How grand to have friends who say, “Hey, I’ve got an extra ticket for this show, it’s yours if you want it.” Thanks to generous people, I’ve been out for art that adds variety to my usual diet of free, cheap, or visual. My head is humming with new sounds; that seems a fine way to go into the weekend.
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My jazz vocabulary is limited to vocal standards, 40s big band stuff, with a side of Miles Davis and Stan Getz. I didn’t grow up in a jazz household. My dad played the singer songwriter pop of the 70s and I liked California style rock and roll — I shamelessly confess a fondness for The Eagles — and later new wave.
But our drummer is a jazz guy, he’s handed me the extra ticket a time or two. That’s how I ended up at Jazz Alley listening to Chick Corea, Eddie Gomez, and Brian Blade. I didn’t know the other two guys, but Chick Corea, sure, anyone who’s driven around with the radio tuned to jazz knows his name.
I like to watch musicians work and these guys were so relaxed. Brian Blade had such light touch on the drums, like he was leaning back the whole time, but because he had it, why would you lay it down hard when you just have it? The sound wasn’t quite right, so we could hear Eddie Gomez sing nearly every note he played on the bass; I would like to know what it feels like to have the connection between your voice and your hands and the sheet music in front of you be so immediate. And Chick Corea, well. Forgive the outrageous metaphor, but under his fingers, the notes fly off the piano like sparkling dots of light off a mirror ball.
Music and light have things in common. They’re here and then gone, and you are affected in surprising ways by their presence — or absence.
- This Tiny Desk Concert is a good example of what I mean about the sound of Chick Corea’s playing.
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Boy meets girl. They fall in love, but boy kind of loses his mind over girl. Parents are all, “No, girl, that is not happening,” and marry her off to their choice of husband. Boy wanders the world bereft while girl wastes away from heartache. Boy is later found dead at girl’s graveside. You know the drill.
Layla and Majnun is a Persian folk story, Romeo and Juliet style, only preceding it by many centuries. The story is tangled up in the culture of the region but found a home of sorts in Azerbaijan, where it became an operatic work. Fast forward, it’s in performance again (still?), the vocals by two of Azerbaijan’s top artists, the dancers choreographed by Mark Morris, and the music by the Silk Road Ensemble.
Given that my vocabulary for this sort of thing is even smaller than my vocabulary for jazz, I did not know what to expect. Not at all.
The first act is all music, no dancers. I think that did a good job of transporting me to a landscape I don’t know and can’t picture. The remaining four acts tell the story through music and dance. It took some time, but by the fourth act I had learned to read the story in the dance and to let the sound wash over me as an expression of feeling rather than of narrative. I was surprised by how sad I was at the end, even though I knew exactly what was going to happen.
- This video with Alim Qasimov and his daughter Faragana Qasimov illustrates the heartbroken despair in the music.
- My friend Leif went to Azerbaijan and wrote about it here.
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My friend Mike has launched an online class for storytellers. I’m annoyed because we’d talked about doing this together, but some people (namely me) could never focus enough to deliver the goods.
In penance for my intransigence (and because Mike has invested deeply in understanding the process and structure behind building a good story, yeah that), I recommend you check it out.
(No, there’s nothing in it for me but to send a little love to a friend.)
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Here’s hoping you are enjoying the gifts of friends, even if it’s only their company. Especially if it’s only their company.
What did you add to your vocabulary this week?
Thanky, Pam. 🙂
I like how you phrased “Mike watches a lot of Netflix”. You’re a great storyteller.