(June 15, 2012) CHARLOTTESVILLE, VA — The photo on the upper left is what I looked like around 2 p.m. as I toured the Rotunda on the University of Virginia campus. The photo on the upper right is what I looked like after what I’m calling the Great Hair Massacre Of Twenty-Twelve. More on that later.
I spent much of my day at the University of Virginia, which was founded by Thomas Jefferson as a tax shelter. I was there to interview trumpeter John D’earth and drummer Robert Jospe.
Photo by John Mason
John D’earth is a phenomenal human being. Of course he’s an accomplished and multifaceted musician, but more than that, he’s a truly insightful and deep thinker who is trying hard to get at the essence of what it means to be human — using music as his vehicle. I left our interview very energized, which is the best possible result.
John also told me about his late brother, the poet Paul Smyth. Smyth’s life was one of those American stories containing both glory and tragedy. I can’t do it justice in this diary but I’ll try to revisit it with John sometime. John was kind enough to give me a copy of Smyth’s A Plausible Light: New And Collected Poems, which he pointed out is actually a “selected poems” because it doesn’t contain all his brother’s work. I don’t have much room in my backpack, but there was no way I was going to turn down that gift.
After a brief break to stuff some falafel in my face, I rushed back to UVa to chat, for the second time in my life, with drummer and educator Robert Jospé.
Photo by John Mason
The first time I interviewed Robert Jospé was about a decade ago when I was an elementary school student and the child prodigy station manager of Jazz90.1 in Rochester, NY. I played the hell out of his records back then and was happy to finally get to sit in the same room with him. I’m not even sure I knew where he lived when I did our first phone interview.
“Jos,” as he’s known in C’ville (or C-ville, depending on whom you ask) is another very thoughtful guy. He and John D’earth go back as far as high school together, and Jos has done as much as anyone to create a scene here in Charlottesville. He’s also well known as an educator who specializes in bringing out the groove in his students.
Following our interview I took a mostly self-guided tour of the Academical Village section of the UVa campus. That’s the section designed by Thomas Jefferson. The newer parts were apparently designed by Josef Stalin. UGLY. But the old section is truly magical. It’s like stepping back into the 18th century.
There are still tiny rooms lining the main rectangular lawn. Students live in these rooms. It’s considered an honor and it’s very competitive to get one. And they have no bathrooms. Or air conditioning. Or much of anything, really. But if you live in one, you get to add your name to a list of former residents that includes Edgar Allan Poe, Edgar Winters, Shelley Winters and the Paul Winter Consort.
And now back to … the horror! the horror!
I asked my host, John Mason, if there was a barbershop close by. “I don’t know where white folks go to get their hair cut, but I can take you to Joker’s,” he said. We went to Joker’s, a local institution. The place has been there since at least the 1930s, and according to the late barber Mr. Payne, whom John knew before he passed and who’d been cutting hair there since 1938, many of the legends of the big band era got their hair cut there when they came through town. Apparently Cab Calloway and members of the Ellington and Basie bands all sat in a chair in Joker’s.
The only trouble was that Joker’s was packed to the rafters with people waiting to get their hair cut. So we went down the street to Mel’s, which has been open three years. I never should have done it. When I described to the guy what size clipper to use and he seemed unsure what I meant, I should have run. I sat in the chair. His VERY FIRST ACT was to run the clippers over the top of my head. From that moment, I knew I was completely at his mercy and that my hair would not be cut in any way other than the way he knew how. I was facing away from the mirror the entire time, which was probably just as well. I have no health insurance so there’s no reason to test my heart at this point in the tour.
After the massacre (I even tipped the guy), I went home, showered, wept, and then took a copy of the poem I wrote last night to the server about whom I wrote it. I know, I know, but that’s who I am. She seemed happy in the way you’d seem happy if someone you’d seen once in your life walked in and handed you a poem. But she offered me cold tea on a hot day (“a gift for a gift”), so that was lovely.
Next, John Mason and I went to a coffee joint to meet Scott Deveaux, a writer who specializes in jazz and has written several books. We had a nice chat about the music and Scott was kind enough to give me the most recent edition of a jazz textbook he co-authored with Gary Giddins.
John and I had some lovely food then went back to the same coffee shop to hear a few tunes by a band that included recent high school grad Veronica Swift, whose parents are both musicians. She’s about to start at the University of Miami. The band, composed of players who could all be my kids, played some adventurous tunes and, for their age, played them extremely well. They all appear to have bright futures.
The final stop of the night was the Twisted Branch Tea Room to hear John D’earth play in a band with a tabla player and bassist:
It was a thoroughly enjoyable set played by three musicians who were stretching and searching. I sat on the floor a few feet from the stage and blissed out.
This morning (it’s the wee hours on Saturday as I’m typing this), I have to get up very early to go to Nashville. It’s a 15-hour ride. I have no choice but to do it that way because I have a poetry reading in Music City on Sunday at 4 p.m. Details here.
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Jason,
You may not want to hear this, but the new hair looks great! It’s just hair. When it gets too long, buzz it down.
Loving the reports from the road. Keep on keeping on and get the heck out to this coast eventually.
Thanks, Kent. I’m on my way. Slowly but surely.