Alive on Jazz and Chocolate

Hope you're nice and comfortable for this entry, for I've got a story to tell...

John Coltrane was chronically quirky. One of his more definably "chronic" quirks was his strict diet: chocolate. In my opinion, this fact alone elevates John Coltrane to the status of a saint. No wonder there is a church devoted to him in San Francisco. Saint Coltrain would eat about 12 candy bars a day. He hated dentists, so his mouth was undoubtedly falling apart-- perhaps not the best way to build your chops. To cope with his oral pain, he consumed alcohol like it was his job. He kept this up for years until his liver finally gave out. Eventually, this is what killed him.

Another one of JC's quirks was his addiction to playing his horn--indeed THE best way to build your chops. Sometimes guests would come over to JC's apartment to visit him. JC would fidget through 30 or 40 minutes of polite conversation and then when he'd reached his limit, he would suddenly excuse himself to a back room, shut the door, and resume playing his saxophone. He played for as long as he felt necessary, sometimes the rest of the day, and eventually his guests just found their own way out.

I had fidgeted through weeks of visit from the uninvited guest of Celeste's illness. Like JC, I needed to excuse myself and go play my horn--I needed to sing for a while. Celeste, a very perceptible person, sensed my uneasiness and suggested I go out and play even before I could bring it up to her. She may well have read my mind. I couldn't refuse.

It was Friday night, I hadn't eaten since lunch, but I couldn't wait. So at 8:30, right after my last class of the night, I hit the street. I grabbed my horn, my music, and my beret (people expect me to dress foreign, why not dress French? Besides, it works so well with jazz). I stopped by the school on my way out and caught Ms. Sau, one of the Korean teachers, and asked her to write me a note in Korean that basically says, "This kid wants to play in your club tonight. What do you say?"

I caught a bus downtown, got off at my stop, and walked the remaining blocks to the jazz club I played at a few weeks ago (see entry He Looks After My Jazz 11-24-02). It had been dark for hours. I breathed in the fresh night air, clean after a day of raining. I was calm.

As I walked, a mental something, but very external, was shouting in my face, "What in the HELL are you doing? You don't know how to go about playing music in clubs in Asia! You don't even speak Korean. You're going to fall on your face!" But something very internal wasn't worried at all. Besides, I had my written note. If they said no, I'd try somewhere else. That wasn't important. Just being out there was. Still, I was confident it would work out. Opportunities are made the way a jazz tune is: put yourself in place, count off the tune, and see what kind of music you can make, what kind of art. When you count off a tune, if you're playing with your heart, intuitively, you know how the last note will sound. I could tell this night's last note would be sweet.

I found the club, mounted the stairs, and entered the swinging doors as if I were on a mission, like a rogue sheriff entering a saloon in the Old West. I chose a table close to the stage, my horn hugging my side like a deputy. I settled in my seat and began to listen to the music. An electric guitar player was on stage. He played well and grooved as much as one can to an invisible karaoke band. As I sat there, I had no idea how I was going to get on that stage. At the end of each song I clapped loud and long--almost obnoxiously so--in an attempt to build some sort of rapport with this guy. I realized that if I was going to get the chance to play, I'd be taking guitar man's stage time and I needed his blessing. It's always much harder to refuse someone who applauds your music.

After a few numbers, a man came over and patted my shoulder. It was Mr. Kim, the same keyboard player who ushered me on stage last time I was in the club. This time Mr. Kim was wearing a plush, velvet, zebra-striped shirt--obviously ready for a night of rockin'. Mr. Kim must be pushing 55, and his outfit made him look like a clueless undercover cop failing at incognito at a RAVE party. Mr. Kim was nice to me and thumbed through my folder of music, then disappeared again.

After a few more tunes, the guitar player was done with his set. Mr. Kim rushed over and motioned for ME to hit the stage. Calmly, I grabbed my horn and music and walked over to the stage, looking like I did this every day of my life. Despite my cool demeanor, however, I was ready to pee my pants with excitement.

Before I knew it, the notes to "Yesterday" by the Beatles were buzzing by, measure by measure, on a laptop screen mounted on a stand in front of me. Those Koreans! I followed the bouncing ball as Mr. Kim accompanied me on the keys. Together we played about a half-hour set. After "Yesterday," we played some dramatic Barry-Manilow-style Korean numbers for which I played impromptu harmony. Mr. Kim bled from the Manilow-esque Korean tunes directly into a Christmas medley. Talk about being grateful for my ability to hear a tune and play it in practically any key--try Oh Holy Night, Deck The Halls, and O Little Town of Bethlehem in C#, F#, and A, respectively. It didn't bother me to play Christmas tunes. I'd be willing to play Mexican polkas all night as long as there were a stage and real people in the audience.

Our finale was "Summertime." We played the head tune and I took a few choruses solo. Then it came time for Mr. Kim to solo. He had literally thousands of cool sounds to choose from: the Hammond B-3, electric organ, electric piano sounds, etc. But no, his jam sound of choice was a stately church pipe organ. Standing there, my sax around my neck, I suddenly felt reverent, like I was at church and being watched by the bishop. Or maybe St. Coltrane, who knows.

We ended our set together, and Mr. Kim announced something into the mic in Korean, most of which I didn't understand. I did understand "American" and "saxophone" and figured that the resounding applause was for me. I was touched that Mr. Kim gave me not only the opportunity to play but then all the credit for it. I thanked him. He told me to stick around because another saxophone friend of his was going to play a set in about 20 minutes.

I took a seat at the bar, and an orange juice appeared magically before me. Two businessmen were sitting a few seats away from me at the bar and doing a nice job at knocking off a couple bottles of whiskey and an enormous platter of fried squid. I could tell that the one closest to me was anxious to tell me something. After another half bottle of whiskey, he got up the nerve to make his way over to me.

I was stewing in the joy of just having played when he tapped me on the shoulder. By his gestures, I could tell me appreciated my playing, and I thanked him in Korean. He then offered to buy me a drink. I drew a martini on a pad of paper and circled it with a line through it, indicating that I didn't drink. He looked at me like I was absolutely knocked about the head. I couldn't quite figure out how to let him know that I didn't drink as a religious choice. I ended up drawing a cross on the pad and then pointing it to the "no drink" sign I'd made. He still looked at me. I guess I panicked because I the next thing I knew, I was crossing myself then pointing at the "no drink" sign. He sort of understood this and slunk back to his seats muttering something impolite about Catholics. Sorry Catholics.

Unfortunately, this wasn't the end of drunk guy, for he had something very pressing on his mind that he had to tell me. His three-word English vocabulary helped communication very little. The bottle of whiskey in his head helped communication even less. I spent the next half hour trying to figure out what in the HELL was so pressing on his mind regarding me by playing pictionary and charades with him. He was certifiably terrible at both. I've decided that drunk people are rarely fun to play with--unless it is at their expense.

In the meantime, the other sax player had begun his set and was playing to the karaoke. He followed the tunes well and had a decent, though rough, tone. He wasn't bad. Hearing the Korean sax player confirmed what I understood of the Korean musicians standard: sappier than Canadian maples in the fall. Good to know if I want to land a gig in K-town. Make it sweet and gooey.

Drunk guy still hadn't given up and had called one of his friends on his cell phone and was shoving it in my face. I took the phone and after one word, "yobosayeo," I had exhausted my entire repertoire of Korean phone vocabulary and etiquette. I was relieved to hear the voice on the other end speak English. I ended up having a delightful conversation in English with his friend (actually his subordinate in a large corporation that sells agricultural equipment, I found out).

Well, drunk guy's friend couldn't care less about the urgent message drunk guy asked him to transcribe to me, but rather was unquenchably curious about my first impressions of Korea. Though he spoke little of drunk guy, his boss, the man on the phone did apologize obsequiously for drunk guy's offer to buy me a drink. I assured him that I was flattered, despite my refusal. Eventually I hung up the phone and made motions to leave.

After another ten minutes of gestures, drunk guy finally communicated to me that he thinks George Bush is an ignoramous and that he was very involved with the SOFA conflict between the U.S. and Korea. Drunk guy was very pleased when I told him that my opinion of George Bush was probably even less favorable than his. He offered me one of his business cards, I guess just in case I ever needed some farm equipment in the future. I took the opportunity of this cheery accord to shake his hand and leave. I grabbed my horn, waved good-bye to Mr. Kim, and headed out of the door, happy to leave drunk guy, charades, plush velvet zebra shirts, pipe organs, karaoke, and Sidney Bechet reincarnate. What a circus! What an amazing, exhilarating circus!

Regardless of the chaos, I realize that it was the price for pleasure in this case.

I descended the stairs and walked giddy down the street. Again, I had put myself into the situation I was hoping for, and God just let it happen for me. I set it up and he just pushed go. Wow, he's good to me.

The night was still young, and I was feeling lucky, so I decided to try another bar. I had seen a live music bar a few weeks earlier in the same area. It was only a block away and I found it without a problem. After sharing the sixth-floor elevator ride with a particularly happy couple, I walked through the doors of MOTOWN. I hadn't used the written note yet, so I thought I'd give that a try. I wasted no time and walked directly to the bar and handed my note to a bar tender. She took it, glanced over it, and then skittered away to a corner. As I stood there alone with my horn in hand, I took a moment to look around. There was a good-sized, half-circle stage front and center with a long bar wrapped around it. On the stage was band equipment, although the PA was playing recorded pop music. People filled several tables and booths hidden in the dark, smokey corners.

Soon, a woman who looked like she was in charge appeared almost mysteriously out of the dark holding my note. She walked straight to me and in decent English made certain that she understood my note and then said, "Sure. You can play." I thanked her with a polite, little bow and then walked around the bar to put my sax together.

I laid my case down on the stage, clicked open the latches, and then began to fit my sax together. My reed was still wet and my horn still warm from the last bar. I couldn't believe this was happening. A few guys about my age appeared on stage and helped me situate a stand and a mic. Everything seemed hot and ready to go. The pop music stopped and I was on.

"All of Me" (it's the first tune in my book) floated out of my horn. I played the head and then enough choruses for a solo. I didn't think about the changes. I just felt them come and go. I played my feelings--the night, my contentment, my joy, my bewilderment in this club, this town, and this country as a whole. I played my frustration and concern about Celeste's illness. I played for the need to play. I played to feel the reed vibrate, like my own vocal chords and sing in a way my throat never could. I played the serendipity of it all. I closed my eyes and watched my emotions flow past the back of my eyelids in splotches of color--through me and over the chords. I felt like I was skipping lightly on stepping stones over a river of form called "All of Me." Appropriately named.

Just naked sax--mo accompaniment. This was a rare concert for the people in MOTOWN. I finished the tune and opened my eyes to the applause of the entire bar. People previously hiding in the smoke-filled corners had all come out and were standing at the bar, their complete attention glued on me.

Blue Skies. A Nightingale Sang in Barkley Square. Chestnuts Roasting over an Open Fire (hey, they were mad about Christmas tunes at the last bar). Then Autumn Leaves. As I was finishing the first time through the head, I half-heard some rustling of instruments and equipment behind me. Seconds later, to my complete amazement, I began the second chorus to the accompaniment of a full band. With my eyes still shut, I thought I was dreaming. Truly, this couldn't be happening. Drums, bass, and piano all playing in the right key with me and Autumn Leaves. I easily settled into their groove and let my horn ring. "The falling leaves drift by the window. The autumn leaves of red and gold." I played another chorus, solo, gave a solo to the piano, snapping along to the rhythm. I finished the tune with another chorus and a tag. I joined in applause with the bar for the pinch-hitter band that had appeared on stage. I felt myself laughing with delight.

After a round of blues, it was clear that the mysterious accompanying band was the hired music for the night and that they happened to be taking a break when I came in the door. I realized that not only was the owner of the club nice enough to let me play but the band members themselves were kind enough to let me squeeze into the middle of their sets. As I was breaking down my horn, the bass player and I swapped email addresses and telephone numbers. Then I was invited to come over and sit with the band.

I sat down to another orange juice, again magically appearing on the spot. The band members were all about my age. They were a cover band on a merciless crusade to rip off the hits, but the singers (one man, one woman) both had great pipes, and hey, why not play what people want to get paid for a gig? The band and I chatted for a moment. The guitarist told me that I sounded like Coltrane. Was I really like John Coltrane? I was flattered. Lucky for me, everyone spoke pretty good English. Then they hit the stage for their final set.

Meanwhile, the owner, the woman who allowed me to play in the first place, sat with me at the table and encouraged me in my playing and then offered me a drink. I was good at refusing booze by then and so told her I was content with the orange juice. She was cool and told me I could come back and play whenever I wanted. She asked me the usual gamut of questions: Why I was in South Korea, did I like teaching, did I like Korea, how long had I been playing the sax, etc. I told her that I was married and that Celeste and I came to Korea for an adventure, that I love Korea, and that playing the sax is in my blood. She just smiled at that.

By now it was 'round midnight and I was sure that Celeste was worried about me being out so late. The band on stage finished their last song and were packing up. I thanked the club owner and the lead singer for letting me play as they both led me to the door and politely waited with me until my elevator came. The doors to the elevator shut and I realized that I was sharing the elevator with the same happy couple that rode up with me. Strange.

I hit the street and breathed in several lungs full of fresh, rainy night air. I was livid with excitement about the entire evening. My tongue licked the inside of my bottom lip, sore after a few short sets of playing. It confirmed to me that tonight wasn't just a dream.

I was easily the most lucid person on the street at 12:15 am on a weekend night downtown. My heart was that of a happy drunk, but my brain was stiletto sharp, recalling with exactness not only the nuts and bolts events of the evening but most importantly the abstract emotions and internal experience of playing. It was recording the mental motion of floating through chords, bouncing off notes, of touching each note and sending it outward, inward, upward, or downward. Sculpting. Feeling. Breathing. . . Singing.

I hadn't eaten since lunch, more than twelve hours earlier, yet I wasn't really hungry; something else filled me. I wasn't hungry, but I did crave chocolate. I bounced into a convenient store and bought the only thing close to good chocolate in Korea--an imported Kinder bar. I paid, left the store, and walked a block to get out of the buzz of club land. I walked along a sidewalk for a while and then stopped, set my horn down, and leaned up against a tree. A street lamp light filtered through the tree's branches and landed softly on my shoulder. I unwrapped my chocolate and began to eat it deliberately while musing over my unbelievable evening.

Maybe I WAS like John Coltrane--I was alive on jazz and chocolate.