12-Bar Rest

(<--Red Holloway & Tenor Sax)
Idle instruments are awkward and beautiful at the same time. Devoid of life, but full of possibility. Yesterday, I had the unique opportunity to hear both in the afternoon and in the evening, Satoko Fuji and Natsuki Tamura (pianist and trumpeter, respectively). In the afternoon, we gathered for a q & a and Tamura's trumpet lay casually and provocatively on the padded piano bench. It waited. There, it is a vessel, an ornament, particularly mysterious and romantic to those of us who do not play an instrument. Prior to the Red Holloway set last week here in St. Louis, his alto sax and the bass waited, too. Atilt and horizontal. Not the positions they were meant for, but forced momentarily into sleep. I've noticed that when the musicians pick up their instruments, the sax, the trumpet, the bass, simultaneously become dynamic in their own right (perhaps this is my own anticipation that perceives this) and become a true extension of the musician's body--as if the musician would fall dead if that instrument were taken away, lopped off, or extricated from the grasp. In the hands of Tamura, the trumpet was him, his voice and vocal cords, organically linked. Intrinsic. Last Sunday, at Graceland, an acoustic guitar was propped up in a chair in the 'jungle room," looking far more awkward and lifeless than the glossy grand piano in the front room framed by stained-glass peacocks.

Carniverous Meanderings

Nothin' like gnawin' on pork ribs to make one get in touch with the primal. To my civilized sensibility, it just seems wrong to be scraping teeth on bone, tearing, pulling, getting remnants of it all under the fingernails. I have to say, however, once I first chomped, I felt the urge to growl every time someone walked by to let them know that this rib was mine and not theirs. Of course, in getting in touch with the primal, chomping on great ribs is far more satisfying than any holler-inducing drum circle. Hence my stop at Rendezvous in Memphis for a late lunch/early dinner after a recommendation by someone here in St. Louis who frequents Memphis "because it's so close." Entering the restaurant via a back alley where it seems to share the entrance with all deliveries gives the impression of stepping into a speakeasy and I willingly went along with this evocation since I seemed to be surrounded by the right architecture. And I had Ellington and Bessie Smith in my head. Once they slide the ribs in a red plastic basket in front of you, the speakeasy theme fades away. No, this is not a restaurant review and I'm not in the habit of talking about my meals. I had recently finished Cormac McCarthy's Cities on the Plain, the third novel in his Border Trilogy. Never having been a fan of the western (film--with some exceptions--or novel) or never having been attracted in any shape or form to the cowboy myth (or the cowboy for that matter), I was surprised to find myself taken by both the main characters and by McCarthy's poetic descriptions of landscape. Like gnawing on ribs, reading these novels tapped into the visceral, the primal, the liminal space in which humanity and bestial meet. The ruthlessness of both man and nature is a constant challenge, and when battles are lost, what is left is a good amount of desolation, loneliness, and disconnection. And, of course, death and destruction. John Grady Cole's final face-off with evil incarnate near the end of Cities is a twist on the high-noon, ok corral sort of duel--more frightening if not more apocalyptic, and resulting in a more heartwrenching ending. Very sad, and very dark. There is a moral center--thank goodness--but its survival in the end is tenuous at best.

I still think John Grady Cole, and his counterpart, Billy Parham, should get together in a story with Huck Finn. I'd say Holden Caufield, too, but I think all three would become exasperated enough with him that they would end up slapping him around (and he'd deserve it). Boot him out by the end of chapter 1. Feeling a deep connection to McCarthy's characters, something about eating mighty fine pork ribs in a dim basement in Memphis that made me think I could hunker down at a campfire and chomp on some freshly killed and freshly skinned furry animal. Ok, that was a fleeting thought and one that disappeared completely when the waiter scooped away the red plastic basket containing the remains of some deceased pig. My civilized sensibility, such as it is, quickly restored itself and then, after crawling up out of the basement and back into the sunlit, smoky alley, I was on the hunt for some ice cream.

Two Kings, an Aristocrat & All That Jazz...

Everyone marks their journeys with signs and I found myself looking for the words and images, those telling artifacts with which I could map my trek. A different map from my road atlas--as useful as it is. Even a different map drawn by a native St. Louisian (?) on yet another map telling me how to get to Ted Drewes. Signs tell different stories; they aren't the stories that people tell, and may not even be actual narratives, but at the very least signs beg the question of a story. Signs certainly tell me how to go, where to go, what direction, even what to be wary about. Signs tell me where I am at any given moment--in the non-existential sense--and how I'm standing in both the past and the present. All kinds of rhetoric--bureaucratic, historical, folksy, humorous, low brow, high brow--that I'm reminded of all that permeates the language we speak everyday. In Texas, just off the I40 and visible from the highway, is, according to the highway billboard, the world's largest cross--clean, white, looming. Large indeed. The promise on the said billboard is the ultimate spiritual experience, and sure enough, there was a semicircle of tour buses at its base, presumably seeking what the billboard claimed.

Then there are signs that transcend their original intent and become an artifact for history and sacred space.

A few miles south of the Lorraine Motel lies Graceland--another place frozen in time--and there is proof that there are differing opinions as to what constitutes sacred space. Here, signs can become words, notes, things left behind. I found all the small items at Graceland to be the most poignant.
Driving south on the I55 to Memphis last Saturday, I became rather obsessed with the sign telling me how many more miles I had to travel before I reached my destination. So my weekend was mapped by mileage, history, music, and words. MLK Jr., Elvis, and William Faulkner all had something to say about journeys, maps, and signs. On Friday night, I saw/heard the raucous 80-year-old Red Holloway playing a mighty fine tenor sax here in St. Louis; Sunday night, I was listening to Bessie Smith--this cd I bought on Beale Street--as I sped back to St. Louis. All that came in between these bits of blues and jazz--the National Civil Rights Museum, Beale Street, Rendezvous (great bbq ribs), Graceland, and Rowan Oak (in Oxford MS)--tower over anything that could be built off an interstate highway.

Rest Stop

I'm not much of a multitasker when I drive--I don't even use my cell. And I certainly won't advocate shooting pictures (or anything/anyone else for that matter) while driving. Rest assured, I was at a standstill in my lane of traffic when I picked up my camera, traveling west headed into St. Louis.

I am currently breezing my way through some reading on Jacob Lawrence, Aaron Douglas, the Cotton Club, Prairie View Co-eds, the Savoy and having a splendid time of it. I have been assiduously hunting for this 1924 essay by Alain Locke which is hard to find--not helped by a missing box of microfilm. Via email, the New York Public Library was kind enough to assist me, letting me know where else to go. It's good to know I can stump the best of reference librarians at a university library. In any case, all of this reading and all of the music I've been listening to (Fats Waller, Ellington, James P. Johnson, Armstrong, Basie) and thoroughly enjoying reminds me of all the moments growing up when my mother tried to tell me stories about famous musicians and I, being the truculent teen I was, refused to listen. Sorry Mom. Because I have to balance all of this enlightening research and reading with something more...um...earthy, I'm about to finish McCarthy's The Crossing. Stark, desolate, and downright sad tale. I normally revel in tragedy (Beast in the Jungle, House of Mirth, Tess of the D'Urbevilles kind of tragedy), but I am hoping that the third book in this trilogy is a wee bit more uplifting.

Ellington, Baseball, and Koalas

"For this world also which seems to us a thing of stone and flower and blood is not a thing at all but is a tale. And all in it is a tale and each tale the sum of all lesser tales and yet these also are the selfsame tale and contain as well all else within them. So everything is necessary. Every least thing." --Cormac McCarthy, The Crossing.

As unrelated as McCarthy's novel seems to the jazz I've been reading about, and listening to, over the past few days, there are broader connections, believe it or not. As much as McCarthy's novel is about epic journeys, finding self and finding place (and horses and wolves and vaqueros and very long sentences), I can't help but think Ellington's "East St. Louis Toodle-O" is also about saying goodbye, moving on, nostalgia, and an expression of excitement for the future--a journey about to begin. On Friday night I heard Greg Osby and the Osby Four do their own version of this song and today, I've been listening to Ellington's own rendition. Something mournful about it in its musical tale about coming of age. Of course, this is what I hear/see in it. A tale, too, from my friend BG in a small community in Illinois--one of finding place within a community, within a particular time in their lives, and within a land that would at last feel like home. And with a thread I am pretty sure I can spin, a connection to the conversations I overheard last night at the Cardinals-Giants game at Busch Stadium. Not being a regular attendee of any baseball game, I didn't realize there was that much talking between strangers up in the terrace section during play. I watched the game (dutifully), sucked up a chocolate shake, and, as I couldn't help but listen due to the proximity of my seat, took mental notes of states of origin (Missouri, California), occupations (attorney, math teacher), religions (Catholic, nonspecific Christian), children's schools (assorted), and who was what fan of which team and why. Very chatty folks. The more beer imbibed, the more chatty.

About 60 miles east of St. Louis off the I-70 lies Mulberry Grove, amid corn and soybean fields, stores full of farm equipment, WalMart, and funny little signs at a campground that pay homage to Down Under. These signs have a story of their own, not to mention possess the story of the proprietor--my friend BG--and her own tale of an epic journey.

4th of July 2007

About 100 miles north of St.Louis lies in wait a heavy dose of Americana. On a warm, muggy (is there any other kind?) morning, I headed up Route 79 to Hannibal, Missouri, a lazy, graceful winding country road accompanied by corn fields galore and, just to the east, the Mississippi River. I arrived at my destination just in time for the opening parade for National Tom Sawyer Days. Needless to say, lots of r,w, and b (and not a stitch of it on me), flags, and good ole carnival fun. I came with a purpose of course--though I was tempted by the fence painting contest--and made a beeline for the Mark Twain Boyhood Home and Museum. As expected, some tourist kitsch, but amusing nonetheless. Also required in this curriculum of American commerce was a one-hour riverboat ride--add thunder, lightning, and a corny narrative about the history of that part of the river, and you have a classic afternoon. Ted Drewes, back in St. Louis, completed my day and seemed a perfect outing for a 4th of July. Ordering was a challenge, however, due to my inability to make a decision and being flummoxed by what a "concrete" was. Feeling truly self-conscious in my ignorance, I could not muster the courage to ask the yellow t-shirted teenager behind the counter--her efficiency intimidated me. It's a game really. They love the first-timers, the out-of-towners and their ignorance, being polite and smirking at the same time. This reminded me of the first (and only) Philly cheesesteak I ever had at a small but famous landmark in, natch, Philadelphia. We had been warned in advance to know EXACTLY what you wanted when you approached the window and sure enough, the speed with which they worked their artery-clogging magic was an art and no indecisive tourist was going to slow them down. Back to Ted Drewes--the yellow shirted teen was not at all a brusque Philly Italian, but the way she knowingly leaned against the counter behind the ordering window spoke of her superiority and command of the entire gustatory experience. And she was generously going to allow me to partake (the cash I had ready in hand didn't hurt either). My inability to decipher and digest the entire menu of frozen custard delights in a reasonable amount of time left me resorting to a fudge nut sundae. Delicious, but I really want to go back for the pistachio.

Next up...a visit with BG...

Back in Business

near Santa Rosa, NM

east of Amarillo, TX

For June 30 and July 1, 2007
(Internet access difficulties in the past few days)

Saturday, June 30
Logged: 696.5 miles
Sunday, July 1
Logged: 504 miles
Cheapest gas thus far: $2.77 in Mt. Vernon, Missouri.

A few favorite highway signs:
“Wind Gusts May Exist” (New Mexico): This really means: you drive at your own risk; if there is a gust that appears out of nowhere and sweeps you off the highway forcing you to plunge to your death, we take no responsibility. Hey, we warned you!

“Severe Crosswinds”: In Texas. This would not have captured my attention except in comparison to the above. No tentative approach here, just direct. Of course, I’m wondering why there were no signs about the powerful stench when passing a huge cattle yard. It seems to me this was more dangerous than any nonexistent crosswind. How about: “Severe odor for next 2 miles. Proceed with caution.”

Oh, and one more…
“Do Not Drive Into Smoke”: I’m not even sure what this means, but it made several appearances on the I40 and I44 of Oklahoma.

Ooh, wait, one more highway oddity: the Adult Superstore. Right off the highway, like a McDonalds or a Love’s Travel Stop. Big sign reading “Adult Video” right along side of a souvenir shop called “Calico Country.” The gigantic, anticipatory billboards advertising, “Adult Superstore 15 miles ahead Exit 38,” just like the billboard advertising a drive-thru Animal Paradise (petting zoo, ice cream, etc.), a must see for the whole family, Exit NOW. Even truckers get lonely? I thought that’s what a CB was for. Or are Ma and Pa tired of watching the Disney DVDs in the minivan? Somethin’ for everyone on the road, I s'pose.

On a more reflective note…
Walt Whitman. Woody Guthrie. How does anyone wrap up such varied landscape into a single lyric? Varied, even over only four states, driving only two interstates. I have not, until now, driven east of Albuquerque (be assured, I have traveled, but only by air), so I was rather taken with the beauty of eastern New Mexico, northern Texas, and Oklahoma. My trusty road atlas informs me of the right highway, allows me to estimate distance, and gives me the name of every small speck of a town between more well known ports of call. But it doesn’t indicate terrain; the road atlas says nothing of the landscape. It doesn’t tell me “gorgeous scenic view of New Mexican plains, verdant in summer, low rolling hills of coniferous shrubs, perfect for that Kodak moment, especially if there are spots of pillow clouds hanging oh so gracefully in the sky.” No glossing for the Texas prairie, or for the huge sky that wraps around the earth, or for the wildflowers that give a sunny shimmery sheen to the pale green prairie grass. No endnotes about the hills and near-New England green of Oklahoma. Why is it that the only image I had of Oklahoma was of the dusty land of the 1930s? The dramatic shift to the Ozarks in Missouri did not go unnoticed, but my romantic vision of landscape was put on hold when I found myself in the middle of a rainstorm and trying to avoid the fearless truckers who could care less about the waves of water their giant tires can spew on to the vehicles directly behind them, reducing visibility even more and increasing the likelihood of hydroplaning. I learned quickly to take advantage of the uphill grades which my Honda climbed effortlessly, making it possible for me to pass any semi through its watery wake with only a few seconds of lost visual contact with whatever was outside my windshield—advantage: me.
I can’t begin to do the scenery justice without treacle or cliché, both crimes I’ve committed above. It does, however, remind me of Whitman and Guthrie who were able to poetically, and memorably, catalogue the vastness and illustrate their admiration (even if one assumed a democratic right to the landscape and the other had to demand this right) for all of the possibilities and opportunities this varied landscape promised. And they both did so also reminding us of the cost to others. I couldn’t help but think about this as well every time I passed a sign informing me I was driving through, or leaving, one of several Indian reservations.