case, and slipped the strap over his head.
“That’s Bird.”
The Bird guy wore a soiled T-shirt, a fancy black overcoat with a fur collar, and sunglasses. The wrinkles in his pants were accentuated by the single brilliant spotlight illuminating the small, dingy stage, where the grand piano and drums took up so much room that the rest of the players barely had room to stand. The band swung into a number so fast it was indeed dizzying, accompanied by shouts from the audience: “Play it, man!” “That’s it! Blow!” Apparently silence did not reign during fast numbers.
“Strange,” remarked Sam.
Wink’s eyes were closed. After a moment he said, “Flatted fifths.”
“Start and stop just anywhere.”
“Playing with rhythm.”
The spoken phrase “Salt pea -nuts, pea -nuts,” was repeated several times, separated by a beat that kept Sam strangely unbalanced along with the octave jump between “salt” and “pea.”
When the “Salt Peanuts” piece was over, another trumpeter climbed onto the stage. Dizzy looked at him and smiled in a predatory way. “All right, then. ‘Sweet Georgia Brown.’ A-flat seventh,” he said, and counted out the beat.
Sam and Wink looked at each other, sharing the knowledge that A-flat seventh was not an easy key.
The new trumpeter frowned for a few bars, not even blowing. Finally he kicked in with a few notes, but they were in the wrong key. Shamefaced, he climbed down. Dizzy stopped blowing for a moment to smile once again—this time, Sam saw satisfaction in that smile. The strange key, the challenge, was a way of testing aspiring players.
But, as the numbers passed through his being, each unique—“I Got Rhythm” in B-natural played at breakneck speed; something called “Epistrophy” which Sam had never heard of before—Sam realized that this music was more than just a challenge. It was a new way of thinking about music, about notes, about keys, about rhythm. When they played “Anything Goes,” anything did. Quick triplets. Forays that skipped across the face of a melody like a stone across water, veering in and out of keys. Octave bounces as in “Salt Peanuts.”
Pettiford and Monk left around three, but Bird and Diz seemed oblivious to their absence. Bird, eyes closed, face glistening with sweat, leaned back and let loose with something entirely new in the world, a long wild phrase that Diz promptly echoed without a mistake. In what seemed the middle of a lightning-fast unison run, they stopped abruptly.
Parker squinted against the glare of the spotlight. “Are those instruments I see there, boys?”
“You bet,” Wink said.
“Come on up and play.” If you can , was the unspoken dare—almost a jeer—familiar to Sam and apparently to Wink as well.
Though completely out of their league in this new land of utterly unique music, they hurriedly unpacked their instruments. Sam counted it a point in Wink’s favor that he was quite as eager as Sam to make a fool of himself. Bird swung into something he said was “Body and Soul, D,” but which, after the first introductory bar, bore only a passing resemblance to the original, which Hawkins had already revolutionized.
Sam followed Bird’s lead, almost holding his own. Wink blatted out a few notes. Bird looked oblivious to the world but was actually exquisitely attuned to his backup men of the moment for about three minutes, while Diz, still playing, cast him annoyed sidelong looks.
Parker suddenly put down his horn, ambled into a dark corner, shrugged off his coat, whipped off his tie, and tied it around his arm.
“Hell,” Diz grumbled. He stopped playing as well, dropped onto the piano bench, and wiped his forehead with a white handkerchief.
Sam and Wink began a dialogue. It was the first time they had ever played together.
Sam lost himself in the naked lineaments of pure, timeless tone. Wink played himself into what seemed like dead ends and then drew Sam with him over a chasm of skipped chords
“That’s Bird.”
The Bird guy wore a soiled T-shirt, a fancy black overcoat with a fur collar, and sunglasses. The wrinkles in his pants were accentuated by the single brilliant spotlight illuminating the small, dingy stage, where the grand piano and drums took up so much room that the rest of the players barely had room to stand. The band swung into a number so fast it was indeed dizzying, accompanied by shouts from the audience: “Play it, man!” “That’s it! Blow!” Apparently silence did not reign during fast numbers.
“Strange,” remarked Sam.
Wink’s eyes were closed. After a moment he said, “Flatted fifths.”
“Start and stop just anywhere.”
“Playing with rhythm.”
The spoken phrase “Salt pea -nuts, pea -nuts,” was repeated several times, separated by a beat that kept Sam strangely unbalanced along with the octave jump between “salt” and “pea.”
When the “Salt Peanuts” piece was over, another trumpeter climbed onto the stage. Dizzy looked at him and smiled in a predatory way. “All right, then. ‘Sweet Georgia Brown.’ A-flat seventh,” he said, and counted out the beat.
Sam and Wink looked at each other, sharing the knowledge that A-flat seventh was not an easy key.
The new trumpeter frowned for a few bars, not even blowing. Finally he kicked in with a few notes, but they were in the wrong key. Shamefaced, he climbed down. Dizzy stopped blowing for a moment to smile once again—this time, Sam saw satisfaction in that smile. The strange key, the challenge, was a way of testing aspiring players.
But, as the numbers passed through his being, each unique—“I Got Rhythm” in B-natural played at breakneck speed; something called “Epistrophy” which Sam had never heard of before—Sam realized that this music was more than just a challenge. It was a new way of thinking about music, about notes, about keys, about rhythm. When they played “Anything Goes,” anything did. Quick triplets. Forays that skipped across the face of a melody like a stone across water, veering in and out of keys. Octave bounces as in “Salt Peanuts.”
Pettiford and Monk left around three, but Bird and Diz seemed oblivious to their absence. Bird, eyes closed, face glistening with sweat, leaned back and let loose with something entirely new in the world, a long wild phrase that Diz promptly echoed without a mistake. In what seemed the middle of a lightning-fast unison run, they stopped abruptly.
Parker squinted against the glare of the spotlight. “Are those instruments I see there, boys?”
“You bet,” Wink said.
“Come on up and play.” If you can , was the unspoken dare—almost a jeer—familiar to Sam and apparently to Wink as well.
Though completely out of their league in this new land of utterly unique music, they hurriedly unpacked their instruments. Sam counted it a point in Wink’s favor that he was quite as eager as Sam to make a fool of himself. Bird swung into something he said was “Body and Soul, D,” but which, after the first introductory bar, bore only a passing resemblance to the original, which Hawkins had already revolutionized.
Sam followed Bird’s lead, almost holding his own. Wink blatted out a few notes. Bird looked oblivious to the world but was actually exquisitely attuned to his backup men of the moment for about three minutes, while Diz, still playing, cast him annoyed sidelong looks.
Parker suddenly put down his horn, ambled into a dark corner, shrugged off his coat, whipped off his tie, and tied it around his arm.
“Hell,” Diz grumbled. He stopped playing as well, dropped onto the piano bench, and wiped his forehead with a white handkerchief.
Sam and Wink began a dialogue. It was the first time they had ever played together.
Sam lost himself in the naked lineaments of pure, timeless tone. Wink played himself into what seemed like dead ends and then drew Sam with him over a chasm of skipped chords
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