The Sunday Poem: “Bebop Salvation” by Tobi Alfier
The vast and beautiful quiet of the weekend,
a weak dawn bleeds over the skyline’s edge.
She gropes her pockets to find a single cigarette
as she waits for that moment
The vast and beautiful quiet of the weekend,
a weak dawn bleeds over the skyline’s edge.
She gropes her pockets to find a single cigarette
as she waits for that moment
For speed and power, use the pick.
One side of the mountain,
Then jump to the other side.
Open mike nights I learned in real time,
Rehearsal studios we never wanted to leave, still young.
But time left, and everyone left me.
Lauren, my high school sweetheart, and I
drive down Fifth Avenue in NYC, not in my
mother’s blue 1967 Cadilac, but in my polished
silver Caddy. This is after our group, The Kansas
City Soul Association, makes it big and I, their
drummer, can afford such a ride.
I cranked the Woody Shaw Jr.
“Every Time I See You”
Marveling at the range
Authentic modal with a hint
I am the sound,
the spontaneous voice you hear
beyond the melodic trance,
an array of multi-timbred,
fragmented, impetuous harmonies and rhythms
to carry you into an alternate dimension,
He jazzed his way into my heart
with pulsing beats that have surpassed
the resounding rhythm of the jungle drums.
I present you with a disgusting floor,
covered with ocher lumps of puke,
piles of paper refuse, cigarette butts,
all swimming in a sea of black water.
A raggedy man lived for music and Nina Simone,
called himself “Mr. Bojangles,”
played jazz on his secondhand sax,
tap-danced for tips and smiles.
Jazz is a journey. The
listening keeps us
envisioning how creativity
is transformative. Jazz is a
journey, a sound, a tune, a note,
Antonio, steal me away from him
with a mango slice
on the tip of your knife
When he entered a club ‘round midnight,
all 88 keys would break into a grin
and the stool would slide out from under
to invite him to sit down and play.
Prisms resound, glow dissonant—
refracted word-dyes salvaged from malaise.
A bleeding swatch of rainbow,
cordless stains on muslin,
stacks of frightened tightropes,
my slippers thin and worn –
When that first rumbling bass line
Tells me I’m listening to Gordon Goodwin’s
Big Phat Band playing “Jazz Police,”
I can’t help it, I always see an LAPD squad car
swinging out of the station
flipping on that groovy trumpet siren
as they join a pursuit with the whole horn section.
If ever
I am subjected to
Further medical exploration
& something
Identified as Bio
Is discovered
Hurrying to a dental appointment
I didn’t want to go to in the first place
an interminable red light and honking traffic
and the curve where people merge
20 MPH faster than necessary
four lanes into two
not a good day overall
though Sonny Rollins is playing loud;
Sheets of music laid across a checkered table cloth
spread out like streets across the city.
Like the quarter notes on page one, a crescent moon
is seen rising in the ink dark sky.
cohen says there are major falls
and minor lifts that come before
the fourths and fifths and i suppose
he’s probably right, most likely right
but this is not about some hallelujah
Woke up this morning to the Bugle Call Rag,
Straight no chasers made my head real bad.
Nothing left for breakfast … goodbye pork pie hat,
Dressed with chilies (ah um) – never hotter than that!
During a brief respite from the hard rain,
I heard a music born of spring and sunsets
coming from spinning black platters.
Their weighty cadence, their spry
crackling fireworks
On the Cape in P-town
August ‘55
Billie, Eartha, Ella vocals
Filled shoreline evening skies
Entrancing soaring seagulls
With jazzy siren song
because Jupiter is 1300 times the volume of the Earth
because milkweeds in the yard are as beautiful as
“Hushabye”
because on clear nights the moon pours in my window
like a spotlight and makes me think
.Paul Simon’s in the room
When he plays he wears invisible glasses
picks his keys with patience and purpose
a tornado with time on his hands
while in walks light
Surely Sonny still gets blue at times
I mean he’s a human being after all
isn’t he although sometimes he
seems more superhuman celestial
take now for instance as he bends
nearly all the way to the stage in
his 80s and plays and plays
and plays and plays and plays
Stripped down standards
ache the air. Keith Jarrett
with chronic fatigue
recorded “I Got It Bad
(And That Ain’t Good)”
in sessions so short
he sometimes ended
before the song.
Mingus flipped the kitchen switch,
flooding the room with light,
just as, seeking purchase in the slippery sink,
I tumbled through the unlocked window.
. . This space on Sunday is generally reserved for a single poet to read one of their works, but this week’s issue -Father’s Day – features 23 poets who weigh in on the complexity of their relationship with their father, revealing love, warmth, regret, sorrow – and in many cases a strong connection … Continue reading “The Sunday Poem(s): 23 Poets remember their father…”
...He often remembered
how it used to be with her,
his former lover,
who would sing him a song
every night before bed
then teach him each line
Entertain us, entertain us all
Give, give, give with your sassy voice, your young body
Despite the migraines…
At 11, on a North Philly street, gang raped
By three creeps
It starts there, the cracks
The headache
My high school girlfriend’s older brother
lived in a garret in the Village, like something
out of La Boheme, and she said maybe if we
went there, he’d leave us alone and we could
…well, you know
She was four, just waking to the world.
Aware of rain and blue air, of singsong words,
of a low trill as she drifted into night. Abruptly
she was lifted
into unfamiliar voices
We’ll have a little brunch for you —
pecan-crusted French toast,
oysters, smoked salmon,
a charcuterie board.
I was preparing to make my exit from Heaven back to Earth,
And it was late March, so the lounge had transitioned
To their hot jazz band after playing the cool for months.
A woman sits in a window frame
of old carved birds, listening to her
grandson in his jeans playing fig leaf music
in her home in Koshidekha,
a village in Nepal.
You punched him in his chin
Jimmy not her kin
can’t let a bully
do her in.
At the bar of the
Towne Tavern, once
Toronto’s finest jazz club,
stage facing me,
sipping my one beer,
knowing even then
in my twenty-third year
I was witness to
a never forgotten gig.
The pollen is flying like mad –
frantic, crazy, amorphously Daliesque –
sort of like our trio the other day,
rollicking and lollygagging through Monk’s
Brilliant Corners, losing it so completely
that when Marty flung a stick at my head
washes up
on the keyboard.
Bill Evans’ glasses too.
I put Monk’s hat on
and suddenly feel
like the captain of a ship.
Soultrane came out when Ike governed.
1958. Before our nation
Would build up its war machine to invade
Viet Nam, training its Green Berets
My friend is a Blues singer,
I am a Jazz drinker,
boozing shots after shots,
I never get drunk with Jazz.
I admit I’d never heard of “Watermelon Man” before Harry Reid came to my kids’ elementary school to put together a concert band. He wasn’t a salaried teacher, but a part-time outsider brought in by the PTA.
...gentle the footprints go
up through the wilderness
to the heart-shaped night
short of breath, shorter, inches away on my speakers
miles inside
a sphere of glad- sad melancholy, dark tree twilights
Evergreens and pink lawn
chairs sang through my windowpane
until silenced by grime
and retinal leakage.
I pass my good eye
back and forth;
Your father and I admonished you
for walking ahead on the craggy mountain ridge.
You defended your eager steps,
saying you were musing
on the musical styles
of Mingus, Parker, and Shorter,
Morning is dream time—
inns, strip clubs, and shops
are all eye-closed,
a hobo huddles
under a gray blanket
at a storefront,
neon signs illuminating
the strip all night long
Both of them put up with fools
until they didn’t
and the sea that men parted
collapsed under their stares.
shouts and dances in church
and thumbs its nose at shame
covers its body in brand names
and doesn’t worry about the future
holds hands and kiss shameslessly
in public; they call it p.d.a
Take tonight, for instance.
I can’t ask you for the moon
the way Sinatra commands it
with his first-class confidence.
Let alone Jupiter or Mars.
Sensational
Largely unsung
Dorothy Donegan
Known by jazz insiders as
The female Art Tatum
His protégé
The one who made him say:
“She is the only woman who can
Make me practice.”
I jammed
with the Afro-American Jazz Band
in the old Off Plaza on McAllister,
and with the blind Black pianist whose name I can’t remember
in the club we knew as The Question Mark
whose sign on Haight Street was just a neon ?,
when the club was straight and featured jazz
Your chair is a kitten chasing a bird.
Hans Brinker skates across
your living room.
Each year offered
a little blue box.
Trinket from a window.
I take my daughter to the ballet studio
at a former convent in Marin.
She will be dancing for hours.
At the edge of the church’s property
is an old gymnasium.
Her first note wails amber
smoke near overhead pipes above
the guitars. It wavers
and rolls r’s better than spring.
Yours is the sound of smoke
I love to inhale
the sound of a humid
summer night
its cool breeze
Mamacita
with round brown
hips
roll and sway
sway and roll
slow that stroll
she sings
to ease
her sticky soul
. . The Sunday Poem is published weekly, and strives to include the poet reading their work. Bryan Franco reads his poem at its conclusion. . . ___ . . . . How I Achieved Levitation They all lived in the Walnut Building. Satchmo blew the roof off the house. Fats Waller tickled ivories. … Continue reading “The Sunday Poem: “How I Achieved Levitation” by Bryan Franco”
...Hearing Rahsaan Roland Kirk recordings
you could likely miss
the pleasure of that reedman’s kisser,
import of his so unique technique.
The Young Turk disregarded the old trumpeter
labeled him a vaudevillian minstrel
because he shucked and grinned,
having no privy to old man’s roiling anger within
fueled by slights and shames endured for years
despite his lauded, storied career.
La La Love,
even when the cold raindrops
pounded against the window,
we snuggled close like fuzzy cats,
purring with Thelonious Monk
as we drank our Guinness.
My eyes were faster dreaming
a drum kit in bed with me
Rapid Eye Movement Disorder
disturbing my sleep and my wife
moving away with her cellphone
camera watch my arms begin to move
I blame Chet Baker
For opening a window into my past
Sensing that phantom trumpet in my capable hands
The smooth curves of the hard brass, the cold
Mouthpiece against my buzzing lips
Bright melodies blaring
From carefree days of my youth
Ce soir l’anniversaire
we defeat the oppressor
with our horns, our magic
here to bury us or set us free
The woodshed was the hunting ground for wings of notes.
Black suits and ties, hipster hats and smoke rings of notes.
Was Robert Johnson alone, hellhound on his trail?
Was a deal made? Was Bird Satan’s plaything of notes.
I’m whistling a tune about
a woman’s broken heart,
down a long and empty
hallway, just to hear it
move itself along,
From a third floor window I imagine
I can almost see the cracked black
& white tile welcoming Penn Avenue
to the long-closed Kappel’s Jewelers.
Strains of Charlie Parker’s alto sax fill
the empty apartment song-after-song –
“Dancing in the Dark,” “Loverman,”
“Embraceable You.”
Between every note I wish.
Coltrane said a prayer to his musical God
Straight through the horn of his saxophone.
Not a metaphor; he spoke the words
Through the reed and the music into the air.
The shadow from the brick facade
of Central High School did not seem
to spread much shade on the streets
of our Little Rock neighborhood.
once said I’d marry a man
Who could hum the first four bars
Of Cal Tjader’s “Doxy.”
We say these foolish things
When we’re young and
Still learning the ways of the world.
Shrouded in smoke and cigarette spheres
Jazzy speakeasy on a summer slog of a night
Where hips ramble in tandem,
Slide and slip in an out of rhythm
Juke Joint shifting with an uneven floor
Naked feet shuffling and colliding
free
what
bars?
intra-
views,
posit-
ions
o-
pen.
Smooth. Jazz. Chill.
Write. Think. Build.
Listen. Vibe. Poetically
design.
Spend time with jazzy
sounds elevating the
mind. Jazz is smooth.
Jazz is chill.
The light aspires to be equatorial
but each eroded moment quiets otherwise.
The twilight Superior shore fills
with pine smoke from fire pits
just as Coltrane played in the
smoldering light at the Village Vanguard.
During that electric dawn
when I first heard
a bracelet of notes
which traced a subtle rhythm
within an hourglass of music
and sharpened the silence with sound,
It’s one of those moments.
She only has ears for Miles Davis.
Reflecting on things that never came to be—
he was/
a flightless bird/
bright as sky/
full of natural lies/
and sweet conflict/
when speaking the/
jazz
Naturally, his lyrics are cued a cappella./“I’m home” slips from his lips,/sizzles like the taste of what I’m baking in the oven,/as he unwinds his day.
...The poet Alan Yount and son Arlan write about a live 1964 performance by Duke Ellington and His Orchestra
...All damn day/
talk — talk — talk/
I told him, son/
why not fit those fingers/
down that damn gullet/
and make it a proper/
squawk squawk squawk —/
The poet recalls a live performance he witnessed by the Timeless All Stars
...When the water and sand dance, whence (whence?)/their music? What is that music? What /jazz, what syncopation surfs itself in?
...That feeling when everything makes you sad/Nothing you can think of would make you glad/No matter how hard you try to remove yourself/From this blue funk
.... . The Sunday Poem is published weekly, and strives to include the poet reading their work. Ms. Baptiste reads her poem at its conclusion. . . ___ . . David Dellepiane, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons . . Jazz Within Me I like Jazz playing within me. ……………….Record that never skips. Since age sixteen, … Continue reading “The Sunday Poem: “Jazz Within Me” by Jerrice Baptiste”
...The poet describes the clear, crisp sound of listening to jazz music on vinyl
...The poet recalls an encounter with Carmen McRae at a Hollywood shoe store
...The poet writes about the depth of the trumpeter’s playing, and the connections to many of the great trumpeters before him
...The poet reflects on loss, fate, remembrance, and hopefulness
...The poet recalls her early-life friendship with the pianist/composer Dave Frishberg
...This narrative poem is informed by quotes and stories in What Happened, Miss Simone? the 2015 Netflix biographical documentary about the singer/artist’s life and art
...The poet profiles the larger-than-life figure of the legendary jazz bassist Charles Mingus
...The poet writes of youthful memories conjured up from listening to Chick Corea and Return to Forever’s 1973 album, “Light as a Feather.”
...The poet writes about the origins of our personal blues, and how they can affect us…
...The poet honors his friend, the late jazz pianist Janice Scroggins, and reads his poem while Ms. Scroggins accompanies him
...The poet is inspired by John Coltrane’s 1961 recording, “Ole”
...The poet suggests better music could have accompanied the final scene in the film “Casablanca”
...The poet recalls the impact of Chet Baker’s music on her late, earlier life friend
...Meanwhile, digging
the scene
a sultry
walking hip-step
bop that
fell to the
sweetest
moody!
...first light skims on green wing like sprouts strobing for ray
...The poet writes about the complexity of pianist Cecil Taylor’s music, and the liberation he feels from listening to it
...The poet imagines being a monarch butterfly, inspired to movement by the music of Django Reinhardt
...The poet shares a memory of the jazz pianist Carla Bley
...The poet reveres the power and beauty and historical significance of Black women, and reads his poem
...Maybe, whisper of your voice
could bring home
your far away love
before icicles begin to form.
It could be so.
the sound became a poem
after happening into
Kenny Burrell leading
an arranged Gil Evans
below a full moon
.... . photo via pickpik.com . . The Sounds Outside My Window ………(for Jack Kerouac) So the drunk old genius of the road once wrote that the sounds outside his window were worthy of his poetical consideration but right now, out of mine, all I can hear are seagulls squawking and sirens wailing and, in … Continue reading ““The Sounds Outside My Window” – a poem by Bradford Middleton”
...The conductor passed the notes around — birds strung out on wires —
Pieces they all knew well, nothing too inspired.
He checked his troops, baton raised, then marched them down the street.
Was it a groove, or was it a rut, that curbed their marching feet?
notice was received at the Final Arms Hotel
stating simply
expect Lou soon
& the buzz began
Good gracious!
Big John and Grant grinned
each to the other
with Hammond & Gibson harmony
Flip day for night then lose the glossy crooner
Let the trumpet solo drain the oil from showbiz lake
Cruise a lowdown hungry blues
Along the Great White Way
To citizens’ arrest on Lower Broadway
Drizzly droplets
Dripping from balcony rails,
Slipping down window panes
As I listen to Stevie Ray
Play Lenny. Man that
Cat could sweat as he
Plucks magic from
Six thin strings.
“Big egos,” they now say –
Basie, Armstrong, Ellington
Did Louis Armstrong
Possess an outsized ego
Nostalgia
it’s the feeling that brought us here
a bit of joy / sweet glide to a hallowed space
and Fats Navarro is already here
Leaving residence
At the Final Arms Hotel
For a misty boulevard stroll
Could be I see you
(Maybe on your way
To meet up with Wes
To go Bumpin’ On Sunset)
Sometime before September ends
I will capture your love
among the flaming
fuchsia, paprika, mustard colored
leaves, blowing in wind on a journey
to somewhere close to where you are.
. . Mallory1180, CC BY-SA 4.0 via Wikimedia Commons . . Donald Byrd’s Late Night Lullaby The Worker Bee finds a home In the honeyed tones of a trumpet As the sun sets earlier, answering Fall’s call, she stands sometimes Sturdy as a birch tree, the trumpet’s Wail suits her majestically. Jazz is The … Continue reading ““Donald Byrd’s Late Night Lullaby” – a poem by Erren Kelly”
...John Coltrane was the absolute
the decorated, the preternatural
and acknowledged master of what fury
can pour out of the body of a saxophone.
The flute floats a legato stream of notes,
blood from the heart pouring in a lucent stream,
brilliant as a harvest moon filling the sky
with radiance such as the flutist releases
into the concert hall, notes carried on breath
In postcards to his sister Paula
He described what it felt like
To feel free
In America, he was
A disrupter of the peace
In a thickly-padded FBI dossier
In which poets connect the swing of the bat with that of the bandstand…
...…From “Fatha” Hines to Brad Mehldau, poets open themselves up to their experiences with and reverence for great jazz pianists…
...Audible pain
Introspective
Like the composition he wrote called
Alabama about the 4 little girls from
Birmingham:
Nested into each other,
We listened to Dolphy play “Truth”
as softly as the bedding that held us.
The hardest skill to learn
is to listen.
Always one wants to interrupt,
to explain, to contradict, to deny.
Think of a river
Turned into
A Diamond,
my claim to jazz fame:
I have had fun telling people …
I got to know david sanborn
in high school band.
A myriad of styles and experiences displayed in eight thoughtful and provocative poems about jazz music…
...That Black Olive near the back providing shade
a steady venue for beak & feather songsters
roaming around the leaves
as if they were tables at the Club Aviary
. . The cover of the 1987 Mosaic Records collection of The Complete Blue Note Recordings of Herbie Nichols . . Thinking of Herbie I was thinking about jazz masters who died too young– private accolades for America’s unknown legion, perished by addiction, illness or accident— Herbie Nichols I didn’t forget you. Dead of … Continue reading ““Thinking of Herbie” – a poem by Daniel W. Brown”
...Cacophonous —
The honk, the blare of the tenor sax
And the scream! The guttural cry
Who are you, man…who are
You? “I’m nobody,” is my
Only reply
Dexter Gordon blew blue
blue notes for hours in his visit
to my CD player,
accompanied by wicked syncopations
rapped on window and roof
by bursts of rain as it came and went
Even if you never drank black coffee, that won’t stop you from drinking in the feelings that filter across a room whenever Sarah Vaughan sings Black Coffee. One could drown in that bottomless, inky liquid, that heartache-laden brew,
...She plays slow, haunting
notes that linger and flow
around her voice, unearths
the story that lies between
the words of each song –
I was streaming The Fabulous Baker Boys
the other night and thought
it reminded me of the times I drank to
Mose Allison — in Boston, in DC —
and how righteous he was singing
Everybody Cries Mercy
These poems are new submissions by five poets relatively new to Jerry Jazz Musician, and are an example of the writing I have the privilege of encountering on a regular basis.
...Marginalized, itinerant
Brilliance barely compensated
You want to save them all; you
Particularly want to save him
A relaxed, familiar comfort emerges from the poet Terrance Underwood’s language of intellectual acuity, wit, and space – a feeling similar to one gets while listening to Monk, or Jamal, or Miles. I have long wanted to share his gifts as a poet on an expanded platform, and this 33-poem collection – woven among his audio readings, music he considers significant to his story, and brief personal comments – fulfills my desire to do so.
...it seems like thousands
of nights hunkered
over dark beer and jazz
with my Guru
the janitor who taught
jazz to the novice
when first he was asked
spring buds had yet to fully open
now rising out of autumn heath
that tenor sax strides deep
Takes on love and loss, and memories of Lady Day, Prez, Monk, Dolphy and others…
...It’s Les McCann & Eddie Harris
heard it back in ’69, heard it now
not once but twice, so nice, but
sadness got me tonight, hit me hard,
We begin to study Uncle George
in a cavern of disintegration.
A hospital bed wrenched through
a narrow doorway. Shag carpeting
cauterized and peeled from the concrete floor.
A hoyer lift wheeled in. A pully installed
so George can shift from horizontal to vertical.
Dusk’s deep waters envelop me
with the quiet embrace of a Bill
Evans solo, the piano so low,
yet so all encompassing (drowning
me in beauty, beauty, beauty —
How can somebody so blue, Grant, be named
Green? How can the ocean current
and its waves? Simple. Immediate. Each note comes
from you slow as underwater speech. Say
a fish tank and pufferfish hugging the glass. Imagine
being trapped. Gravel pumped through the gills
It tickles my fancy the way
francophone announcers
ornately say the names
of jazzmen in those live recordings
put to reel in Montreux.
Jack DeJohnette in particular
tickles me, perhaps because
it is a french-like sort of name.
Jazz divinity
The Divine One on hot, fevered wings
That fly east of the sun and west of
The moon
She is mesmerizing
flying in the air with the music,
ignoring gravity.
What is she thinking?
A poetic appreciation for the work of the legendary pianist
...You ever heard of a Zoot Suit?
Do you own a Zoot Suit ?
What about the Zoot Suit Riots
you ever heard of them?
. . “Tree”(1924) photo by Alfred Stieglitz/via Raw Pixel/CC0 1.0 Deed . . Song of the Poplar Tree The song playing always catches me off guard. My trembling fingers quicken to remove the old vinyl record. I must stop her voice from singing. Even the wispy quality carries the heavy weight. I weep. Not … Continue reading ““Song of the Poplar Tree” – a poem by Jerrice Baptiste”
.... . photo by Bernard Gotfryd/Library of Congress/PDM 1.0 Thelonious Monk, 1968 . ___ . Thelonious Monk and Mama Thelonious Monk paints a picture of Mama with his piano, the way Monet or Matisse would, with paint: loud, bright colorful notes that are a Rorschach test, screaming on the page. Perhaps, Mama would’ve modeled … Continue reading ““Thelonious Monk and Mama” – a poem by Erren Kelly”
...Barstow to Boron, bound for Bakersfield
we fly across the Mojave Desert, will wind
through and over the Tehachapis
only to come to rest in another desert
on the rim of the sink of California.
Ella Fitzgerald is whispering
to me: “sit here and enjoy your dinner with my
sweet honey voice,” eternal bloom of time,
filling the corner of the street where I eat
with a Golden Age long gone but that remains
like an idea, lingering, like the steam of a
hot bath leaving
traces of fingers on the mirror
There are two types of clubs
Highfalutin hoity-toity stuck up clubs
And gritty grimy dingy dank dungeons
I prefer the latter, for obvious reasons
Clubs must be weathered
Crackled paint & nicotine stained
n On the Road, Jack & Neal raced Rocky Mount to Ozone Park,
speeding dark quiet American roads
Today, 2023. I drive the new superhighways, continuous sterile green
at median & shoulders,
The phrase that brought to us
The Sunny Day
The Warm of the ocean
The Joy of observing of Life . . .
Not only our own but of a World of Dreams.
Did you dream up the orange golden sun of Aruanda?
Seashells far from your mother, you would no longer need
to whisper, “Take Me to Aruanda.”
.... . David Becker, CC BY-SA 3.0 , via Wikimedia Commons “‘Benedetto’ means the ‘blessed one’ and I feel that I have truly been blessed.” -Tony Bennett . . ___ . . Tony Bennett, In Memoriam Lightning strikes as your voice makes magic on a summer night i think of a tall girl … Continue reading ““Tony Bennett, In Memoriam” – a poem by Erren Kelly”
.... . Lester Young, 1946 . . Solace I relish the cultivation of my Lester afternoons an endeavor still absorbing at my age captive in that garden of ambient sound …………………that Young tenor breath ………………………….a zephyr expulsion stirring atmosphere rare these days for this climate caressing time & movement with a tone to stream still … Continue reading ““Solace” – a poem by Terrance Underwood”
...It’s 1958
and the epitome of 50s style
Anita O’Day steps onto
the stage, white gloves
to her elbows, black hat
crowned with white feathers,
slim black dress and finger clicks
the band into sound and dynamic
jazz minors and majors.
in jazz composition
everybody knows where the one is
even when nobody chooses to play it
if the space is quiet enough
you can hear blood racing
The poet describes his joyful experience of listening to “Mumbles,” a 1964 recording by Oscar Peterson with Clark Terry
...The poet recalls an evening when he serendipitously encountered jazz in “The Point” neighborhood of Boston
...Poets honor jazz as an international music in five atmospheric poems
...This busy bee, at the end of a life like clockwork,
a symphony of service to everything but herself—
wings snatched in a world blinded by the way it is—
slowly expiring in the sweet nectar of stillness,
The poet writes a profile of the jazz drummer Elvin Jones, inspired by a photograph by Lee Tanner
...The poets Richard Radcliffe and Svi A. Sesling share their experience of listening to and interacting with to the music of John Coltrane
...The poet writes a fantasy about Parker’s time in the California asylum Camarillo…a 15 song playlist accompanies the poem
...A woman’s fingers explored/piano keys, as though bairns/plowing through snow drifts/in search of hidden life;
...An abstract poetic view of an abstract jazz recording…
...A remembrance of incidents in the Bronx, Harlem and at Bop City…
...Poet musings on Ellington — and big band music, by the poets Claire Andreani, Russell duPont, Laurinda Lind and Terrance Underwood
...The poet remember jazz pianist Horace Tapscott
...The poets share their love of jazz through personal narratives, and memories of live performances
...The poet describes the impact of pianist Ahmad Jamal on a cherished evening, and beyond
...The poet writes on how a musician putting their heart into their playing is a key to a great solo
...The poet recalls Miles Davis’ depth of character and musicianship during a particularly complex era of his career
...It’s
sittin’ in the corner knowing what others don’t get and smile-noddin’ over scotch and coda after a day bounced you about like Buddy’s snare and high hat clamped you down to sweet Georgia brown dirt in the Summertime wailed by Sidney Bechet
Two poets reflect on the May 14, 2022 mass shooting in Buffalo, New York
...It’s the darkness, man, the
Darkness
that laughs with the evil of the vamp.
It’s the wildness, man, the
Wildness
that greets the gray of dawn.
So long ago, before Ornette Coleman,
Coleman Hawkins, John Coltrane—
all those free spirits running up and down
the alphabet of jazz, there was old
J.S. Bach, running through the changes.
I always picture him, and hear him,
at the pipe organ in Tomas Kirsche
all by himself,
I live inside Erik Satie’s piano
with my dog.
Every day is early morning autumn here
The leaves never fall
inside Erik Satie’s piano – they dance
One of my greatest joys for decades
was exploring unknown record shops.
I once walked into a newly opened used
shop around the corner from my university
and discovered a used album, apparently
the improvisatory result of a session
set up by Norman Granz that included
Nineteen fifty-nine –
1-9-5-9 – things changed.
Coltrane took Giant Steps –
Miles was Kind of Blue
and Brubeck played
with Time.
Shepp, believing in the immortality
of Malcolm’s significance, murmurs,
a few weeks after his murder,
“Semper Malcolm” over disjointed jazz,
Storyville a bit of hell in the city of Saints
Piano men played ragtime and honky-tonk
It was there Buddy Bolden with his cornet
Jazz rained down in rivers
catching out strong soul
and soft hands
rising to the call of music prayers
among blind angels
who fail on color
and possess
Clear my palate
so my mind wanders.
Flap down sweet
childhood memories.
Bare endless fields
of willowy cotton.
Open up vistas
of
Yes, it is hot,
night sweats beneath
Spanish moss and the terror in trees
now knowing no cover of darkness
to greet a Sunday morning
10:22 a.m.
under the stairs
16th Street Baptist Church.
“Three minutes”
and the siren wails
“Liner Notes for ‘Stardust’ — In Seven Choruses” is a cycle of short poems framed as imaginary liner notes and prompted by poet Doug Fowler’s favorite musical covers of Hoagy Carmichael’s “Stardust.” In essence, according to Fowler, they are “imaginary liner notes for a real song about an imaginary song about love.”
The cycle is also partially a tribute to Chu Berry, who died as the result of a car accident in Conneaut, Ohio, in 1941, not far from where Fowler lives.
...No trickster god,
demon, savior, saint or
train wreck, but human, very.
Not irrational, primal,
primitive, dark unconscious,
exile or martyr.
No more priapic
than your Sunday morning
erection. Not lost or liminal.
not even schroeder from the peanuts
comic strip
is as dedicated to the piano
and he has a bust of beethoven
gracing his steinway!
you pull sounds out of the air
making something out of nothing
you call it improvisation:
i say, god’s just using you as
a transmitter for his thoughts…
SO WHAT
Baptized by vodka cleansing my throat
Baptized by sweat dripping from Tony Williams’ sticks
Thick  Summer Sunday Afternoons
at the Vanguard
In this edition, Rife writes about jazz novels and short stories that feature stories about jazz music’s international influence.
...The author’s award-winning story is a semi-satirical mood piece about a heartbroken man in Europe listening to Toots Thielemans while under the influence of a mind-altering substance.
...This saxophonist’s first important jobs were during the 1940’s with Lionel Hampton (pictured), Fletcher Henderson, Louis Armstrong’s big band, and Billy Eckstine’s Orchestra. Additionally, he was a Savoy Records recording artist as a leader before being an important part of the scene on Los Angeles’ Central Avenue. Who was he?
...The story – a short-listed entry in our recently concluded 66th Short Fiction Contest – explores the intersection of nourishing oneself with music, and finding a soul mate
...Tenuous
It’s probably always
been tenuous
The notion
The concept
of democracy and
how it was designed
to protect us
Some thoughts on a new book of photography by frequent Jerry Jazz Musician contributing writer Bob Hecht
...“Let gratitude be the pillow upon which you kneel to say your nightly prayer. And let faith be the…
...Art Tatum plays fast
fast as Sundays
fast as sunset in November
fast as a hurry up offense
fast as a 20 dollar bill flying down the street
The world-renowned saxophonist Deja Blue grew up a sad, melancholy person who could only express his feelings through his music. When he meets a beautiful woman who sweeps him off his feet, will his reluctance to share his feelings and emotion cost him the love of his life?
...In this story – a short listed entry in our recently concluded 66th Short Fiction Contest – a private investigator tries to help a homeless friend after his saxophone is stolen.
...Tucker works as a jazz pianist aboard the deep space luxury cruiser, the Royal Nebula. A flirtatious interlude pushes his new emotional software to its limits and beyond, and he learns the hard way what it means to be human.
...In this edition, Rife writes about jazz novels and short stories that feature stories about women, written by women.
...Beginning in 1990, the noted photographer Giovanni Piesco began taking backstage photographs of many of the great musicians who played in Amsterdam’s Bimhuis, that city’s main jazz venue which is considered one of the finest in the world. Jerry Jazz Musician will occasionally publish portraits of jazz musicians that Giovanni has taken over the years. This edition is of saxophonists Johnny Griffin and Von Freeman, who appeared together at the at Bimhuis on June 25/26, 1999.
.... . Ben Pinchot, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons . “I believe it is better to tell the truth than a lie. I believe it is better to be free than to be a slave. And I believe it is better to know than to be ignorant.” . -H. L. Mencken . . Listen … Continue reading “Memorable Quote: H.L. Mencken…”
.... . photo via Pixabay . “Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.” . -Martin Luther King . . ___ . . Listen to the 1963 recording of Oscar Peterson performing “Hymn to Freedom,” with Ray Brown (bass) and Ed Thigpen (drums). [Universal … Continue reading “Memorable Quote:…Martin Luther King”
...For over 60 years, the legendary recording engineer Rudy Van Gelder devoted himself to the language of sound. And although he recorded everything from glee clubs to classical music, he was best known for recording jazz – specifically the musicians associated with Blue Note and Prestige records. Joel Lewis writes about his impact on the sound of jazz, and what has become of his Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey studio.
...The story – finalist in the recently concluded 66th Short Fiction Contest – describes the first lesson at a music conservatory of a freshman piano-performance major who is more accustomed to improvising than reading music. It is an excerpt from a novel-in-progress.
...The story – a short-listed entry in our recently concluded 66th Short Fiction contest – is a humorous take on a septuagenarian attempt to resurrect a revival band,
...In this 27-song playlist, Bob Hecht focuses on non-traditional trio recordings.
...While legendary as a saxophonist, his first instrument was a violin and his second the piano — which he played well enough to work as an accompanist to silent movies. Ultimately it was Lester Young’s father who taught him the saxophone well enough that he switched instruments for good. (It was during this time that he also saved Lester from drowning in a river). Who is he?
...Harlan has an addiction. A most illegal addiction. It drives him from morning until night. He dreams of it. How can he escape it before it brings him into the arms of the law? Down a dark alley he will find out just how far he is willing to go.
...The story – a finalist in the recently concluded 66th Short Fiction Contest – focuses on two people whose passion for music infuses their lives… and their chance at love.
...In this edition, Rife writes about jazz novels and short stories that feature a theme of “mystery.”
...In the story, a short listed entrant in the recently concluded 66th Short Fiction Contest, a 60-year-man has lost his job as a newspaper reporter, and is left with few options.
...The story – a short-listed entry in the recently concluded 66th Short Fiction Contest – is an exaggerated version of the dynamism of domestic/romantic relationships between spouses and the difficulty to sustain a family.
...In the history of jazz there have been many variations of instrumentation within the trio format (think of Benny Goodman’s trio or Jimmy Giuffre’s) but on this playlist, Bob Hecht concentrates on a handful of the classic trio configurations—either piano, bass and drums, or in a few instances, piano, guitar and bass……
...An essay remembering the late jazz musician Michael “Dodo” Marmarosa, awarded Esquire Magazine’s New Star Award in 1947, and who critics predicted would dominate the jazz scene for the next 30 years.
...This famed jazz artist played the piano professionally as a seventh grader before switching to drums, learning to play in the styles of Chick Webb and Sid Catlett. Before forming his own band in the early 1950’s, he played with Mary Lou Williams (pictured) in New York, toured the South with Fletcher Henderson’s band, and was the drummer in Billy Eckstine’s group from 1944 – 1947. Who is he?
...The story – a short-listed entrant in our recently concluded 66th Short Fiction Contest – centers on the effects of COVID on an interracial, interfaith family…
...The deadline for entering stories in the 67th edition of the Jerry Jazz Musician Short Fiction Contest is September 30.
...This edition of the writer’s poetic interpretations of jazz recordings and film is written in response to Oliver Nelson’s 1961 recording The Blues and the Abstract Truth
...“Community Bookshelf” is a twice-yearly space where writers who have been published on Jerry Jazz Musician can share news about their recently authored books and/or recordings. This edition includes information about books published within the last six months or so (March – September, 2024)
...The story – a short-listed entrant in our recently concluded 66th Short Fiction Contest – explores the notion of where dreams end and reality begins through the lives of three people living in New Orleans
...The influential jazz critic, author, scholar, and advocate for the music Dan Morgenstern died on September 7, at the age of 94.
...In this edition, Rife writes about three novels/short fiction that include stories about Scott Joplin, the primary forerunner and significant influencer of jazz.
...The first time Benny Goodman heard Bix Beiderbecke play cornet, he recalled, he wondered, “My God, what planet, what galaxy, did this guy come from?” (Skretvedt)
...In this edition of extensive jazz playlists, the award-winning jazz producer and scholar Bob Hecht presents a 31-song playlist of historic and contemporary duo performances that exemplify the essence of jazz as a conversation between individuals, an open exchange between equal partners.
...In this story – a finalist in our recently concluded 66th Short Fiction Contest – a Black magician reveals his life’s complexity to a white therapist who questions his ability to address it.
...This pianist was Billie Holiday’s regular accompanist during her last two years (1957 – 1959), and also played in the Eric Dolphy-Booker Little Quintet that recorded extensively at New York’s Five Spot in 1961. Who is he?
...Scattered discordant
Symbols woven into lines
Across blank white pages
Beginning in 1990, the noted photographer Giovanni Piesco began taking backstage photographs of many of the great musicians who played in Amsterdam’s Bimhuis, that city’s main jazz venue which is considered one of the finest in the world. Jerry Jazz Musician will occasionally publish portraits of jazz musicians that Giovanni has taken over the years. This edition is of the eminent free jazz violinist Leroy Jenkins, taken at Bimhuis in 1999.
...A story about a Jewish kid coming of age in Alabama and discovering his identity through music, in particular the interstellar sound of Sun Ra.
...In this fourth edition featuring excerpts from his book, Rife writes about five novels/short fiction that include stories about the interconnected cultures of jazz, dancing and nightclubs.
...The story – a finalist in the recently concluded 65th Short Fiction Contest – concerns a father’s determined commitment to demonstrate his values to his family through a spontaneous personal action
...In this edition of extensive jazz playlists, the award-winning jazz producer and scholar Bob Hecht focuses his attention on solo piano performances, including those by artists such as Bud Powell, Thelonious Monk, Art Tatum, Tommy Flanagan, Cedar Walton, Bill Evans, Jaki Byard, Keith Jarrett.
...Like her or not, readers of this site will enjoy learning that Vice President Kamala Harris is a fan of jazz music. Witness this recent clip (via Youtube) of her emerging from a record shop…
...Remembering the genius of the multi-instrumentalist who played with the likes of Bix Beiderbecke, Benny Goodman, Red Nichols, Miff Mole, and Joe Venuti
...Described as a “Louis Armstrong sound-alike on both trumpet and vocals” whose recording of “On the Sunny Side of the Street” was so close to Armstrong’s live show that some listeners thought Armstrong was copying him, this trumpeter (along with Bobby Stark), was Chick Webb’s main trumpet soloist during the 1930’s. Who is he?
...In this story – a finalist in the recently concluded 65th Short Fiction Contest – a missing guitar leads to the dissolution of a chart-topping band. Years later their subsequent reconciliation reverberates across generations.
...The story – a finalist in the recently concluded 65th Short Fiction Contest – concerns a heart-broken man trying to deal with his sadness via journaling and jazz.
...The author’s story – a finalist in the recently concluded 65th Short Fiction Contest – describes the unlikely and circuitous route by which, against all odds, he became a jazz musician.
...In this third edition featuring excerpts from his book, Rife writes about four novels/short fiction that include stories involving Louis Armstrong.
...As Sonny Rollins has said, “Jazz is about taking risks, pushing boundaries, and challenging the status quo.” Could there be anything riskier—or more boundary-pushing—than to stand naked and perform with nowhere to hide? Bob’s extensive playlist is comprised of such perilous undertakings by an array of notable woodwind and brass masters who have had the confidence and courage (some might say even the exhibitionism) to expose themselves so completely by playing….alone.
...The story – a finalist in the 65th Short Fiction Contest – is about a young man who cares for his grandmother after she is discovered wandering in her neighborhood, which gives him a chance to be away from his mother and her new and intolerant partner.
...While consuming Mary K O’Melveny’s remarkable work in this digital album of poetry, readings and music, readers will discover that she is moved by the mastery of legendary musicians, the wings of a monarch butterfly, the climate and political crisis, the mysteries of space exploration, and by the freedom of jazz music that can lead to what she calls “the magic of the unknown.”
...In this, the 17th major collection of jazz poetry published on Jerry Jazz Musician, 50 poets from all over the world again demonstrate the ongoing influence the music and its associated culture has on their creative lives.
...The story – a finalist in the 65th Jerry Jazz Musician Short Fiction Contest – describes a practice routine of a young conservatory student eager to sate his feeling of destiny.
...Thoughts about the impact Willie Mays had on baseball, and on my life.
...Embracing a new stage in life, and where I hope to go next with Jerry Jazz Musician
...In this edition, Rife writes about four novels/short stories that include stories involving relationships between fathers and children.
...A short-listed entrant in the 65th Short Fiction Contest is a story about an accidental audition…
...A short-listed entrant in the 65th Short Fiction Contest is about a lonely writer in New York City who descends into madness upon realizing she is the only person who can hear the jazz music playing under her apartment.
...An excerpt from the author’s debut MONARCH: Stories, which has been described by Kirkus as “a gutsy, grungy collection centering troubled souls,” and “more than a collection of stories, Tobias’ debut is a selection of gritty, emotional character studies…brimming with pure Americana.”
...Beginning in 1990, the noted photographer Giovanni Piesco began taking backstage photographs of many of the great musicians who played in Amsterdam’s Bimhuis, that city’s main jazz venue which is considered one of the finest in the world. Jerry Jazz Musician will occasionally publish portraits of jazz musicians that Giovanni has taken over the years. This edition is of the saxophonist Archie Shepp, taken at Bimhuis in 2001.
...News about a Jerry Jazz Musician printed jazz poetry anthology, and information about submitting your poetry for consideration
...On the 30th anniversary of the guitarist Joe Pass’ death, Kenneth Parsons reminds readers of his brilliant career…
...A short-listed entry in the recently concluded 65th Short Fiction Contest concerns a child’s courage in the face of abuse, displayed in her solemn ritual of burying her stuffed toys.
...Teddy Wilson once said this about a fellow jazz pianist:
“That man had the most phenomenal musical gifts I’ve ever heard. He was miraculous. We became such fast friends that I was allowed to interrupt him anytime he was playing at the house parties in Toledo we used to make every night.”
Who is he talking about?
...The story – a finalist in the recently concluded 65th Short Fiction Contest – is about a woman who finds a rare saxophone in a New York City cab, and refuses to hand it over
...David Rife’s essay/reviews about jazz-themed novels and stories. In this edition, Rife writes of three novels that explore challenges of the mother/daughter relationship.
...Glenn Gould’s famous recording impacts a young couple’s enthusiasm for a dorm room make-out session…
...An extensive playlist built around examples of prominent pianoless modern jazz.
...The author’s award-winning story is about the power of connections – between father and child, music and art, and the past, present and future
...I saw some crows in low and noisy flight.
I watched them until they were out of sight.
And I have heard, at times, the calling geese,
above and unseen in the autumn night,
Trading Fours with Douglas Cole is an occasional series of the writer’s poetic interpretations of jazz recordings and film. This edition is written in response to the music of Wayne Shorter.
...