I’m
done with some work that took quite a long time to complete. I wasn’t particularly hard. There just was an awful lot of it. I’ve got the thoughtful tenor Houston
Person in my ears. He’s performing
“Don’t Misunderstand” with one of my absolute favorite female jazz vocalists
Etta Jones. This may be from
1968. It’s damn hard to find out
definitively, searching here on line. I hadn’t realized they orchestrated a rare partnering
that was compared to the dialogues of Lester Young and Billy Holiday. Professionals trading distilled connectivity
but not, it would seem, 挚友良朋[1] with all the attendant drama and volatility
that a relationship performing on the road might otherwise suggest. The exchange together on this cut is ironic and achy but utterly plausible, regardless.
The Houston Person album I have on is called “With a Little
Houston on the Side” which seemed to be the earliest thing of his available on
Rdio. It is, however a
collection. The two or three
appearances of Ms. Jones with him are just divine:
http://jazztimes.com/articles/19053-don-t-misunderstand-etta-jones-houston-person He plays so thoughtfully on the laid
back title track.
It’s always affirming to write about someone from the
tradition who still walks the earth.
Mr. Person would appear to be 79 years old. Born in South Carolina and still rising and shining in some
place that remains nameless he has a modest seventy-five albums recorded under
his own name alone. Though suggested that this Person was not married to Ms. Jones, they merely made beautiful music together. I was directed in a Houston-ly direction through an association
with my man Pepper Adams who played on an album of Houston's around this time, in
1968.
Now I’ve got a tentative date to head out and see some live
jazz here in Shanghai with a colleague.
He has actually written a treatise on the topic of jazz in this
city. I know the two names of
where live jazz is supposed to take place. He’s hedging with some stuff on the home front. I may just get the address and
head over myself if he’s waylaid.
Who knows? I may come home
with someone worth describing our next entry. And regardless, we should push ourselves for these
things. I should push myself for
these things. No point in pursuing
a live tradition, from the safety of a laptop.
What did people do before there were warm showers? They must have ached for one. And they must have felt Turkish and
Roman and scented baths were pretty remarkable things. I just let hot, hot water run on my
shoulders listening to our man Mr. Person blow his tune “Late Night Lullaby.”
And that water felt good. It
pounded at my shoulder blades and cascaded down over my breasts off on to the
shower floor and listen: it was all right. Guilt free, healthy, meditative physicality on demand. And the shower’s hot enough that you
can turn it just below way too hot and test yourself. Now just watch yourself getting out of this thing. This is how accidents happen. I hear my maternal grandmother warning
me about Neil Armstrong or some hapless astronaut who made it all the way up to
the stratosphere but slipped getting out of the shower.
The dude I was going to go out with is suddenly saddled at
home. How many times have I been
on that end of that routine?
Houston Person will need to suffice. There won’t likely be any live jazz this evening. Improvisation and crashing cymbals from the safety of a laptop. I’ll go out and get a bite to eat
instead. There’s no need for a
live performance when you’re this tired. I’d just sit there and bob my head to sleep. Eat and get some rest. Remember the hot water on your shoulders. Tomorrow’s the last day here in
town.
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