Just what the doctor ordered...

So last night at the jazz gig who should walk in while we're tuning but... my doctor!  "Looks like you are healing just fine," he smiled.  Then came back to tell me that the visiting nurse who assisted him with my procedure was sipping red wine at the bar, too.  Kinda fun living in a small community where ministers play bass in jazz bands and doctors and nurses care for you in the morning and groove to you the next day alongside hipsters and children.

A young African-American poet joined us for two numbers early in the set and then some young players shared the bandstand with us, too:  Cate, a talented young violinist with spot-on intonation did "Fly Me to the Moon" - she is all of 12 years old - and later a brilliant little guitar giant, Nikko, joined us for Jaco Pastorius' "The Chicken" and the Sonny Rollins classic, "Tenor Madness."  He, too is only 12 years old.  His father was bringing the family out for dinner and remembered us from when we did a jazz workshop at Nikko's school last winter - so the dude left his burger and smoked the house.  It helped that my band mates were all "on" last night and eager to see one another - we got a good groove laid down early - and sustained it for both sets.  That was like soul food for me and almost literally just what the doctor ordered...

The poet, Cornelius Eady of Rochester, NY who is now at the University of Missouri, captured the heart of the night in his poem, "Jazz Dancer," like this:

I have a theory about motion.
I have a theory about the air.
I have a theory about main arteries and bass lines.
I have a theory about Friday night,
Just a theory, mind you,
About a dry mouth and certain kinds of thirst
About a once-a-month bulge of money
   in a working pair of pants.

I have a theory about kisses,
The way a woman draws a man across a dance floor
Like a ship approaching a new world.
I have a theory about space
And what's between the space

And an idea about words,
A theory about balance and the alphabet,
A theory concerning electricity and the tendons,
A hunch about long lances from across the ballroom
Even though there's a man on her arm,
Even though there's a woman on his arm

And Fire and the Ocean,
Stars and Earthquakes,
Explosions as sharp as new clothes
   off the rack.
When I leap,

Brushes strike the lip of a cymbal.
When I leap,
A note cuts through glass.
When I leap,

A thick finger dreams on a a bass string
And all that sweat,
All that spittle,
All those cigarettes and cheap liquor,

All that lighthearted sass and volacnism,
All that volatile lipstick,
All that
 
Cleaves the air the way a man and woman
Sweet-talk in a bed.
When I leap,
I briefly see the world as it is
And as it should be

And the street where I grew up,
The saxophones,
Kisses
And mysteries among the houses

And my sister, dressing in front of her mirror,
A secret weapon of sound and motion,
A missionary
In the war against
The obvious.
For me last night felt like the world was as it should be - open, blessed, creative, sassy, alive, tender with just a little bit of playful BS alongside the compassion - and as we re-membered the tunes of Dizzy, Tito, Bill Evans and Miles, a great cloud of witnesses entered the house and we were all better because of their visit.

(Thanks to Leo Masseo for the Nikko picture!)