Jock's Brew
James L
Introduction
His hands rested on the table in front of him. The fingers were short, stubby and muscular, the occasional age line superimposed on his smooth chocolate-brown complexion. They looked every bit like a normal set of Afro-American hands, yet that couldn�t have been further from the truth. I knew this because I had seen them in action, the things they were capable of. They were the hands of an artist.
His right hand lifted and stroked familiarly at his jaw, the pads of this fingers feeling the roughness of slight stubble. They glided over the few bumps and scars that dented his otherwise Hollywood looks, abrasions from a long time ago that he never liked to explain, even if I asked him directly how he got them. His face was wholesome, well proportioned; his nose sat, modest and rounded, above a pair of thick, pink, fleshy lips, the upper one curving under the slightest dusting of dark, soft hair.
His left hand still lay on the table, fully exposed, fingernails tapping away quietly at the wood. His fingers moved quickly, efficiently, in complete control, in time with the sounds that were flowing from the bandstand behind me. His face was expressionless, his eyes unfocused, pointing at the ceiling. He wasn�t impressed with what he was hearing. He�d heard it all before, every note - nothing new was being said. His mind churned with ideas, variations on what the band was playing. Musical phrases instilled with beauty and meaning that would add a whole new dimension to the music being played. His mind turned the music every which way, exploring each phrase and silently forming his own interpretations. All this activity; hidden stealthily behind two warm, placid brown eyes that looked as though they were ready to melt.
�I�m goin� to the bar, you want something?� I asked at last.
Eugene smiled back at me.
Shades of Blue - liner notes
In a career that started in 1951 with a stand-in spot with Arty Newman�s band at a dance hall in Jacksonville, Illinois, Eugene �Jock� Malone has developed a reputation as one of the finest and most innovative jazz tenor saxophonists on the scene today. When his mother died, 16-year-old Malone left his home and his father to go and live with early mentor Carl Fenshaw, who introduced him to the world of jazz. By the age of 22, Malone was a favourite choice among many of the artists who toured Chicago.
His true potential, however, has only been realised through the Jacksonville boy�s moving to New York, where he teamed up with trumpeter Sam Gordon, pianist Daniel Rosen, Joseph �JJ� Fiddler on bass and George Mercer on drums. Collectively known as the Jock Malone Quintet, this group, formed by Malone six years ago, has established itself as one of the main driving forces behind the East Coast scene.
This album, Shades of Blue, is the group�s fourth and their second with new pianist, Bernard Erskine. The album was recorded in less than three weeks at a New Jersey studio and exhibits some of the most cohesive ensemble work ever put to vinyl. Breathtaking solos, all worthy of transcription, are superimposed over a lush underpinning of Erskine�s sassy piano comping, reliable yet sultry bass playing from Fiddler and a wealth of rhythmically intricate feels from the kit of Mercer.
However the standout on this album is without doubt Malone himself, whose unconventional melodic approaches, while they may take some getting used to, are freely evolving masterpieces, permeated by rich modal and bluesy harmonies and carried through to the audience on waves of highly complex, rhythmic ideas. He is, in every respect, a revolutionary musical genius.
The musical outcome of Shades of Blue is one that spans the full spectrum of human emotion. The music created is both meaningful and ambiguous, bursting with the collective talent and imaginations of five fresh young musicians at the forefront of jazz. All this (and so much more) has been compacted into a single record; a record to be listened to and cherished forever.
- Mitch Young
Swingin� It
The smoke was rising up from the glowing end of Bernie�s lit cigarette, its soft, almost sensual movement visible in the warm glow of a light bulb. It hung there, not drifting anywhere in a hurry, just happy to be. It was just getting used to the idea of being when a waitress strode right on past, sending the smoke flying in the stale air, lost forever. As the last of it was disappearing from sight, the waitress rounded our table, her bubs dragging Georgie Boy�s eyes along for the ride. Never was a discreet person.
�Guess we better be gettin� on with the next set, ay Jock?� said Bernie slowly, with a tone that suggested it was the last thing he wanted to do. As he spoke, smoke spewed from his mouth and nostrils, big puffs with each syllable.
�Yeah�guess.�
I was already trying to come up with a decent set that would get this crowd moving a bit. During the first two sets they had just sat there, like stone, as if they were sitting in on some sorta executive board meeting, instead of a jam session between some of the hottest talent going around. That�s right, modesty gets you nowhere. At least that�s what my dad used to tell me. �Only fools are modest, boy�, I heard those words clearly in my head, bringing at least some sense of life to that cold hard voice that sounded whenever my father felt I was worth the breath. A man of few words.
�Man, why we still here?� Bernie�s voice broke my concentration. �This dump ain�t getting us nowhere. You seen what they been doin� down at da Band Box? There�s a place with class, know what I�m sayin�?�
Glancing at the paint inching slowly away from the walls, and at the waitresses who looked like a bunch of quiffs picked up outside a cheap downtown dance hall, the nigger did have a point. �Don�t reckon they spent a dime here since back in the day, no-sir-ee.� Georgie agreed. �Hey that reminds me, how �bout a loan of a couple simoleans for drinks, Bernie?�
He couldn�t have picked a worse guy to ask, or a worse time to ask it. Bernie�s eyes fixed a glance right into Georgie boy�s that had poor Georgie shuffling uneasily on his chair.
�A couple dollars? That�s heavy sugar! Who do I look like, the President?� I said, �Do I look like da Prez� ta you, nigger? What you need that kinda dough for anyway, huh? It ain�t like the janes they got working here are gunna be hard to impress!� His last cigarette just a warm stub in the ashtray, Bernie�s hand dived into his shirt pocket and pulled out his old hope chest and a matchbox, still muttering under his breath as he lit another.
I glanced over at J.J.. That nigger had been nursing the same two nips of whisky for almost an hour. He was just sittin� there, eyes melting holes in the ice cubes that shrank slowly in his glass. There had been rumours a while back that J.J. had some sort of a drinking problem, but I don�t think there was any truth about them. He was never unsocial about it, drinking never made him angry or nothing. Couldn�t imagine him lashing out at anyone, hurting those he cared for�It just so happened that he drank when he was feeling down, to forget and, well, J.J. was just one of those people who seemed to be down an awful lot. Personal issue that it was, obviously he was in no mood to discuss.
�What�s eatin� you, Joseph?� Sam was our resident psychologist, least he�d like to think so.
J.J. let one of his elbows hit the table, his hand massaging his temples like he was trying to work out those deep creases embedded in his skin. He was older than the rest of us, and it was starting to show more and more these days. He let out a heavy sigh. He also just plain hated being called Joseph.
�Ahhh nothin� Samuel, just same ol� shit. Now,� his head lifted, firing an impatient glance at yours truly. �Now, are you cats here ta quiz me or are we gunna play some more tunes? We ain�t gettin� paid for no mothers� meetin� over here, that�s for damn sure!�
The one thing you could say about J.J. was that he commanded respect. He was like a father to me, and he treated me like a son, something that I�d always craved.
The five of us, that being J.J., Georgie Boy, Sam, Bernie and me, strolled onto the bandstand. I took another glance at the crowd. A room full of dead hamsters could have created more of a vibe.
�Man� this place is dead!� George had this annoying habit of stating the obvious, and hanging around with cynical cats like me and Sam wasn�t learning him any either. Typical drummer.
Sam, in character, rolled his eyes, in a way that basically said �thankyou George, ya goddamn moron�� but instead turned to me. �So, what�s playin� Jock?� His voice always had a calming influence on me, low and coarse in tone, and yet smooth and mellow. Must be all that baccy and weed he was always smoking.
�Night in Tunisia, in D. And for god�s sake Georgie, try to stay with us in the bass solo.� Even with all the talent that was jam-packed into New York at the time, when it came to drummers, it was hard to find good help. Georgie nodded, having little or know idea what I was talking about. He was good, damn good, but if there ever was a cat more vague, I�d sure like to meet him.
The rhythm vamp started with J.J. and Bernie. Man, them two had their own secret language, I swear. They did it without talking, without gestures, yet they locked in with each other, every time we played, right from the first downbeat. �All in the body language� was the only explanation either of them ever gave for it. I would watch them like a hawk, waiting for a word to be mouthed or a nod to be given, but they never did any of that. It was some secret club that they belonged to which would never have me as a member. But I had begun to just accept it, thankful for having such a strong and reliable foundation that meant I could wander around the boundaries of any tune, play almost whatever I want, and always know that if I fell, I�d be caught.
Enter Georgie Boy a few bars later, playing rims shots and tappin� the sides of his drums, adding some rhythmic colour to the canvas. He was an unconventional cat when it came to some of the more drum-orientated charts we played, always lookin� for new attacks and textures using any part of the kit he could reach.
Soon Sam and me felt compelled to come in with the head. Together we sat atop this institution of chords and rhythms like a couple of kids on their dad�s shoulders at a fair, never feeling for a minute like we were gunna fall off, just enjoying the exhilaration of the situation. We went round with the head once (it�s a long head), and Sam launched into his solo.
I had first met Sam at a Laundromat, of all places, about half a dozen blocks from the Blue Fish. I was down there washing some of my blacks (though to be honest about all the clothing I owned was black), or at least trying to. I was getting real dirty on this one machine, kickin� and cussin� it like there was no tomorrow, because it kept trying to put my clothes in a light rinse pre-wash, whatever the hell that is. See, I�m getting all worked up just talking about it!
Anyway, here I was, telling this mother of a machine where it could shove its light rinse pre-wash, when I hear this voice, Sam�s voice, tellin� me to cool it a little. Apparently I was scaring some of the lady customers away. I turned around, intent on telling him to mind his own goddamn business. And that�s what I did.
�Mind your own goddamn bus�� I said, turning angrily, stopping myself as I took in the size of the man. I�d say about 6�4�, with a mean-looking goatee stickin� out from the base of a dark, angular jaw that was telling me, by itself, to �cool it a little�. In the end I have to say I listened to the jaw.
�Sorry man, don�t know what gets into me sometimes. It�s these damn machines, get to me every time, know what I�m sayin�?�
The jaw relaxed, and fell into a smile, with glimpses of purest white teeth from behind a veil of full, dark lips. From that moment on I would always find it hard to be aggressive when Sam was around. It was as if all that bud he smoked sorta transferred to me when we talked, like osmosis or something.
He had this way about him, this calmness that oozed from every pore on his body that was real infectious, impossible to ignore. It was a calmness that really came out when he put a trumpet to his mouth. He produced this big mellow tone, one that filled the room, whether it was inside a small club like the Fish or outside in the open air, his sound was just all encompassing, inescapable. Luckily, it wasn�t a sound that I wanted to escape from. I just let it wash over me, around me, and into me, filling me up from the inside the way a spoonful of hot porridge does on a wintry New York morning. Warms you up good, makes you feel safe and comfortable. After a solo from Sam I always felt better about who I was, what I was doing, where I was going.
I took another look around the room. I could tell that his tone was getting to them too. There was no door to the club, just a narrow staircase that acted as an effective wind tunnel when the winter gusts were blowing around the streets. So on nights like this, you can imagine that the club was getting rather chilly. And yet, during the whole of Sam�s solo, I didn�t see anyone shivering any.
There was this one guy, a white boy, sittin� by himself in the second closest table to us, grinning like a motherfucker and nodding to everything Sam played, as though he was hip to it all or something. Now any brother who knew two things about the shit we was letting fly up there that night could have seen that this ofay had no clue. It made me real angry that people like this were the people coming to watch fine musicians like Sam night after night. He was on fire tonight, virtually layin� his soul out there for the world to see; exposing is deepest thoughts and feelings through the language of jazz. Da Vinci painted, Shakespeare wrote plays, Keats and Coleridge wrote poems. What Sam did was less tangible, but just as real and profound. Except with what he did, there were no drafts, no evidence of planning or thinking ahead more than a few seconds. Sam was sculpting a masterpiece, and it was people like this white boy that were soaking it up, thinking, �oooh�isn�t that pretty�, and then letting it all leak out the other ear. It was like feeding a pig caviar- why even bother when they�d be just as happy with slops?
I tuned back into Sam. He chose his notes carefully, as though he had it all planned out beforehand, which of course he hadn�t. Every phrase was a continuation of the last, never angular or too contradictory, but forever fluid. Logical. His music made perfect sense.
�Man� that was some bad ass soloing!� I�d find myself saying to him sometimes, but he would just dismiss it out of sheer modesty. To tell you the truth, I�m not sure he knew just how good he was.
Sam dropped his horn from his lips, and gave me the nod, with a wry �beat that� smile thrown in for good measure. Even he knew he was cookin� now.
I felt I had to pull off some crazy shit to get this crowd going the way Sam had, so I came out firing on all cylinders. By the time the second bridge came around I was screaming, tying my fingers in a knot trying to get all the high harmonics I could out of my horn. Squeaks and buzzes were flying everywhere, but I didn�t care - it all added to the effect. I loved that tune and it showed. The way the chords fell, with each of J.J.�s tugs of his bass strings, littered with harmonic fragments that Bernie had created around J.J. and Georgie Boy�s rhythmic foundation, it just felt so good.
Bernie, because he was feeling rather cheeky, had begun quoting licks I was using that night back at me, something that he loved doing, just because he knew it pissed me off. I played something that resembled the head of �bebop, but in a minor key of course, and he turned it on its head, added some more chromatic passing notes that gave it a circus-like feel, and served it back at me. The cat was trying to make fun of me, but I was playing so good that I just kept on churning out phrase after phrase, trying my hardest to ignore the hoots of melodic laughter coming from the Steinway grand behind me. It was not long after that I realized that he was trying to tell me he was ready for a solo of his own. I had been going for a good five minutes straight and barely scratched the surface of what I had to offer that night.
A piano solo from Bernie was an intense experience. He knew every kind of chord there was to know, but it just wasn�t enough. Every time he played he kept on exploring, roaming the keys in search of something new; a new chord, a new voicing. His spontaneity was also something to behold. One moment he�d be plodding away in the depths of the lower octaves, like a hippopotamus waddling happily through deep mud, and the next you knew he was soaring up the full length of the keyboard, his blurred fingers shaping melodies that were, in themselves, works of art.
Soon Georgie came in for some trading fours. For an ignorant cat, he sure was clever when you plunked him in front of a kit and handed him some sticks. The energy that poured out of those drums was awesome and fired deep into my eardrums every time he raised a stick. In little four-bar compartments he delivered spurts of raw energy and excitement to the crowd, who were actually starting to get a little more appreciative.
We came back in with the head, this time more spirited, an army returning after a successful campaign, feisty and triumphant. Slowing down, we lead into a final, richly diminished chord, Bernie sprinkling it with a garnish of semi quavers. Georgie�s splash cymbal sounded the end of the piece, still ringing out when the applause started.
Singin� It
�If you ask me, jazz achieved perfection some time ago. Artists like Satchmo (Louis Armstrong) and Bean (Coleman Hawkins) were, and still are, the essential soloists, the Count and the Duke, the leaders of the great big bands. New Orleans is the home of Jazz, the place that started it all. Now all of a sudden we have artists like Charlie Parker, Miles Davis and Eugene Malone, bunch of hopped-up low-lifers who think they can play this thing they call bebop and pass if off as jazz. It ain�t jazz- we know what jazz is. I mean, the chords are all wrong for starters. They think we stupid or something?�
-Lenny Nolan,
Owner and proprietor of Lenny�s Dance Hall, New Orleans
�Between Kisses?� J.J. said, suggesting a chart to play next. I nodded in agreement, mopping the sweat from my forehead and neck with my red handkerchief. It was definitely time for a slow number. I told Georgie he could sit this one out. I wouldn�t have tried this with any other group I�d been in for fear of losing the tune, but I felt the time called for a more intimate feel that you could only get when the bass was the lone helmsman, and I trusted J.J. with the wheel. Hell, I trusted that cat with my life.
The rhythm section grooved on this tune particularly well, I thought to myself, as I watched J.J. embracing his bass. He was mumbling softly to himself, though it looked as if he was offering his axe some sorta encouragement, or whispering sweet things to it, seducing it. It was a different type of groove from Tunisia: sultry, sensual and deeply intimate. Playing a tune like this, or even listening to it, was a sure way to get a cat thinking. The speed sat closer to one beat every second, giving you all the time in the world. This meant, however, that if you just ran your horn up and down scales all night, you�d look a fool.
I think Art, my first sax teacher, put it best. One lesson I�d been running some up-tempo charts like Ornithology and Cherokee, and was really starting to get on top of the changes. Then, out of the blue, he chucked an old record of the Gershwin ballad, Someone to Watch Over Me. He must have seen the look of confusion I was wearin�.
�I know you can move your fingers fast.� he told me slowly, his face as stern as ever. �All the technique in the world isn�t gunna hide your soul in this tune, boy. Now I wanna know what you�ve got to say, not how fast you can say it.�
A girl sat over at the bar at the back right of the room. She was by herself, perched on a stool that meant her legs hung with her feet hanging elegantly and pointed downwards. Since she was facing the bar, I could only make out the back of her head, and her hair, which sat relaxed on the tops of her slender shoulders. Her right hand clutched a hi-ball glass, her left playing gracefully with one of her gold earrings, which caught the light and winked at me. I imagined having my arms around her, her breath warm on my lips, her fingers running softly through the hair on the back of my head.
It had been a long time since I knew the joy of having a good woman in my life. Lorraine, she had been the last.
I wondered what the other boys were thinking. J.J. was still hunched over his bass, plucking its thick threads. Although it wasn�t the usual order of things, he took the first solo. It was clear that he had something to say, and if he didn�t say it soon he was gunna explode.
I was married once, he played.
Grace her name was.
Her hair smelt like vanilla.
Left me for a journalist.
He drove a Cadillac. He was in control.
I steered towards alcohol. It controls me.
Grace����Grace������I loved Grace�
The crowd applauded, but they were applauding the notes, because that was all they heard. If they had listened to the story, they wouldn�t have been applauding. Like me, they would have been weeping.
J.J. had finished, and nodded to Bernie, who nodded back. Bernie started low, using the bottom end of the piano to link his solo to the one he had just heard. He lingered thoughtfully on some of the intervals and licks he had heard the bass use, but adding the cleaner attack of his instrument to them.
Tough break, buddy, he sympathised with J.J., I still reckon she was below you. I�ve never been married. Like to keep my options open, personally. There was one bird who almost got me, though. Lived with her for almost three years. In the end it was the whole marriage caper that scared me off. Had to get out of there.
Felt trapped.
Trapped.
He ran his rough hands over the entire length of the keyboard, alternating bebop runs with juicily extended chords, with elevenths and thirteenths hanging precariously over the voids between J.J.�s beat keeping. His solo flowed more than J.J.�s, but that was partly due to the nature of his instrument.
Told her I need some time away to think about our relationship. Went to Europe. Came back six months late. I missed her too much. But she was gone.
Gone, gone she was. There was a note on the bed.
Bernie�s solo built up, his hands moving further apart as he mixed awkwardly high chromatic runs with low short stabs in his left hand. The solo wasn�t sitting right, but it was intentional. He was holding something back. Some of the audience members cringed slightly, their ears not agreeing with some of the harmonies being used. It took a lot more listening, this type of music. Bernie was a complicated man who liked to play complicated music. In some of the faster tunes he�d string together phrases that would often leave me panting, neither my ear nor my mind able to cope with the melodic intensity he could generate from those eighty-eight keys.
�I can�t�, the note said. �I just can�t�.
Asked some of her friends, said they didn�t know where she�d got to.
There was a pause. Sam filled in the gap with some sympathetic trumpet, the sound muffled, distant yet piercing behind a harmon mute. Then, without warning, Bernie lunged back into his solo. I had never heard such emotion belted out of a piano before. His soul, his very being, was flowing through his outstretched fingers, channeled through the keys and released by the vibrating strings. The air was thick with pure Bernie, billowing out of the piano and into the ears, minds and hearts of the entire house.
She was the one. She was it, my all. I will never love again.
This was where it was at. It was something those damn traditionalists wouldn�t understand- trying to tell us that was we were doing wasn�t jazz, that what we were saying in our music was all wrong. They reminded me of my father.
It was the first time I�d heard Bernie�s story. Usually he played like me, real showy, but not that much depth. Tonight I had seen inside that big cocky Negro, into his thoughts and emotions. He had had something to say, and he had said it out loud, spoken clearly through the vibrating strings of that big old piano, and yet it was like I was the only one to hear it. I felt privileged. The others motioned for me to take a couple of choruses, but it wasn�t really my scene. Not tonight. If I was gunna have a say tonight, emotionally, it would have to be in a blues.
Unable to shake the melodies from my mind, I recited the most lyrical and thoughtful head I could manage to round off the tune, then stood in awe at the audience�s reaction. They clapped for ages, cheered and encouraged us, as if they had heard the story just as well as I did. Bernie and J.J. had broken down the language barrier. The sounds of appreciation echoed dully off the shadowed walls, littered with posters that held the faces and statures of the great musicians who had played at the club.
�Must be time faw th� blues, ay Jock?�
�Samuel� ya read my mind, nigger.�
But what blues? I remember thinking. C-jam? Nah, too static, better suited to big bands. Limehouse? It�s an option, but we probably need a�
�That was byyyoodiful boys! Didn�t know you had it in ya! Bernie, was that Body and Soul I heard you quotin� in that last number? Beeeyyyyooootiful!�
Enter a green-checkered business suit, shiny brown shoes, a navy blue tie and an over-greased hairstyle. Ladies and gentlemen, meet Vince fucking Hargrove, the nosiest, most irritating and, I�d say, fattest promoter on The Street. Seeing the way he was acting all friendly like with my fellow band members, and listening to him talk to �em like he knew all about the little world we had created up on that stage - it had me just about gagging. Those little darting glances his tiny eyes gave me every once in a while let me know he didn�t think too highly of me either.
�I�m sure I don�t need to tell you boys that you�re one of the hottest acts going around these parts��
That�s right, you don�t. Now fu�
��and personally I don�t think you�re getting the respect you deserve. So I�ve decided to reach out, get you boys� you know� on your financial feet a bit.�
Respect. Respect. The word left a nasty scum in my ears as he said it. Respect was the last thing he wanted to give us. I could smell his stale breath from where I was standing, a mixture of cheap cigars and not-so-cheap whisky, blended with something else that made me shudder. I wished he would stop calling us boys, too, like he was the principal and we were a bunch of no-hoping fourth graders.
�Ok, ok� let me cut to the chase. How would you boys like your very�own�manager?�
He emphasised the word like when we heard it he expected us to jump up and shake his hand then and there, while using the other to sign any piece of paperwork he tossed in front of us. Right on queue, he made one appear out of his stretched breast pocket, a little white flag unveiled from that awfully printed suit - our very own surrender flag. And at the bottom - five little dotted lines beckoning our John Hancocks. I scanned the document. It started off big, chatty and cheerful, simple language, wielding a few three and four figure numbers that were underlined excitedly in red ink. As my eyes moved down the print got smaller and the words got longer.
Non-Negotiable Fee Mandatory Compliance
Complete� Managerial� Ownership.
You see, he thought we�d see the big pretty numbers and dollar signs, maybe manage to get the gist of the first section, then skip blindly to the bottom and sign away our dignity like morons. Never mind them big nasty words at the bottom. Just because we didn�t speak like them ofay white boys didn�t mean we had empty heads on our shoulders.
�That�s real nice of you, Mr Hargrove, Sir, but I�m afraid we cannot accept your offer.� I told him, my teeth grinding so hard I thought they was gunna shatter.
�Whoa�is that in dollars?�
George wasn�t helping.
Vince chuckled a bit, his pride damaged by what I�d said, and how I�d said it, without a hint of rudeness or hesitation.
�Still� I guess you can�t decide on this right now. I�ll give this to you Eugene; you can discuss it with your buddies a little later. My number is on the bottom. I�ll let you get back to your jamming.�
�Yea...thanks.�
�Man, that�s a serious amount of money, Jock. Maybe we should, you know, give it some ��
�Shut your mouth, Georgie Boy!� J.J. got in before me. �What blues it gunna be, Jock?� It was the most he�d said all night.
�I dunno� Sam, what you thinkin� boy?�
�I�m thinking a bit of the old chronic blues. Sound good?�
�Yeah, chronic like that Mr Hargrove�s outfit. Man, did you see them checks?�
�George�that�s the smartest thing you�ve said all night� said Bernie, being cruel as always.
�Gee�thanks man!� Georgie replied cheerfully, casually gliding over Bernie�s sarcasm-rich observation.
I shook my head, deciding to let that one slide. �Chronic blues it is. Count it off George.�
Layin� It Back
�The blues is more than just twelve bars of music. Now I could go on about black slavery and all those years of oppression, but for me the blues goes beyond that. Besides, you can�t dwell on shit that heavy for too long. The blues is a commemoration of all that has come before. The blues is life force, feeding off the lives of anyone who explores it.�
-Eugene Malone, New York, 1967
The groove was bottomless, full of meaning and infectious. J.J. knew it, tugging methodically at his bass, driving the tune alongside his ever-present co-pilot, Georgie, who also knew it, even if he didn�t know too much else. He just kept on riding that beat with his hi-hat. Bernie added colour and flavour, tossing out chords, so deeply rooted in the blues it seemed to be screaming, �Oh Yeah! This is where it�s at! Boys�we home now!� The ear-to-ear grins the boys were wearin� told me that they felt the same way I did about the blues. There was a huge difference between having and playing the blues. If you had the blues, playing the blues was like a vaccine, helped you forget all the shit that was getting� ya down.
I�d learnt about the blues as a young boy, from my best friend�s father. I spent a lot of time at their place, sifting through massive piles of records that sat brandishing names like Louis Armstrong, Coleman Hawkins and Jelly Roll Morton. Carl, Troy�s father, was a piano player and taught me all about chords and how they fitted in with the music. Building blocks, he described them as. Just like you need good building blocks that fit together to build a house, you need chords that join nicely so melodies can be laid on top and not collapse the tune.
He also taught me that when it came to chord progressions, you couldn�t beat the blues. Strongest type of music there is, he said. You can do anything to the blues. It can be joyful, it can be downhearted - it can handle any emotion. But the emotion you get out of it will always be one of joy. If it doesn�t make you happy, it can�t be the blues.
Those last words were the ones that stuck in my mind the most, as if they were the words of God Himself, not that I was the religious type. Music was my religion, and the club was my church. My father hadn�t appreciated this view.
Music is God�s and God�s alone, boy. If it�s not praising the Lord, it�s worshipping Satan. This was the lecture I got whenever my father caught me playing anything that even resembled a jazz lick.
By the time I was 13, I was trapped in a vicious circle.
I�d be feelin� blue. I�d play the blues. I�d get a lecture and a whipping. I�d be feelin� blue again. I�d play the blues again�
�Ding�ding-da-ding�dingding��ding�� Bernie�s highest G, belted out over and over, like he was stuck inside it, cornered. A new chorus started, yet he still hung there, while the rest of us waited for it to fall�.
My mom saw what I was going through. Sometimes she would even stick up for me, confront my father about it, only to get the same treatment I did. Eventually she stopped trying, tried to block it all out. Go fetssh mommy some more of her medicine, Eushhene darrlin, she�d slur at me. I guess it was that medicine that finally killed her.
Then it was just dad and me.
My sax playing was really starting to take off, though I didn�t dare play at home, at least when dad was around anyway. I�d play with Mr Fenshaw, that�s Troy�s old man, at their place. It was them jam sessions and them alone that kept me going, kept me sane.
I took over from Bernie.
�Where were you, I say, where were you today, boy?� My father asked me one evening, bits of half chewed beef and vegetables flying out towards me. I�d been spending more and more time over at the Fenshaw�s and he was gettin� a bit suspicious about what I was doing with my time.
�I� I been over at Troy�s house, sir.� I managed to stammer, glancing warily over at my dads whipping belt hanging next to the bookcase, its buckle nastily gleaming in the dim light of our dining room.
His small brown eyes settled, focusing on me a narrow and intense gaze that I could feel piercing right through me. �That Fenshaw�s kid?� His face screwed up slightly, as if his meal had suddenly turned sour right there in his mouth. � Never liked that Carl Fenshaw. I seen the way he looks at Mrs Powell. Mrs Redding, too. You can�t around starin� at other men�s wives like that. He thinks people don�t notice, but they do. I don�t want you hangin� round that place no more. While you�re in this house, its my rules, ya hear me?�
I squawked.
�its my rules��
I squealed.
��ya hear me?�
I growled.
I heard him.
Turn-a-round
I wandered along the sidewalk of Chronic Blues. The chords - once so stable and unwavering - moved underneath me. Cracks appeared, gaps. I tried to build bridges.
A chromatic run�
A flurry of fourths�
But the gaps were getting too wide.
��don�t make me get the belt out, boy��
I had become so wrapped up in my music, it became so much of who I was, that I became it, and it became me. Even the blues couldn�t cure me now.
��get you on your financial feet��
Was that a walking bass emanating from my chest?
Or a heartbeat?
��Mummy needs more medisshhine��
I no longer could tell where I ended and it began. Like a massive invisible python it wrapped itself around my soul, squeezing it until everything that was Eugene Malone oozed out, and became the music. The joy of my first love became a sweet, swinging standard. Frustration about my relationship with my father came out as a bluesy ballad. Everyday highs and lows transformed themselves into a lick here, a phrase there. My whole life had been translated into the language of jazz, right before my ears. Every note that I had played, that had meant anything to me, was now dancing around inside my mind, colliding uncontrollably into one another, creating dissonance, chaos, insanity. Conflicting emotions juxtaposed, chords entangled themselves, forming a noise inside my head that threatened to burst out at the most inopportune moment. Thoughts shot across my mind, bouncing off the disarray of music and memories. Everything that wasn�t music faded to the background, a frozen sepia backdrop to the cacophony within me.
�only outlet�closed down until further�inspiration�
The sound was horrible. Long, raspy and packed
With infinite rage, dragging through my insides
With rusted hooks.
It exited my lungs with force - they were almost torn out.
Such was its sheer volume.
Viscous, sticky,
Like scalding hot syrup just off the boil.
I must have wailed for some time, because I remember the audience had frozen, bewildered, not knowing how to react. They felt the power of the sound.
The chaos inside my head ceased. I stopped playing.
My conscience and sub-conscience bled dry of all emotion,
After years of bearing my soul,
To a couple score people at a time. Emptiness consumed me,
Lost, alone and detached from myself, not just the outside world.
The art form I loved more than anything but life,
Had exhausted then deserted me, leaving me tired and exposed
To the world. The musical cocoon
That once protected me, reduced to a few feeble strands,
Lying worthless on the cold ground.
Silence.
Beautiful Release.
I left the club. I left The Street. Didn�t care where I was going, as long as it was away.
�Ay�you ok man?�
The accent was foreign, lighthearted, relaxed.
�Oooh, you not lookin� no good. Better get you inside.�
The Latino man half-lead, half-carried me down a short set of stairs.
Must be some sort of club, I remember thinking. There was music. Trumpets, vocals, piano, bass, drums - they were all familiar voices.
I sat down on a chair.
The layers of sound were all there. It was the order and structure that was unfamiliar. The bass didn�t have the percussive, regular, on-beat that I was used to.
A drink was shoved in my hand.
It was smoother, less percussive and more fluid. The bass, that is. My ears struggled to cope with the way it was accenting, as if its job was to land exactly where I didn�t expect it.
I took a sip.
The bass wasn�t saying here�s the beat; it was saying here isn�t the beat. Find your own goddamn beat, I�ve got better things to do.
Mmmm�coconut flavoured.
The piano called out to me next. Gone were the blues-rooted chordal stabs that I knew so well, replaced by something new, exciting. Offbeat, rhythmic, chromatic patterns, doubled in octaves in the right hand, infused with a passion that was impossible to ignore. My feet were moving, much to my confusion, in time with the music.
The trumpet wasn�t the axe I knew either. This horn had more energy and raw power than any other trumpet I�d ever laid ears on. With bright, percussive attacks, it sizzled over the top of the music in a register that nailed you to the wall, way above any trumpeter on The Street. It didn�t take a trumpet player to tell that this guy was chops city. I tell ya, it was almost painful to listen to, but man�. my ears had never hurt this good.
Tearing my attention away from the insistent trumpet were the cheeky yet intricate cross-rhythms emanating from the percussion section. There were three of them; one grooving on a shiny set of timbales, another twisting enthusiastically at a cabasa, while the other jumped around something that resembled a drum kit. The snare and some of the cymbals and toms were gone, and in their place were woodblocks, bells and some other instruments I didn�t recognise. They were all having the time of their lives, you could tell. The guy on the timbales was adding all sorts of flavour to the mix, layin� fat, juicy triplet feels over the groove laid down by the other rhythm merchants, and all while brandishing a grin all over his face the size of Manhattan. He began using the frame of the drum, something I�d seen Georgie Boy doing in some of our more funky tunes, but this guy was a master at it.
It was then the trumpet player pulled his horn away from his larger than life chops and shouted something in Spanish into the audience. I watched as a gorgeous dark haired, olive skinned thing jumped up on stage and grabbed one of the spare mikes. Then, with a voice that would set the coldest cat�s soul ablaze, soared into song. Rolling her tongue sensually over every second word, her voice adding another flavour to the already spicy, tangy concoction, it was as if the words she sang in Spanish were translating themselves in my ear. She sang about being on the beach, the late afternoon sun still heating her skin. She told of the way her body moved, how it fitted in with the gentle rhythm of the waves, and with the sounds of a salsa band further up the sand. Life was simple; the most complex thing in it existed within nature and music, and the bond they shared. Everything else flowed naturally from that. Relationships, career, drugs, money: either they were captured in the music or they might as well have never existed.
For those couple of hours I sat there, stood there, danced there, in a New York Club not that far from The Street. New seeds of inspiration grew; melodies and phrases flowed once more through my head, now singing sweetly over a colourful backdrop of rhythms and textures that added spice to the mix. I let the world I had created for myself slowly melt away.
Like ice cubes in a glass.
a Holiday from The Street.
A holiday from jazz.
Coconut Flavoured- liner notes
It�s hard to imagine the world without sunlight, and it is just as hard to imagine the jazz world without Eugene �Jock� Malone. Sadly it is something we shall have to come to terms with. At a simple ceremony on April 17th, 1970, in Jacksonville, a small number of close friends and fellow musicians farewelled a man whose impact on jazz is still being realised, even after he lost his battle with liver cancer.
Coconut Flavoured was recorded only three months prior to his death, and captures the final musical remarks of a true jazz great. In what came as quite a shock to even the most up-to-date of Jock enthusiasts, he has combined his jazz quintet with some of the hottest Latin talent the Apple has to offer, creating the perfect marriage between two musical worlds. Malone�s creative genius is truly inspiring as he fuses his trademark free, lyrical, blues-rooted melodies over combinations of smooth jazz and spicy Latino grooves, crafting music that speaks directly to the soul.
In what is an hour-long orgy for the ears, the timbales of Henry Hernandez create exhilarating rhythmic tension over the jazzy grooves constantly emptying from the kit of George Mercer. Add in the colours of cabasa, guiro and bells, and what you get is a breathtaking joust between the rhythms of two cultures, a perfect balance of complements and arguments.
Lay over the top of this the punchy bass playing of Enrique Mangual, the jarring yet beautiful piano of Bernie Erskine, and an array of horns that capture the best playing from both continents, and the product is music that just feels good, and makes you want to get up and dance.
The music has a free, constantly evolving feel to it, echoing Malone�s own approach to life and to music. The interaction within the group is strongly felt, Malone in particular taking musical colour samples from each of his ensemble and adding them to his own extensive palette. With these colours and shades he creates constantly evolving shapes, patterns, ideas; never happy with what has been done and said.
There is another element to his music, however: a new, wild, howling sound - one that speaks of tremendous pain, regret and frustration. It is powerfully primal, and gives the impression of liberation and freedom. It seems Malone has found yet another way to express himself musically.
The album also showcases Malone�s compositional flair, as he performs a range of his own compositions. A highlight is the recording of Jock�s last ballad, Song for J.J.; a duet between himself and Erskine composed in memory of their former bass player, Joseph Fiddler. The only slow tune on an album which mainly celebrates life and Malone�s musical evolution, Song for J.J. reminds us of the depth of sensitivity and feeling Eugene Malone brings to a ballad, moving the listener like only he can. Also emphasized is the faultless musical coherence between Malone and Erskine, as they reminisce musically about a man who meant so much to both of them. Jock�s sound is at its finest - full, centred and straight from the soul, with an ability to portray every kind of emotion imaginable.
Here�s to Coconut Flavoured, and a man who could say more in one note than most could in a lifetime.
- Mitch Young
Back to my bed!
