"The Cup of Trembling": the Branford Marsalis Quartet in KC's Historic Jazz District
The neighborhood at 18th and Vine welcomes you with the syncopated rhythm of our uniquely American music. This music floods out of bars and cafes and museums as well as out of concert halls. It floats over the ugly cracks in the unimpressive brick storefronts and covers them like candlelight covers the imperfections in a woman's cheek. It welcomes you with a sophistication than cannot be bought or paid for. It is an emotional improvisation, an mathematical musing, an intelligent rambling that shakes your hand amiably and says, "Welcome to life's party, man!"
The music welcomed us on Saturday night to hear one of our greatest jazz musicians, Branford Marsalis, and his band. It was a Sonny's Blues experience to say the least. "Sonny's Blues" by James Baldwin is perhaps my favorite short story, and tells the story of jazz better than any I know. Toward the end of the short story, Baldwin describes how the musicians communicate with one another to bring chaos out of the void, like God on the first day of creation. It also tells the story of how art experiments with making something old and mundane something beautiful and new. Because we forget to listen, the musicians must struggle to present something new, something arousing, something to challenge us lest we fall asleep or go watch the game.
Yesterday I saw several musicians that made that happen for me. The concert itself was not as good as the one I'd seen in Salina several years ago (thanks, David & Chris!)because several memorable mistakes occurred throughout the concert. One: the air in the theater, probably because the heaters had just been turned on, was very dry; Marsalis' reeds were all drying out. Two: the bassist of the band was absent for some reason, and so the band was using a bassist who had played for them in the eighties. He had been with them one day. Three: the drummer, a young man of supreme talent, had knocked his hit hat cymbal over in his enthusiasm, nearly hitting Marsalis' saxophone. All of these situations could have been disastrous. Instead the band changed with the problems and did songs according to the problems.
Despite all these problems the piano player played with the reckless abandon that sent him out of his seat on numerous occasions, using the piano as much as a percussion instrument as a keyboard. The drummer reminded me the most of Sonny, somehow. The band gathered around him and he played his solo and they seemed to be saying that this is your turn, your moment to shine and let the world know that you are there because tomorrow troubles will blacken your sky (or your high hat will tumble down onto your band leader).
And, after the concert, I walked out into the brisk but lovely autumn air, and knew that my party was yet to come, my solo had not yet begun. In "Sonny's Blues", the story ends with a barmaid putting a glass of Scotch and milk on his piano, where it glows and shakes as he plays, "like the very cup of trembling" a phrase from Isaiah about God relieving people of their sorrows. While the jazz from the later venues called to me like sirens luring sailors into sea, there was no need to continue my evening. Art had served its masterful purpose; better get back to the business of living, so that when my turn comes for a solo I will be able to join the party.
The music welcomed us on Saturday night to hear one of our greatest jazz musicians, Branford Marsalis, and his band. It was a Sonny's Blues experience to say the least. "Sonny's Blues" by James Baldwin is perhaps my favorite short story, and tells the story of jazz better than any I know. Toward the end of the short story, Baldwin describes how the musicians communicate with one another to bring chaos out of the void, like God on the first day of creation. It also tells the story of how art experiments with making something old and mundane something beautiful and new. Because we forget to listen, the musicians must struggle to present something new, something arousing, something to challenge us lest we fall asleep or go watch the game.
Yesterday I saw several musicians that made that happen for me. The concert itself was not as good as the one I'd seen in Salina several years ago (thanks, David & Chris!)because several memorable mistakes occurred throughout the concert. One: the air in the theater, probably because the heaters had just been turned on, was very dry; Marsalis' reeds were all drying out. Two: the bassist of the band was absent for some reason, and so the band was using a bassist who had played for them in the eighties. He had been with them one day. Three: the drummer, a young man of supreme talent, had knocked his hit hat cymbal over in his enthusiasm, nearly hitting Marsalis' saxophone. All of these situations could have been disastrous. Instead the band changed with the problems and did songs according to the problems.
Despite all these problems the piano player played with the reckless abandon that sent him out of his seat on numerous occasions, using the piano as much as a percussion instrument as a keyboard. The drummer reminded me the most of Sonny, somehow. The band gathered around him and he played his solo and they seemed to be saying that this is your turn, your moment to shine and let the world know that you are there because tomorrow troubles will blacken your sky (or your high hat will tumble down onto your band leader).
And, after the concert, I walked out into the brisk but lovely autumn air, and knew that my party was yet to come, my solo had not yet begun. In "Sonny's Blues", the story ends with a barmaid putting a glass of Scotch and milk on his piano, where it glows and shakes as he plays, "like the very cup of trembling" a phrase from Isaiah about God relieving people of their sorrows. While the jazz from the later venues called to me like sirens luring sailors into sea, there was no need to continue my evening. Art had served its masterful purpose; better get back to the business of living, so that when my turn comes for a solo I will be able to join the party.