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Two Jazz Poems by Tony Walton.

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by Ian Mann

September 12, 2013

Guest contributor Tony Walton has sent us poems honouring two jazz greats from different eras and different continents, Polish pianist Marcin Wasilewski and the legendary Miles Davis.

Tony Walton is a published poet and an occasional contributor to the Jazzmann site. At one time he lived in my home county of Herefordshire and under the name Tigerfish Promotions organised appearances by pianist Will Butterworth at local venues in Presteigne, Hay-on-Wye and Bewdley.

Tony now divides his time between Crete and Sussex. He sent these poems just before returning to Crete via Spain and Italy for the winter.

Tony says of the poems;
The one for Miles is in my newly-published Volume of Poems from Crete : Settling With The Ancestor - available at Castle Bookshop, Ludlow; Ledbury Books and Maps; Tower House Gallery, Knighton; and The Bookshop, Llanidloes.
As you can see, from pen to book in record time!


HYMN TO MARCIN

All pianists hunch over the keyboard,
Hunkered down inside of themselves
Where the music must be pulled-up from
Like the water in the well ? like Miles
Over his vertically-held horn; like Bill,
Eyes closed, listening to himself with an
Intensity that scares us into accepting
The poverty of our own listening skills.

But Marcin Wasilewski, like a tiny Polish elf,
Crouches while standing, and often breaks into
A sorceror?s dance along the bench where Beauty
Is tested ? to destruction, if possible; but
More likely transmuted into gold such as
The jazz philosopher?s stone can only hanker for.

He is so far beyond the tradition that new
Territory has been opened up among
The furthest constellations previously
Visible to the naked ear, innocent in
Its nakedness, and craving to be clad
In shining Beauty. Marcin pours Beauty
Upon us like honey, a libation of pure nectar
From tall Παρναςςος and high Ωλυμπος.


There are no nods here to Monk. There is
Syncopation, surely; but this is no civil-rights
American struggle with a black man?s sense of
Bitter injustice. The Poles have a few civil rights
Issues of their own, incidentally ? but Stanko is
Not boiling like Miles with goaded rage barely suppressed;
Kurkiewicz is no Mingus ready to rip flesh with?s
Bare teeth; and Miskiewicz, with every ounce
Of Tony Williams? / Elvin Jones’ /
Jack de Johnette’s kinetic creativity,
And the consummate skill to execute the act
As imagined, does not seethe and bubble.


This is the essence of cool jazz ? a truly
European jazz but not ice-cold and locked-in
Frozen, like the surface-scratched graffiti of
Some fashionable trios from Scandinavian
Regions. Here is the Soul of a Nation,
The Polish nation; that lives with grief
And the pain of memory as with a sick sibling,
As with dotty, dying parents. Only a Pole
Could conjure such lyrically transcendent
Beauty from a groove ? or linger so very
Lovingly, delicately, gently, over a figure,
A gradual progression; moving to its own
Internal logic of Truth and Beauty ? and
Played with Love: Love of the instrument,
This fabulous creation of rhythmically
Harmonic infinite inventability ?
And Love, pure deep perfect Love of the Music.

Hove / September 2nd


MILES


~ 1 ~

It was a monochrome world in that
Dim decade of post-war conformity
And economic development ? but
Nowhere more so than Manhattan at night,
All darkness and insistent neon-light ?
A place to do whatever you had to
And get away with it ? and kind of blue
Didn?t touch Miles none, though ? America?s
Sleepwalk dreams of smooth front lawns and white
Picket fences ? even if he was the
Son of a middle-class dentist in mid-
Western America: neither one Coast
Nor the Other ? until he moved in
With that horn of his. Pretty soon he had
Both Coasts eating out of the pale-mauve palm
Of his skinny black hand. Miles was the Man.

He soon left Be-Bop trailing in his wake
As his cutting-edge cleaved through the West Coast
Waters, giving Birth to the Cool, and to
All those taking part ? none more usefully
So, to Miles, than Gil Evans, a white man.
Gil re-enters this story a few years
Down the line. Meantime, Miles has secured the
Employment of a promising young sax
Player, a tenor man, and another
Towering-giant-in-the-making; and
With Miles and Trane fronting an elite
Rhythm section (?Red? Garland piano,
Paul Chambers bass, and ?Philly? Joe
Jones on drums) Miles now cuts a quick crop of
Recordings to complete his contract with
The Prestige label ? having signed on the
Dotted line for Columbia records.
Those Prestige albums, though ? Cookin?, Workin?,
Walkin?, Relaxin? : hip titles every one ?
Are (forgive me) milestones on this freeway.
Effortlessly meshed and still, even now,
Definitively cool, these Broadway standards
(For the greater part) are tossed our way with
All the effortless excellence that none
But perfectionists are capable of.
Check ?em out sometime. No word of a lie.


  ~ 2 ~


Milestones : Miles? Tones ~ it
Was always a name that just begged to be
Played with; like any sweet melody all
Unsuspecting of a jazzman?s sticky
Fingered grip. (Like kids let loose in a sweet
Shop, these magpie men and women: stuffing
Their faces!) Later we got Miles Ahead,
And even Miles Smiles ? with a photograph
To prove it: necessary because Not
Smiling was another thing he was fame
Arsed for; flame-arsed, too ? and he didn?t smile
For damn good reasons; but not because of
Fame ? because of Race. This is the 50?s
And the 60?s, remember. This is A
-merika. It?s why he chilled out in old
Paris, for a grateful while ? grateful that cut both
Ways. (If chillin? is truly the word, when
You?re hanging with Juliet Greco, mm!)

But let?s get to Milestones, on Columbia ?
Hard on the heels of a true milestone: his
Re-definitive take on Monk?s Round Mid-
Night ? with Trane alongside still (but never
Still) developing in leaps and bounds to
towards his own Giant Steps, as a gift to
Himself for graduating from this band ?
This first great Quintet, that became Sextet
When Julian ?Cannonball? Adderley
Stepped up to put that sweet alto reed to
His sugar-dusted lips?mm! nice as pie!

But even before they can hit the studio,
With Jimmy Cobb on drums now, and the
Truly legendary Bill Evans on
Piano, to record the Most Famous
Best-Selling Jazz Album Ever {over
Even the Five-minutes? Time that Brubeck
Was taking Out/in : Raggy Waltz and all} 
Yes ? just before Kind of Blue, Miles and Gil
Evans got together again to leave
Us the definitive jazz version of
The definitive ?Negro? pop-opera
By a man - and his brother ? who was, in
Many ways, the definitive white
American songwriter (and died tragic
-ally young). George and Ira Gershwin?s great
Porgy & Bess ? re-imagined by a
Full jazz orchestra (the bessed porgestra
You will ever hear) led by the one and
Incomparable Miles Dewey Davis,
The third of that ilk. (And who gives a shit
About I and II?)
He was thirty-two
Years old, in his absolute prime ? as a
Black man, as a trumpet-player, as a
Jazz musician: as an icon. He was
The 1950?s, in as far as they
Were ever a cool decade - which, of course,
Wasn?t very far at all ? except in
Paris, hanging briefly with the beautiful
Juliet Greco, who wasn?t black at
All.  And yet, back home, this remained Lynch-the-
Nigger pre-Civil Rights nightmare days for
Black folks. Tell ?em, another fifty years
They?ll have at least a half-black President,
They?d have laughed till their damn teeth hurt.
                                                 

And Miles
Is still getting hassled in the street by
The cops, who just hate to see a nigger
In a yellow Ferrari, specially
A nigger fucks white chicks ? I mean, it?s
The world-turned-upside-down for these meathead
Bohunks with their swaggerin? nite-stix an?
Their holstered pieces. And a Tiger Twin
Gemini (1926) black man
Who pulls serious respect where it?s worth
Taking seriously ain?t gonna just
Lie down for this shit. He?s going to keep on
Giving us all his pain and longing and
His mesmeric brooding black-cat bounce and
Pacing, pacing up-and-down the cage they
Got him in - all the way from Rodger?s and
Hart?s Funny Valentine to his own Prince
Of Darkness, Zawinul?s Silent Way and
The Pandora?s Box of everything there
After, the ineffable Bitches Brew.
Miles runs the voodoo down now. Ain?t nuthin?
can stand in his way. Plays his own games with
His name. Selim : Sivad ~ Live/Evil ?


  Then,
Suddenly, it?s all back-to-front, man: cart
Before horse, marriage before Love; too much
White powder, black paranoia and green
Greenback dollar bills, on boy, oh yes ? and
Guess what he does then, next, after that? Yep ?
Hides his horn under the bed to gather
Four years of dust falling ? while he picks up
His paint-brushes and lays all that raging
Anger and frustration on Technicolored
Canvas. Which of course will sell nicely.


It?s like all the old guys to come: Dylan,
Van, Leonard, Mick ?n Keef? The gradient
Never rises again on the long and
Winding road, Macca. Musicians always
Peak too early. (Unlike poets.) Jimi
And Jim Morrison just don?t know how lucky
They were, Pete: they actually managed to
Die before they got old. You can grow old
Gracefully ? but you grow old, all the same.

~ 3 ~


I didn?t mean to write about that. I
Didn?t intend to go so far along
That road of his. I want to dwell, again,
On the Fifties ? and not because I don?t
Think the Sixties? band with Wayne, Herbie, Ron
And Tony was the best small group ever
(Because I do). No: because of that
Herman-Leonard, black&white, cigarette-
Smoke-arabesque, after-hours basement world ?
A whole world of its own, totally out
Of kilter, out of synch with the current
-ly sleeping world-at-large. Transgressively
So. This ? with the Beats and the fuck-you
Rebel yells of James Dean, Jack Kerouac,
Brando, Ginsberg, and the prototypes for
Black Power?s moment, ten years on ? is what
Animates that decade, and saves it from
The trashcan of popular historical awareness.
Not unlike the Seventies ? when Punk was
The new Beat generation. Miles did it.


~  4 ~

It?s late. Not too hot, not too cold,
and the streets are slick with rain,
and the lights are shivering and shimmering
in the sidewalks, and the sidewalks
are up above your head in the window-glass ?
an? thass not ?n ambberlance siren,
that?s a cop car ? but?it?s far enough away,
over on the East Side unless your ears
deceive you. And when did your ears
deceive anybody? You tug upon the
short collar of your navy-blue Italian blazer,
get it up round your neck a little ? not
just because it looks cool, and not because
you think it will protect you that way.
Just a force o? habit, thassall. Ingrained now.

As if prepared, as if courageous ?
as if you are ever anything less than this ?
you will step onto that tiny stage tonight,
you will hunch-over, with your horn
pointing straight to the floor, muted or
otherwise - with the spotlight falling
down around your beautiful head and shoulders
like pouring rain: rain that scalds
or refreshes ? intermittently, arbitrarily ?
like a shower that?s taken leave of its senses -
or anyone else?s. Hard rain?s a-gonna fall.
Medgar Evers, Emmett Till, Hattie Carroll
are all still to come. And go. But mene mene tekel
upharsin, Nebuchadnezzar : the writing?s on the wall,
the times they will be changing, and you better get the
fuck outta my way if you can?t, won?t and
don?t know how to lend a hand, buddy ?
Spare you a dime? I would even give you the
Time of day. Or night. That?s right.

A still night: not too cold, and hot enough.
A tragic trumpet weaves its brazen saudade
up through the zigzag fire-escapes,
and a cat huddles by the trash, waiting
to score. It?s you, Miles. It?s you, black man.
It?s you, piper. Play me a tune.

Herefordshire / 9th July 2013

 

Ian adds;

Thanks Tony, some wonderful imagery here and some thought provoking arguments..
Bon Voyage! See you next year.


 

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