Regrets

 

    My father LOVED jazz. I mean he LOVED it. He could tell you how it evolved out of swing music, who influenced who, who were the trailblazers, band members, recording labels. live dates, you name it. Dizzy, Lester Young, Chet Baker, and the Bird were just some of his many favorites. And I frequently walked into his apartment only to find him listening to a particular piece and he would just put his hand up, bidding me to wait, until the piece was over. He would also sometimes want me to listen to a particular song, and his face would turn toward me expectantly. It was if he smelled something delicious cooking in the kitchen, and it was THAT good that he wanted to share it. I can still see his face as he watched me attentively while I listened. And when the music finally ended his eagerness was palatable. 

     "Did you hear THAT?" he would ask with SO much passion. 

      He looked at me, almost childlike, to determine if I felt the same joy. Just like a kid sharing a shiny rock, or maybe even a beautiful flower.

     Which I guess he was.

     And so as I do some very specific research on my NFPB Bio I find myself at my laptop, shaking my head, and chuckling to no one in particular. I am listening to all these different live jazz recordings circa the 1950's desperately trying to ascertain how an audience member might react enthusiastically to Bebop.  Mind you, my search isn't totally fruitless. In the live recordings I am hearing some talking, clapping, enthusiastic yelling, and even some whistling. It's just hard to discern if it's the band or the audience.

     You know what?

     I know EXACTLY who would know. . .