THE LAST JAZZ FESTIVAL
I may not have much longer to live. What surprises me about all of this is the dominant emotion that I have been inundated with isn’t fear, sadness, or dread. It’s anger. I’m angry with the government, which really isn’t the surprising part. I mean, I was here during Katrina. But I am also angry with my own people, the people of New Orleans. We should have known better, we should have come together; we could have stopped or even avoided all this. But . . . that’s how we are these days. So self-centered, so focused on the next app, the latest viral video.
How did Martin Luther King Jr. put it? “When we look at modern man, we have to face the fact that modern man suffers from a kind of poverty of the spirit, which stands in glaring contrast with a scientific and technological abundance.” Don’t be impressed with my flawless memory- I actually just now looked that up. There’s no power now at my old place, but I have been holed up here at the downtown Marriott for three days. The higher up, the safer, I had been hearing for days before I fled my home. I know now it just prolongs the inevitable. They’ll get here.
I better back up, explain all this. Get this blog done, and get it out there before the wifi here or the power here goes out. Before I die. Again, I blame ourselves. We started it. Most people will say he started it. But you know what? That old saying about history repeating itself? If we’d paid any attention to the old story . . . well. It’s done. Just be nice if the government stepped in, but like I said . . . history repeating and all that.
It was the Jazz and Heritage Festival where this all began. Not exactly the actual Festival, you understand, because all the players up there were booked in advance, all screened and all that. But round the time of the Festival, we got all these fringe events, for the locals and tourists who don’t have tickets for the Festival, to give them some of that fine jazz they came for, the jazz they love and want. And you know what? A lot of the music at these fringe shows was so much better than up there on these big stages. More honest, more full of heart. Jazz without heart, that’s like a home without a roof, like a jambalaya without the meats, like a woman without love.
That’s why I was there at Rocket Robbie’s, last week, the night the improvisational jazz contest was going on there. The owner, a ‘Nam vet name of Guy Shelton, always seemed to find this amazing diversity of talent. People from all over coming in to show off their skills, and with every passing year, more and more musicians seemed to appear. All vying for the honor of first place in the contest, worth the Golden Rocket trophy, a check for five hundred bucks, and free drinks for the rest of the night.
I wasn’t there to play, I was just there for the sweet sounds, the good beer, and also because it was one of the few places I could smoke inside. I always thought it’d be cigars that killed me, not-
But that’s how life is- you just can’t ever guess what happens next. That’s a sucker’s game, alright. For sure, none of us could have predicted that he would have come in that night. Man, he was some sight. He walked in, and immediately everyone just looked over at him. He had that kind of power. This aura around him. It was almost as if the electricity, the music, everything just dimmed for a moment. Even my drink tasted different. I can tell you it wasn’t because he looked like a movie star. Skinny, knobby little guy. His outfit was eye-catching, sure, but this is where we have Mardi Gras, we’re used to seeing all kinds of clothes here. Still, it was pretty wild- all these reds and yellows just clashing at every angle, every seam of that outfit. And that stupid Robin Hood hat with the big-ass ostrich feather, also dyed red and yellow. Dude looked like he’d been caught in a crossfire of ketchup and mustard squeeze bottle guns, you know?
So he strolls in, that smirky face of his looking at everyone, as he goes right up to Guy, and asks him if there’s still a slot to play. Guy gives the twig in that loud outfit a slow look-over, then shrugs and tells him sure. Guy normally would say no, that there were already plenty of players lined up, but . . . he had that power, understand? That pull. And he hadn’t even started playing.
He didn’t go up on the matchbox size stage for at least another hour, and I was actually thinking about wrapping up my drink and heading home. The music was great, the company good, but the night was getting on, and I’m not so young anymore, especially after Katrina. Those recovery years (still going on of course) took a lot out of this old carpenter. But then, he gets up there, and he pulls out of his coat, that damn flute.
Yeah, that’s right. He shows up for a jazz competition with a flute. You gotta be wicked amazing with a flute to pull that off, and this unknown toothpick of a man is standing there in this pimptastic outfit with his flute. There was quite a bit of laughter happening. But he just smiled that smirk smile, and with this little bow, he put the flute to his lips and began to blow.
Jesus. Even now, just the memory of that sound, it raises goosebumps all over my body. That music, it was- it was-
I can’t even write it. There’s just no way to describe it. I’ve been sitting here for maybe half an hour trying to think of something. Shakespeare could sit right here in this chair for years and he’d have the same fucking writer’s block. You just had to hear it. But what I can write is that for the next few minutes while he played, I was in Heaven. Not some toe-tapping, fun listening, life-enjoying kind of “heaven”, but pure, sheer, naked rapturous joy. Heaven- the everlasting reward for a live lived in good faith. The eternal bliss. I saw nothing, I could only hear and feel that music. And it felt so good.
I got tears pouring down my face now. Exactly like that night. When the music stopped, it was like emerging from a great, beautiful light into grey darkness. The real world faded back into view, like one of those old Polaroid pictures. I looked at my palm, which was throbbing strangely and realized I’d squeezed my bottle of beer so hard it’d shattered right in my hand. I still got scabs healing. The entire place was just frozen. So still, it was like we’d all turned to stone. Then we all just erupted. We all got to our feet and applauded, screamed, rejoiced. I was clapping my hands like a fool, blood flying everywhere from the cuts on my hand, and I didn’t even care.
We wanted to make this guy king, to raise him up and pay homage to his incredible skill. We went on like that for a good ten minutes, whistling, hollering, stamping, and what have you. Finally, Guy staggers onstage. He wasn’t drunk, unless you count being drunk on that perfect jazz. Jazz with heart, heart that beat powerfully with Creole blood.
“I think it’s pretty much a given,” Guy exclaimed, “that you’re the obvious winner tonight!” The roof must have vibrated half a foot off the building with the force of our accolades. The toothpick just smirked and bowed. Finally Guy claps a hand on the flute player’s shoulder, and I swear I saw the little dude’s knees buckle under the contact. Guy raised his other hand, signaling for quiet, but we took a good three or four minutes to finally settle down. The music was that kind of power. Guy beamed at the player. “What is your name, my fine friend?” Guy inquired.
The little man looked at Guy, then he spoke, and we got another surprise. The flute player had a German accent, a pretty strong one.
“I am called Günter,” he replied, with another bow. Guy gave the toothpick a low lookover. Then he shrugged. He hadn’t fought that war.
“Well, we sure appreciate having you here tonight, Günter. That was some fine music you played for us here tonight-“ Guy had to pause again, since we were once again upon our feet cheering. “Alright, alright, quiet you all,” Guy called out. “So, Günter, how long have you been playing?”
Günter held up his flute lovingly. It was obvious he took great care of his flute. It was more than just an instrument to him. It was an extension of his self. Thinking back on it, I realize now that he and that flute had been connected for a really long time.
“A very long time,” Günter answered. “Since I was a young boy in my hometown Hamelin.” It didn’t take me too long to understand, but someone else was quicker to utter the connection.
“The Pied Piper!” Someone yelled this out, a large brother near the back in a faded grey t-shirt called out. The room erupted into laughter, but as we jeered and pointed at Günter, he just stood there serenely, smiling at us all. And the laughter died. He had that power.
Guy stared at the wild colors the flutist wore. He clearly was wondering the same thing we all were. Any one else, we’d think it was complete nonsense. But we’d heard this man play.
“How about it?” Guy asked the toothpick. “You the Pied Piper . . . of Hamelin, Günter?” In reply, the man gave a slow nod. There were a few sniggers amidst us, but only a few. One man stood up.
“I came here to see a contest, not some fairy tale bullshit,” he declared, slamming down some cash on his table. He turned to leave, rudely bumping into a couple of the other patrons while shifting his bulk. Günter put his flute to his lips.
We all waited for another taste of that bliss-inducing melody. Instead, we heard nothing. Yet the lone standing critic froze in his departure. Jerkily, like some defective clockwork mechanism, he turned back to face Günter and dropped back down into his seat, his eyes whipping side to side all the while.
Günter lowered the flute. He addressed us all. “I understand the music that moves everything,” he said. “I understand the music of joy, the music of sorrow, the music that only you-” here he indicated the would-be critic, pointing a slim, pale finger at him like a parody of the Grim Reaper, “-can hear, the music that compels you, the music that excites you,” he raised the flute and gave it a quick trill. Every single one of us shivered with a single, hot burst of desire. As if we’d all been shot by a Cupid’s arrow. “I understand the music that moves the world,” the flutist finished, to a completely silent audience. Not one of us dared to breathe. No one wanted to draw the musician’s attention, wary of his power.
Except one person. Yeah, you guessed it, that same asshole. I suppose if you wanted to pin all of this on one person, besides the too-obvious choice of the Pied Piper, as a scapegoat, it would have to be that man in the faded grey t-shirt. He just couldn’t leave well enough alone.
“Alright, you got some music mojo going on there,” he called out, “so you’re saying you came in here knowing you’d win hands down? Doesn’t sound like much of a competition to me. Especially if you’re as old and experienced as you say you are. A murmur of surprised assent began to spread through everyone gathered there, and I regret to confess that I added my own voice to this. Perhaps it was our shame at being so vulnerable to the music. For that temporary loss of volition, and if there’s one thing we Americans hate, it’s surrendering control.
Guy looked at the Pied Piper. “Man’s got a point, Günter,” he agreed, “if you’ve got some kind of magical way with your flute, then I’m not sure we can’t see this contest as a clean one. No ringers accepted, you know.”
The smile Günter had been wearing vanished. His eyes went cold and for a moment, it was as if a reptile stood on two legs in flashy clothes staring at us. I am sure it is a false memory, especially since the heat doesn’t work here, but I have the recollection of shivering under Günter’s stare. He slowly pushed the flute inside his . . . I guess it would have been called a tonic. He looked at Guy. Guy had maybe eight inches on the little dude, but the flutist almost seemed to be towering over Guy. Like I said, power.
“Am I to understand,” he said icily, “that you are denying me payment? My prize?” Guy looked uncomfortable, but he felt fortified by the tacit support of all of us there at Robbie’s Rocket.
“No ringers,” Guy repeated, almost apologetically. Then he added (and perhaps unwisely so) “Don’t take our children though!” A ripple of nervous laughter ran through the crowd. Günter ran his eyes over each and every one of us. It was like having a snake slide across our souls.
“Do not worry. I will not take anything,” he said, bowing, but without any geniality. He strode off the stage, through the club, and out the door. As quickly and strangely as he had appeared, so he disappeared.
So. That was a few days ago. Now, I can hear them on the stairs. I even hear them outside. I’ve been relatively safe way up here, but there’s just so many of them.
The Pied Piper of Hamelin. He did to this beloved, beautiful city of New Orleans what Katrina ultimately failed to do. He drowned this city. But not in water.
I have to decide very soon. I could open the window, and jump. Or I can continue to wait until they break in, and they will. Either way, it won’t be pleasant.
Why didn’t we think? Why didn’t we remember? The Pied Piper didn’t just have power over children in the story.
He said he wouldn’t take anything, and he didn’t. But what can be taken away, you see, can be brought back. And dear God, he brought them back. He brought them all back.
Rats.
