June
Fourth, May Thirty-fifth, April Sixty-fifth in New York City. That F train is racing by overhead. Heard my heavy train, felt my heavy
train again more than once last night and this morning, early I can see the man
driving a low car followed by two large yellow and black maintenance cars. Wind is blowing the Sumac trees and off
out under the overpass, off into the Gowanus Canal no man’s land, there is
morning mist fading slowly.
The New York Times is right to capture voices on this
anniversary. It is
appropriate if one body is intent on forgetting something shameful to testify
and help others to testify aloud.
But I must say the tone does seem all seem bit self- satisfied. I don’t know if its worth
identifying the 365 days worth of ignoble events from America’s past that the
New York Times doesn’t see fit to print much of anything about as their respective
anniversaries come and go. It
should be possible to criticize the CCP about the indignity of what it
perpetrated twenty-five years without such transparent triumphalism. Neither nation is 战无不胜[1]
I have my new friend Billy Hart playing in my ears. I’ve got a 1997 set of the drummer’s
called “Oceans of Time” and the opening tune is entitled “One for Carter.” In this world, why wonder? There is a review by David Adler of the
album and he mentions that the song is named for Carter Jefferson. Never heard of him, but the tenor
player who played with Woody Shaw among others, is queued up now for tomorrow’s
discovery.
But last night I saw Billy Hart play, here in town, on
hallowed ground. My stepson was
here in town as well last night and I knew I could get him to join me. Now mind you he and I both were tired,
jet lagged, busy, and responsible for other people and the venue was out of the
way. But once the obligatories
were addressed, we told the cab driver to head the Village Vanguard.
That red canopy, the steps downstairs . . . “How close you
wanna be tonight?” “How close you
got?” Just in time for the second
set. Born in D.C. in 1940, Billy
Hart came up playing with soul stars like Otis Reading and Sam and Dave. I’m a big Shirley Horn fan and Billy
Hart was in her band and later in Herbie Hancock’s band as well. He played with Wayne Shorter and
Pharaoh Sanders and I’ll have to listen more carefully to my old Miles’
favorite, “On the Corner” since he’s on there too. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Billy_Hart
The Billy Hart quartet consisted of Ethan Iverson on piano,
Mark Turner on sax, and Ben Street on bass with Guillaume himself on percussion. Mark Turner looking rather understated, playing rather
understated, had written a number of the tunes, including one dedicated to John
Coltrane. Mr. Street back in the
furthest point of the Vanguard’s elongated triangle filled the shape, snapping
diving, pulling. Mr. Iverson had
his back to me, but this did not compromise what he had to say. Behind a line of three cymbals it
wasn’t easy to see Billy Hart, but it wasn’t hard to feel him either.
I’ve dreamt recently from over in Beijing of being in the
Village Vanguard, of walking down those steps and turning and getting ready for
something memorable and in as much as it is dream space, something absurd. And after all this writing about the
tradition it would have been poor form to be back home here in New York and not
made time to support the music. My
memory bank has now been recharged. When my subconscious searches the storehouse for some sacred ground upon
which to stage a simple, swinging narrative this evening's memory will be waiting there.
Driving home, back over to Brooklyn we didn’t really know
where we were going, more than the general neighborhood. The hope was he’d recognize the hotel
name. “It’s near Court St. You don’t know where the Sheraton
is? Where is it? Duffeild St. Do you know that?
You don’t? I don’t
either. OK. Let’s just . . .” OK, someone has a map
application. “Good. So, OK. Take a left.”
Our driver wasn’t happy at first. His irked vibe filled the vehicle. I was in front.
We got to talking. Where
are you from? Bangladesh? I’ve never been. But what is Dhaka like? What is Cox Bazar all about? It’s all beaches? What percentage of the population
speaks Bengali? Everyone? Rabindranath
Tagore is the only man to have ever written the national anthem for two
countries: India and
Bangladesh.
All the tension dissipates. New York’s unending kaleidoscopic spin of cultural
relativism that reduces and elevates everyone to: New Yorker.
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