Jazz at Lacma
As we come out of the art museum, we are surprised to see the concrete patio filled with an expectant looking crowd. The normally empty space has been reconfigured into a makeshift ampitheater. On the stage, a jazz pianist and his band plays softly.
Washed in the sunset, LA mingles and swishes the workweek out of its system. The women’s outfits hold the tired freshness of every early Friday evening. They crinkle with the calculated change of “work” to “play”: shed sports jackets for tank tops, swapped black pumps for gem-decked sandals or zebra flats, and freshly-applied second layer of blush, a gloss of lipstick. The men have not tried as hard in this area: wrinkled business suits, slightly-scuffed shoes and loosened neckties signal the end of their workweek.
The line at the makeshift bar snakes along the wall. As couples receive their pinot noirs and jack-and-coke, they clutch them tightly and take vicious swigs, anxious for the instant relaxation. Satisfied, they sip at the softening of life promised in the $10 cups.
Behind the back row of folding chairs stands an older Chinese man dressed in ragged khakis and a faded brown shirt. He is slightly hunched into a crouch which might be a yoga pose. One of his arms is raised to eye-level, bent at the elbow. No one stands around him; he has obviously come here alone.
The intensity of his stance attracts my attention. And when the music starts again, I notice that he is not simply posed. He is dancing. He dances without moving his feet an inch. In fact, the lower half of his body appears nailed to the concrete. But his upper body moves like it is wired to the piano strings. He moves with jerks. He is an augmentation of the melody line: swaying sometimes, now violently, now softly, as if caught in a holy reverence. His eyes are closed tight. He holds his mouth in a way that suggests he has sold his soul for this one last hour, this one chance to be here as the chord inversions jar the air-his face looks intensely empty of everything around him except the music.
He is in a world of his own. Around him whirls the audience. The bar has began its work: smoothing the week’s wrinkles behind the knees of the three-piece-suits, broadening the smiles of the university students who stalk around the courtyard exclaiming loudly that they had “just happened to hear about the free jazz.”
As the music continues, a handsome Korean man holding a chubby little baby turns in his seat. He sees the dancer. He moves his eyes up and down every inch of the old man. He laughs out loud. He wrinkles his face in a sneer: a very public denouncement. He does everything but point his finger (something he couldn’t do without dropping his daughter).
Around him, people chuckle. People nod. People roll their eyes; they make understanding eye contact with the man and his baby. They edge further away from the strange bubble this dancer is creating. As he jerks and sways, mouth slightly parted, people around him fold their hands nervously and focus on the horizon. They appear to be trying to calm him down with their own bodies. They hold their heads rigid, as if hoping that, by example, they can teach this man how one correctly listens to jazz on a Friday evening on Wilshire Blvd.
Much to the general embarrassment of the patio, the man just keeps dancing. True, his expression changes slightly. Behind his closed eyes he appears aware of, but not phased by, the reaction of the crowd. Between songs, he folds his hands humbly behind his back and leans, listening to the rather bland anecdotes that the piano player spews. He listens as one might listen to words spoken from the very mouth of god. And then, with the first soft jarring chords in the air, he is back in a place all his own, hand gesturing wildly, eyes closed in bliss.
Behind us all, the security guards stand at the sliding glass doorways. They are guarding the works of Picasso and Matisse. They are making sure everything is safe.
And after a few songs, the crowd forgets the dancing man. They focus again on the faces of those they came to impress, on the sunset, on the drinks the will relax them, on the man at the piano. They listen as he talks. They nod emphatically when he mentions that he’s always wanted to be an artist, that he can’t imagine any other kind of life.
Washed in the sunset, LA mingles and swishes the workweek out of its system. The women’s outfits hold the tired freshness of every early Friday evening. They crinkle with the calculated change of “work” to “play”: shed sports jackets for tank tops, swapped black pumps for gem-decked sandals or zebra flats, and freshly-applied second layer of blush, a gloss of lipstick. The men have not tried as hard in this area: wrinkled business suits, slightly-scuffed shoes and loosened neckties signal the end of their workweek.
The line at the makeshift bar snakes along the wall. As couples receive their pinot noirs and jack-and-coke, they clutch them tightly and take vicious swigs, anxious for the instant relaxation. Satisfied, they sip at the softening of life promised in the $10 cups.
Behind the back row of folding chairs stands an older Chinese man dressed in ragged khakis and a faded brown shirt. He is slightly hunched into a crouch which might be a yoga pose. One of his arms is raised to eye-level, bent at the elbow. No one stands around him; he has obviously come here alone.
The intensity of his stance attracts my attention. And when the music starts again, I notice that he is not simply posed. He is dancing. He dances without moving his feet an inch. In fact, the lower half of his body appears nailed to the concrete. But his upper body moves like it is wired to the piano strings. He moves with jerks. He is an augmentation of the melody line: swaying sometimes, now violently, now softly, as if caught in a holy reverence. His eyes are closed tight. He holds his mouth in a way that suggests he has sold his soul for this one last hour, this one chance to be here as the chord inversions jar the air-his face looks intensely empty of everything around him except the music.
He is in a world of his own. Around him whirls the audience. The bar has began its work: smoothing the week’s wrinkles behind the knees of the three-piece-suits, broadening the smiles of the university students who stalk around the courtyard exclaiming loudly that they had “just happened to hear about the free jazz.”
As the music continues, a handsome Korean man holding a chubby little baby turns in his seat. He sees the dancer. He moves his eyes up and down every inch of the old man. He laughs out loud. He wrinkles his face in a sneer: a very public denouncement. He does everything but point his finger (something he couldn’t do without dropping his daughter).
Around him, people chuckle. People nod. People roll their eyes; they make understanding eye contact with the man and his baby. They edge further away from the strange bubble this dancer is creating. As he jerks and sways, mouth slightly parted, people around him fold their hands nervously and focus on the horizon. They appear to be trying to calm him down with their own bodies. They hold their heads rigid, as if hoping that, by example, they can teach this man how one correctly listens to jazz on a Friday evening on Wilshire Blvd.
Much to the general embarrassment of the patio, the man just keeps dancing. True, his expression changes slightly. Behind his closed eyes he appears aware of, but not phased by, the reaction of the crowd. Between songs, he folds his hands humbly behind his back and leans, listening to the rather bland anecdotes that the piano player spews. He listens as one might listen to words spoken from the very mouth of god. And then, with the first soft jarring chords in the air, he is back in a place all his own, hand gesturing wildly, eyes closed in bliss.
Behind us all, the security guards stand at the sliding glass doorways. They are guarding the works of Picasso and Matisse. They are making sure everything is safe.
And after a few songs, the crowd forgets the dancing man. They focus again on the faces of those they came to impress, on the sunset, on the drinks the will relax them, on the man at the piano. They listen as he talks. They nod emphatically when he mentions that he’s always wanted to be an artist, that he can’t imagine any other kind of life.