*Like I mentioned before, I took a lot of music classes in college before I dropped out. History of Jazz was probably my favorite. Before this class, I had dabbled in it—enjoyed it—swayed to it but after listening to Miles Davis’ “So What,” in a dim lit classroom in the middle of a cold winter while the trees swayed and the lights in the hallway flickered—I was obsessed. I am not alone in this of course—this album is legendary for a reason. It made the same impression on everyone who has listened to it. Never knew about improvisation before this, never knew that people could speak with their eyes while their hands mimicked spiders. This helped me be a better bass player. To feel the connection with another musician even if you despised them, in that moment—they were special—only in that moment. This album was done in one take. I think only one song was re-recorded after. Modal Jazz mimics birth, in the many failed steps—turned pathways. I played a lot of Jazz while in a band with my ex and his father. The only time I enjoyed making music. The only time.
It was a backroom that you’d be able to access
if you knew the gate on the side was unlocked.
Most didn’t—so they’d knock.
Sometimes people would stand outside and listen.
Wait for us to finish and scream.
The few times it was just the three of us, the music would turn, it’d twist.
I’d get on bass, his father on the drums, and him on the ejaculatory guitar I loathed but also gloated about if the right notes unearthed from it.
It’s complicated, when the night is filled with gardenia and cigarettes
life takes on a different tone—the old turn young and the young pretend they know where they’re headed—
music helped the transition into bodies—the handing off/
illusory maybe’s and tomorrow’s would play softer and softer
a thread surrounded each hand and each finger
the sound choked each note,
a supple fabric lay where a few seconds prior,
a cathedral stood erect.