poet, interviewer, musician, traveler
Revenge!
Mingus! Dolphy!
Elderly people doing yoga!
Park pavilions full of
downward dogs & the upper class.
The Buick owners realigning their chakras
before heading off to brunch.
Everyone has a dog or else no one does.
There’s ozone in the air but the sun is out.
Where’s the promised thunder?
The desert is a dirty liar.
The bass clarinet will have to do.
///
21 January 2021
Oro Valley, AZ
I’ve been listening to a lot of Wendy Eisenberg recently to prepare for an interview. All that music inspired this piece, performed on ukulele, diddley bow, pandeiro, and two tracks of soprano saxophone.
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For McCoy Tyner
McCoy Tyner died today.
He was 81.
Honestly that surprised me;
I’d thought he was older.
Aren’t all masters ancient?
Or maybe timeless. Ageless.
Achieve a certain level of fluency
& you pass beyond the reach of the clock’s hands,
slip through Death’s grasping arms.
Now all four are gone: John, then Jimmy,
Elvin next, now McCoy.
A baby born tomorrow will never have
breathed the air at the same time
as any member of Coltrane’s classic quartet.
I wasn’t born when Trane died.
I was two when Jimmy left us.
Once I shook Elvin’s hand.
Another time I heard McCoy play.
McCoy Tyner died today.
He was 81.
/ / /
Jason Crane
7 March 2020
Tucson, AZ
Playing The Fania All-Stars At My Retail Job
Takes me back to my early days playing
latin jazz and salsa in Tucson bars.
When we were all the way on
whole rooms full of sweating dancers
would cheer, spinning, singing along. ¡Baila!
Me, a 20-year-old white kid with no business
among these grizzled Mexican and Puerto Rican
veterans of the local music scene. Playing the claves
like an elementary school kid with woodblocks.
“If you’re going to play them,” Ismael said, “PLAY THEM.”
Later he would tell me, during a flamenco tune:
“Clap like my mama’s making tortillas.”
(He offered me cocaine, drank Scotch during every set
till the tempos were elastic as putty.)
Later I would lay jazz melodies over the dance rhythms.
Will, the bongocero, said to a new trumpeter:
“Can you play them jazz songs like my man Jason?”
I floated off the floor in my cap-toed spectators.
MCA Records offered us a deal, so we got together
at Izzy’s house to lay down a bunch of music.
Izzy got coked up, missed the meeting with the execs,
the deal was off. But when we were on, man,
we were all the way on.
/ / /
Jason Crane
27 December 2019
State College PA
Real
I watch John Tchicai dance lightly
through the minefield of “supposed to.”
He’s far ahead but I can see him,
and though the way is full of danger,
I take one step—
/ / /
Jason Crane
12 December 2019
State College PA
Charles Mingus Running Laps
The new old Mingus was recorded
seven months before my own debut;
thirty-plus years before I made it to Detroit,
where Charles and Roy and Joe and
John and Don were still figuring out
the steps, some of them having only
recently been invited to dance.
There is space for all of us in music.
The misfits and the fits, if those
even exist. I’m skeptical myself.
But anyway there is room enough
at this kitchen party for you
and everyone you’ve ever known.
Hang up your coat and grab a drink.
I was a kid the first time I saw men play jazz.
My grandpa took me to hear Pete Fountain
and Al Hirt someplace. Rochester maybe. He knew
them from Lawrence Welk. At least that’s where he
learned about Pete. Toupee like a dare, clarinet
dancing like a baton as he made the uncool
cool. Saved my adolescence.
OK not actually. It still wasn’t cool to play jazz
in the eighties. Not as a nerdy white kid
in an all-white town forty-five minutes
from the birthplace of Chuck Mangione.
I did get a lot of hall passes from
the band teacher, and that was something.
Better than class. Way better than gym.
I like to picture Mingus sneaking out
of the locker room before his gym teacher
can line him up for dodgeball. Mingus who
might have flashed a blade at Duke. Mingus
who told racists in no uncertain terms
to fuck right off. Did he have to run laps,
gasping in the morning cold?
///
Jason Crane
20 November 2018
State College PA
I heard this record for the first time last night and it’s a killer. I’m partial to Gerry Mulligan anyway, and I’ve always enjoyed his Concert Jazz Band recordings. This album was recorded in New York City in 1961. The 13-piece band is outstanding. It includes Bob Brookmeyer on valve trombone; bassist and jazz humor anthologist Bill Crow; Mel Lewis on drums; Gene Quill on clarinet and alto saxophone; and Doc Severinsen on trumpet. The arrangers are equally impressive: Mulligan, Brookmeyer, George Russell, Johnny Carisi and Gary McFarland. (This is McFarland’s first recording. I was interested to learn that he’d studied at the Lenox School Of Jazz in my hometown of Lenox, Mass.) The band cooks at times, and at other moments lopes along with that easy swing associated with the best Basie material. Recommended.
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Standard (for Porter & Perez)
they are silent phantoms
moving like wraiths between
the close-knit tables
remove a plate
add a napkin
offer the dessert menu
steal away into
a darkened corner
of the club
then a sound
like overheated lightbulbs
pop pop popping
the bassist looks up
smiling
as a new phantom
glides toward the kitchen
holding a witch’s broom
(and dustpan)
the sound of glass dragged
across poured concrete, then:
“Besame Mucho”
/ / /
Jason Crane
18 April 2015
Jazz Standard
NYC
This band features three-fourths of the band Circle (the missing member is Anthony Braxton). Right out of the gate, the trio is forceful and free-flying in their take on Wayne Shorter’s “Nefertiti.” And then on the next track, it’s “gaze into one’s soul” time on Corea’s “Ballad For Tillie.” A fun outing by three supremely talented players.
Note: Listen to my 2012 interview with Barry Altschul.
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Tonight I interviewed saxophonist Rudresh Mahanthappa about his forthcoming album Bird Calls. The album comes out on Feb. 10. It features Matt Mitchell on piano, Francois Moutin on bass, Rudy Royston on drums and Adam O’Farrill on trumpet. You’ll hear the interview soon on The Jazz Session. On Wednesday I’m going to interview Peter Apfelbaum. And then Akua Dixon next week. And then…lots more people.
Just judging by the cover, I wasn’t sure what to expect of this record. Honestly, I didn’t expect much. I was so, so wrong. Jazz singer Jeannie Trevor kills from start to finish on this 1965 album, her first as a leader. Her uncredited backing band (identified as St. Louis musicians, like Trevor) provides stellar accompaniment.
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