Valerie Joyce Pony Boy's Day Out Festival Preview ... - Earshot Jazz

On Music, from page 17
had known at that point. Music came in
even closer because of the ache; then it
was connected with something that gave
reason to living. As bare in need as food
and water it seemed. Language functions
like music does but fails where song succeeds
until this something happens.
She sat in front of me in math class, 8th
grade. If heaven is softer than black velvet
than it was her face. First love notes in
class, she would tear up in my face and
tell me I was crazy. The notes said things
about how there was no doubt she was
sent to earth to be with me. It did not occur
to me that she’d dismiss them. Actually
believed she’d read them and understand
we were fated to be together. The
teacher saw I wasn’t paying attention and
would put my name in math problems
where I was always the cat losing acres of
land or money. Didn’t like Mr. Johnson,
but to be fair, I was allergic to math at
this level in formal education. A good two
years (and a whole lot of music!) later, she
granted me our first date.
Saxophone and trumpet became friends
in my young ear. Trane died and Uncle
Donnie said: so did music. He continued
to listen to music because he loved it too
much, but nothing as serious as John
Coltrane. Funny, because I was only
getting closer and closer to Trane. Still,
almost always through the kitchen door,
not the front. Didn’t really get into all
the Prestige recordings he did with Miles
22 • Earshot Jazz • September 2006
until much later. Thank God I didn’t
miss out on Dexter Gordon, but hadn’t
connected the two sounds, the influence
or school. Of Coleman Hawkins and
Lester Young I heard, but didn’t know
it. Cracked up when I realized the cat
soloing on tenor with Count on Billie
Holiday records I adored (and played
regularly) was the great Prez everybody
worshipped. Fletcher Henderson records
were funky to me.
Bought my first Jazz album – Charles
Lloyd’s Forest Flower. Heard the metaphor
of the opening petals in the power
of nature in his tenor sax. Listened to it
over and over. Mom loved Lee Morgan’s
hit “The Sidewinder” and so did I. The
man we called The Cooker became a
favorite early on. Never thinking I’d
become so familiar with those unique
artists on Bluenote recordings like this
one, more and more sophisticated Motown
arrangements and string sections of
vocal stylists like Carmen McRae, Gloria
Lynne and Johnny Hartman fed a thirsty
imagination. This, other senses, dimensions
the nocturnal doe that sat in front
of me in math class opened ears wider to
stretched a borderless ranch where lyrics
jumped gates and rhythm bucked high.
Something to rhyme with something
dramatic in the sky became a mission,
in a way... with the radio.
On the big black and white tiled floor
in the red stucco walled basement of
the cocoa-shingled house is where we
all danced. Played The Five Stairsteps’
“World of Fantasy” between James
Brown’s “Let Yourself Go” and Junior
Walker’s “Shotgun.” Partied with everybody
we went to school with. No longer
melting banana split candies on the radio,
still patiently awaiting certain songs to
come on. No more loneliness. Sat one day
with pad and pen in my new bedroom
listening to the radio. Don’t know why
what happened did.
A Smokey Robinson-penned song came
through the humble little speaker. In that
languid harmony that was as original as
it was lyrically romantic, if Soul Music
sought a charismatic Shakespearean, the
mystique of The Miracles would fit. I
didn’t know the words. Maybe that poetic
plea in “Choosey Beggar.” Don’t know
why. The melody lassoed me. Words
began to ride. Run in form, in a rhythm
on paper. Do recall my title but not The
Miracles’ song. Even the date. Don’t
know why or how it came out; was very
conscious of feeling very natural making
up my own words to the melody. I
knew one thing: whatever I’d just done
I’d be doing the rest of my life. Written,
naturally, for the one who sat in front of
me in math class.
The same one the most beautiful night
on earth was jealous of. The same one
who before I finished tenth grade, made
me (without warning) aware I was a black
man. The one the puppy first saw Miles
and Wayne with.
To be continued: “Mama’s Mission”