which, though unplayed, somehow resonated. Dizzy suddenly regained interest, and then Bird, his equilibrium restored, returned and joined Diz in a rapid, luminescent flight, leaving the two soldiers in the dust.
Afterward, Sam decided he had stepped into one of Hadntz’s perfect worlds and lived a couple of lifetimes there. He and Wink soon brought their conversation to a good stopping point and climbed down from the stage, conceding defeat concurrently. While the audience, now swelled by a new party that had just wandered in, offered ragged applause—probably because he and Wink had given up—Dizzy and Parker swung into something that sounded like “Cherokee,” except that it was about ten times faster and was like a roller coaster, the most impressive display of instrumental virtuosity Sam had ever heard. “‘Koko’,” said Parker, just for them, when they had finished—evidently the title.
A light glared abruptly and descended stageward on a rope, illuminating the dapper man turning the crank. “Closing time.”
“That’s Minton,” said Wink.
Parker picked up the tip jar and stuffed the entire take into his coat pocket. Dizzy blew out his mouthpiece and looked the other way.
“Want more?” Diz asked Wink and Sam as he packed up. “We’re heading over to Monroe’s. The party is young.”
On the street, walking through cold drizzle, Wink peppered Dizzy with questions. “What do you call this stuff you play?”
“Modern jazz. You didn’t do too bad. How’s that?”
Wink said, “Don’t know. I play the violin, though.”
“Classical background. Music theory. That helps.”
“It sounds like you’re doing a lot of augmented thirteens.”
Parker, who so far had walked ahead of them, constantly looking up and down the street, turned his head. “That’s right. Ever heard of Stravinsky?”
“Yeah. In fact—”
“This way.” Bird herded them toward a dark alley. Sam balked, and Bird said, “You know that the military put Harlem off-limits to servicemen?” He gestured toward a shadowy figure at the end of the block. “There’s a cop down the street.”
Sam and Wink followed the jazzmen into the shadows, while Dizzy said, “You owe that guy money, Bird?”
“Aw, shut up.”
They entered Monroe’s Uptown House as the band—same guys that had left Minton’s earlier, Sam noted, plus a guitar and another trumpet—broke. “Might as well come on back,” said Parker. They followed Gillespie and Bird backstage through a warren of narrow hallways to a cramped dressing room where they stopped in the doorway. Bird and Diz found seats in the general disarray and got out their horns.
“This is what I’m talking about.” Diz played a few bars.
“Okay, yeah,” said Bird. They jammed a few minutes, trying out the idea.
“That’s like it. But faster,” said Dizzy. Parker tried his own changes.
The next set was tight, stellar, astonishing, their music what jazz, in Sam’s opinion, ought to be—pure improvisation within a framework heeded by only the slightest quote issued with a feathery touch or witty flourish. It was an entirely new music, in which each person made his own contribution, where individuality and freedom were the most important aspects, where each affected the other in a constantly changing fabric of sound—profoundly different than a canned solo in the middle of a big-band tune.
By seven A.M. , the audience was three, including themselves. Parker packed up and left while the others were still playing. From what he’d seen so far, Sam figured he was looking for a fix. At the end of the set, Dizzy said, “Come on over to my place.” Sam did not feel included in the invitation, and later learned that Diz often took musicians over to his house after playing all night to continue the jam.
Snow swept down the street in dense sheets as they watched the band of musicians vanish into whiteness, and a horse-drawn milk wagon passed, bottles jingling. Sam was pretty
Afterward, Sam decided he had stepped into one of Hadntz’s perfect worlds and lived a couple of lifetimes there. He and Wink soon brought their conversation to a good stopping point and climbed down from the stage, conceding defeat concurrently. While the audience, now swelled by a new party that had just wandered in, offered ragged applause—probably because he and Wink had given up—Dizzy and Parker swung into something that sounded like “Cherokee,” except that it was about ten times faster and was like a roller coaster, the most impressive display of instrumental virtuosity Sam had ever heard. “‘Koko’,” said Parker, just for them, when they had finished—evidently the title.
A light glared abruptly and descended stageward on a rope, illuminating the dapper man turning the crank. “Closing time.”
“That’s Minton,” said Wink.
Parker picked up the tip jar and stuffed the entire take into his coat pocket. Dizzy blew out his mouthpiece and looked the other way.
“Want more?” Diz asked Wink and Sam as he packed up. “We’re heading over to Monroe’s. The party is young.”
On the street, walking through cold drizzle, Wink peppered Dizzy with questions. “What do you call this stuff you play?”
“Modern jazz. You didn’t do too bad. How’s that?”
Wink said, “Don’t know. I play the violin, though.”
“Classical background. Music theory. That helps.”
“It sounds like you’re doing a lot of augmented thirteens.”
Parker, who so far had walked ahead of them, constantly looking up and down the street, turned his head. “That’s right. Ever heard of Stravinsky?”
“Yeah. In fact—”
“This way.” Bird herded them toward a dark alley. Sam balked, and Bird said, “You know that the military put Harlem off-limits to servicemen?” He gestured toward a shadowy figure at the end of the block. “There’s a cop down the street.”
Sam and Wink followed the jazzmen into the shadows, while Dizzy said, “You owe that guy money, Bird?”
“Aw, shut up.”
They entered Monroe’s Uptown House as the band—same guys that had left Minton’s earlier, Sam noted, plus a guitar and another trumpet—broke. “Might as well come on back,” said Parker. They followed Gillespie and Bird backstage through a warren of narrow hallways to a cramped dressing room where they stopped in the doorway. Bird and Diz found seats in the general disarray and got out their horns.
“This is what I’m talking about.” Diz played a few bars.
“Okay, yeah,” said Bird. They jammed a few minutes, trying out the idea.
“That’s like it. But faster,” said Dizzy. Parker tried his own changes.
The next set was tight, stellar, astonishing, their music what jazz, in Sam’s opinion, ought to be—pure improvisation within a framework heeded by only the slightest quote issued with a feathery touch or witty flourish. It was an entirely new music, in which each person made his own contribution, where individuality and freedom were the most important aspects, where each affected the other in a constantly changing fabric of sound—profoundly different than a canned solo in the middle of a big-band tune.
By seven A.M. , the audience was three, including themselves. Parker packed up and left while the others were still playing. From what he’d seen so far, Sam figured he was looking for a fix. At the end of the set, Dizzy said, “Come on over to my place.” Sam did not feel included in the invitation, and later learned that Diz often took musicians over to his house after playing all night to continue the jam.
Snow swept down the street in dense sheets as they watched the band of musicians vanish into whiteness, and a horse-drawn milk wagon passed, bottles jingling. Sam was pretty
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