David
Murray’s on the mind. Consuming so
many new tenor players, so many different jazz sounds in a daily manner, it is
wonderful to spend a bit of time with a deeply familiar voicing. I first saw David Murray in what must
have been 1986 or so at my undergrad institution, Wesleyan University. He came to play and I can still
remember him clasping his hands in prayer and, if memory serves, kissing the hand
of one or our “professors” the exceptional man from New Orleans, the drummer Ed
Blackwell, who taught at the school.
Later, I caught him once at the Village Vanguard and this
must have been around 1992 or so.
I still remember that when he soloed he’d have remarkably long phrasings;
only possible because he’d perfected the technique of breathing in his nose while
he’d blow, and blow and blow out his mouth. I’ve heard of saxophone players doing this; effectively
impossible to imagine but lovely to listen to. And, deep into his tenor solos, David Murray’s eyeballs
would loop back up into his skull.
All you’d see was the whites of his enormous eyes, up above his big
mustache which was a wee bit disconcerting. A fairly portly fellow he’d swing back and forth and shed
off mesmerizing, powerful lines of narrative that elicited yells here, there
and from within about the audience.
Rdio has a ton of his material on the site and I have Deep
River on from 1988 with the suggestive post-Fusion title “Jazz is Back” for the
first tune. It sounds clear and strong, assertive. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deep_River_(David_Murray_album)
I don’t know quite why, latent jet lag perhaps, but I’ve
been so tired and cranky all day and strong and assertive is working for me, at
least from someone else’s solar plexus.
I am up above Hebei Province, I suppose, preparing to land in Beijing
Capital Airport on a flight back north from Shenzhen. I’m flying on Shenzhen Airlines. I seem t remember saying nice things about their in flight
food a few posts back. There was
nothing whatsoever nice to say about what I was served this evening. The gent next to me is ogling,
there is no other word for it, the in-flight magazine which seems to be
profiling suggestive pictures of Shenzhen Airline stewardesses, in their après
work bathing suits. It is
obviously drawing my eyes as well.
And in as much as we’re over Hebei Province and not Shandong
or Jiangsu, the command to put all electronic devices away is upon me, just as
I’m getting in to the rhythm of this entry. I have closed the computer so that, like David Murray I
can’t see anything I’m playing but can continue to type, as I know where the
keys are on the device. Soon, one
of the young ladies, who are fully clothed and not in their bathing suits, will
tap me on the shoulder and tell me to put this saxophone away. But for now I’m swinging, dare I say
shedding, along with David Murray.
The gent across the aisle to me who was far better behaved and put away
his iPad with his movie when asked is eyeing me disdainfully. “Who do you think you are dude, to be
writing away on your device when mine is shut off?” “Me, I suppose.
I have nothing to say to you bro.”
I’m just doing what I want, which isn’t thoughtful but is indicative of
someone who travels way, way too much and considers it his is responsibility to
write something ever day.
I can’t type as fast as David Murray is shedding. No way. But I wish I could, notes, letters, 纷至沓来[1]. It
might be possible if I typed nonsense lines, like, say, my name over and over
again, but not if I want to say something substantive. I think I will plug in my
electric guitar tomorrow when I’m home and get a few things done, so I can cut
off a few lines of modest musical nonsense myself. But they barely allow for computers on a plane. There is no patience for an electric
guitar. What would the airline
company do, if you played, even unplugged, on a plane? That would be an entertaining
effort. Someone, surely would ask
you to put the damn thing away, which would be reasonable. Short of Hendrix plucking away
beside me I know I would. Still,
it would be a fine way to pass the time on a long flight. I wouldn’t object if David Murray pulled
out his axe back in row seven behind me, though everyone else on this flight would
. Instead, I have to hear a
lonesome, predictable erhu sound
wafting up over my jazz, because my noise reduction headsets are out of battery
power and instead of have little ear buds in. The sound is like some kind of syrupy Kenny G coming in to
poison one’s dream over this ferocious, unbridled playing I’m trying to
concentrate on.
Ok, OK. Even if
I’m not told to do so, I think I’ll pack int in. For once I don't’ have any immediate travel pending. At least for the rest of this
week. I’m psyched to wake up
quietly tomorrow.
(and he did.)
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