's research revealed a very public ... um ... urination contest between Jelly Roll Morton and W.C. Handy. They bickered over who created jazz. Egos energized the conflict, which was played out in print. Both musicians were in the twilight of their careers, and each wanted to be honored for his legacy.

The deeper truth is that neither of them "created" the music. Jelly Roll was the first great composer of jazz, very skilled in orchestration. Handy published the blues that he heard and imagined. The music preceded both of them. So I'm writing about that. My contention is that jazz has been multicultural from the beginning. The trajectory of the music is rooted in its origins.

It resonates with three Bible texts for me: the multi-lingual story of Babel (Genesis 11), the polyphonic story of Pentecost that answers Babel (Acts 2), and Matthew's genealogy of Jesus (Matthew 1:1-17). Why the genealogy? Because it reveals what is true for all of our families: ain't no purebloods! There has been diversity from the beginning. My hope is to weave these strands well and set the context for countering racism - which will be the next chapter.  

It's high octane stuff, especially for an uptight white guy. The distractions are enticing.

Speaking of distractions: just last night I was distracted by a restaurant recommendation from Ron Vincent, drummer in my band, who grew up in the town where we are staying. He raves, not only about the seafood, but about the "New York System" hot dogs. The man's never been wrong about food. They are chili dogs with a delicious sauce, sprinkled with a bit of celery salt. Mmm, good!

OK, back to the primary task at hand. At the umbrella table on the deck. Overlooking the sailboats. Bright blue sky. Drowning in sunshine. Gentle breeze. Watching the birds dive for breakfast.

What was I saying? 

God's love in every key

Can a saxophonist pray through the horn? That's the topic for a chapter on prayer. The answer, as you can imagine, is a qualified "yes."

Here is a YouTube clip from John Coltrane's masterwork, "A Love Supreme." After an expansive saxophone solo (concluding at 4:54), Coltrane returns to the four-note bass line ("a love su-preme, a love su-preme"). It becomes a chant in all twelve keys. Give it a listen: 

Here is what scholar Lewis Porter of Rutgers has to say about that:

Coltrane's more or less finished his improvisation, and he just starts playing the 'Love Supreme' motif, but he changes the key another time, another time, another time. This is something unusual. It's not the way he usually improvises. It's not really improvised. It's something that he's doing. And if you actually follow it through, he ends up playing this little 'Love Supreme' Theme in all 12 possible keys.

To me, he's give you a message here. First of all, he's introduced the idea. He's experimented with it. He's improvised with it with great intensity. Now he's saying it's everywhere. It's in all 12 keys. Anywhere you look, you're going to find this 'Love Supreme.' He's showing you that in a very conscious way on his saxophone. (Link: https://www.npr.org/2000/10/23/148148986/a-love-supreme) 

The supreme love of God in every key, in every place, ready to be found. Imagine that. 

 

The road goes on

It's been a good week, a wonderful beginning. The cabin was comfy and quiet. I claimed an Adirondack chair on the screened-in porch and settled in to write. Two chapters were composed and a couple of others were finished. 

The rhythm of the week was well paced. The trip to get to the mountains was just long enough to be tiring. After a very comfortable night's sleep, I stepped into the routine that I've maintained for many months: up by 7, brew the coffee, meditate on a couple of psalms as the forest wakes, read a sermon by somebody else (in this case, from Barbara Brown Taylor's latest collection), pray quietly, and then dive in. It was a fruitful week. 

I've decided to compose a brief free-verse poem between each chapter which I call an "improvisation." They function very closely to a jazz solo. To echo or engage in the stuff of the chapter, I set the timer for fifteen minutes and write something. I had a couple of these poems lying around from the Interior Window project, thought to include them, and decided to write more. Who knows if the editor will keep them? All I know is they help me connect with the material.

For example, here's a little poem called "Mind the Gap," which follows chapter three. That's the chapter that wrestles with the perceived line between "sacred" and "secular." I begin by recalling a moment from another sabbatical eight years ago, with my family on a train in Scotland:

Stepping toward the train in Glasgow
She tugged on my sleeve and pointed:
MIND THE GAP
Was the Scots’ warning.
They could not protect us
From the empty space
Between train and track.
The warning heeded,
Saved from certain doom
Or at least an entrapped shoe,
I mull over other gaps,
Especially that space between
Heaven and earth.

If we pad around on 

The Holy One’s footstool
Is there any place here
Free from an act of God?
Could Jesus blow bebop
In that trumpet’s crazy notes?
If the deep chord consoles
Or dissonance awakens,
Can music be easily dismissed?

Sound, sanctified, seeps into the gap,
transgressing arrogance,
smashing defended borders,
empowering availability.
Perhaps the gap is pregnant space
Or perhaps it doesn’t really exist,
An illusion for avoidance.

This week is dedicated to research and nesting. There are necessary duties to undertake, and research is  needed for chapters on prayer and confronting injustice.  

And the road goes on. Thanks for making this stop with me.

Everybody has to be somewhere

Here is our home for the next week. It's a comfortable cabin near Whiteface Mountain in the Adirondacks of northern New York. I have loved that part of the world ever since I backpacked the high peaks as a Boy Scout.

Our friends Carl and Claire have owned it for many years. Carl has written some books there, so the place is friendly to the creative muse. There is no internet service, no cable TV, and shaky phone service. No distractions apart from those that are rolling around in my head. They have offered it to me at a bargain price, and I am grateful.

About twenty years ago, I stayed here for a week with my daughters. They thought it was a bit remote until they discovered it's just around the bend from Santa's Workshop. We climbed to the summit of Whiteface together, explored the Olympic ski jump and ice arena at Lake Placid, and had a sighting of Bill and Hillary. Everybody has to be somewhere!

A highlight from that week was stumbling upon a small sign outside a hotel that announced, "Jazz Tonight: $10." The music was provided by luminaries in the musical world: Bob Mintzer on saxophone, Kenny Werner on piano, Rufus Reid on bass, and Billy Hart on drums. Everybody has to be somewhere!

It was an unbelievable evening. The first set was "Autumn Leaves." A single tune, played for an hour. The musicians kept inventing. The second set was "On Green Dolphin Street." One tune, for an hour.

I think that was the night I discovered that jazz creates a lot from a little. The unmentioned assumption is, "There must be more." Under the right conditions, when skills are sharpened and ears open, the good stuff can be discovered and shared.

My hope is to write each morning and afternoon, and knock off for quiet evenings. I'm hoping to write a number of chapters through the week. There is good stuff to get out of my noggin. 

In the presence of imagination

We had some fun yesterday as the sabbatical begins. After postponing a February rehearsal due to a blizzard, I was finally able to convene a gathering of wizards. Together we conjured up some musical magic. I'm grateful to count drummer Ron Vincent, bassist Tony Marino, and saxophonist Mike Carbone among my closest friends. And if I'm going to spend the summer writing about jazz, I need to keep my fingers in the music.

I have composed an eight movement jazz requiem, and we played through the instrumental parts for the first time. Inspired by the losses we have experienced from COVID-19, we will premiere it at a concert on Sunday, October 17. The Lyric Consort will sing the requiem with us. More on that as the summer progresses.

We also played some tunes that have been rattling around in the attic for a while. Here are some clips to enjoy: