Another Witness:

At the Edge of the Jazz Language

by Brian Friesen

I wander the hallway of Lincoln Hall on the campus of Portland State University looking for room # 37. I start on the first floor, following the numbers above each door: 134, 135, 136. I’m going to be late. I dash to the left, into the music office and stand in the empty room breathing heavily, my eyes scanning the counter for a bell to ring for assistance. No bell.

“Hello?” I call out.

“Hello.” a detached voice sounded from somewhere in the room. I gazed from one side of the room to another.

“I’m over here behind the cubicle,” it said, “I’m in the middle of sorting some stuff, but I can talk to you from here, what can I do for you?”

“Yeah, I’m looking for room 37. I heard the PSU jazz Ensemble is practicing today at 2:00 with the ‘Old Cats’.”

“Room 37 is in the basement.” said the voice, “Go down the stairs just outside. Head down to your right and through the double doors.”

The gentle face of a woman peered around the corner of the partition and then and arm pointing towards the door. “It’ll be in the first opening on your left. It is sort of hidden, just around the corner.”

“Thanks.” I am already on my way out when I hear her voice follow me through the door: “You’re welcome.”

My feet hit every other step as I fly down the stairs.

Rat tat tat tat tat tat.

Through the double doors and around to the left, I run right past the small opening in the wall and screech to a halt. Turning back down the short hallway, I enter through a doorway into a narrow room with a tall ceiling. Thirty people are busily pulling instruments from their cases and tuning. In the far right corner of the room, I see six older men relaxing in their padded folding chairs holding trumpets, trombones, saxophones: The Old Cats. Darryl Grant, piano player and music professor paces from one side of the room to another, his face wearing its characteristically knowing grin. He hands the “Cats” each a tall bottle of chilled water. Some years back, Darryl did some research and found that there had been a thriving jazz community in Portland during the be bop era of the 50’s. After searching around, he found some of the players. Ever since, they have put on a concert with the PSU Jazz Ensemble once a year; the younger generation holding musical conversations with their elders. Today, in this small room they would be practicing for the upcoming Friday night concert.

I slowly make my way around the back edge of the room. The bass player looks at me confusedly and shifts his instrument out of the way so I can get by. I squeeze around the drum set and the back row of trumpet players. All along the back wall are large perforated squares – acoustic tiles mounted a few inches away from the wall. I find a chair near the far corner across from where the old cats are sitting in a tight group. One of them, Cleve Williams pats out a beat on his trombone with the flat of his hand. Cleve laughs as he begins scatting out a tune to someone, a reminder to the other of an old standard. Cleve looks toward me and smiles. I have never seen these guys before in my life. I wave back with my left hand, the hand that holds a pencil and then, I begin to write.

As the last few students arrive through the doorway, the band leader, Charlie Gray introduces the “Cats” one by one: “We’ve got Bob Hernandez on tenor sax. ‘Sweet baby James’ Benton the vocalist is with us, Sam Schlicting on Tenor sax….” After saying their names he lists where they have come from to be here: “via Las Vegas…via Oregon City…via California…” One of the Cats pipes up in the midst of the introduction: “I’m here via the Portland Adventist Hospital!”. There is soft laughter from the rest of the musicians. The band leader continues: “Bobby Bradford is on trumpet and Cleve Williams on Trombone.”

Gray introduces the first song they are going to practice: “Lets start with ‘Cheesecake’ and pay careful attention to that coda.”

One of the PSU students goes up to the front with Bob Hernandez to solo together. The student asks Bob, “Did you see the lick at the end? It doesn’t look hard but it is.”

Gray begins to snap out a beat and calls everyone to attention: “OK, two bars of drums in front. Ready? A-one, a two, a-one two three four.” and the room comes alive with more sound than seems possible for such a small place. The drummer slaps his snare and the horns carry the song into flight. The row of saxophones glow down in front, the trombones behind them, and the trumpets and rhythm section bring up the rear. The room fills with rhythm.

I watch the Old Cats. They are beaming. Sweet Baby James Benton shakes his bald head and whistles through puckered lips. He waves over to the drummer, waving and waving until he finally gets his attention. Benton’s eyes widen. He points directly at the drummer and nods his head. For the rest of the day, Benton points to the players and nods.

Benton and the other cats find the eyes of the students and begin a conversation without words. For the rest of the practice session, the students are forced away from the written music to the knowing gazes of the Old Cats. This is not a practice of music in the written form. It is a lesson in language and communication that can't be written down. It is an instruction by the Old Cats in how to speak with the eyes along with the breath that blows out its string of notes and complex rhythms. Their lesson is clear: we are all in this together.

The last few notes of "Cheesecake" are drawn out and bluesy. The faces of the "Cats" light up as they whoop and holler enthusiastically at the horn section. The next song, "Ko-Ko" is announced.

One of the Cats hollers, "Does anybody got a chart for me?"

The bandleader, leans over, shaking his head, "This is basically 'Cherokee' without the bridge. It's just a blow." The rest of the cats pump their heads up and down. Sam turns to the others. "Oh, OK. This is 'Cherokee'. Gonna miss that bridge though!"

Gray points from one of the cats to another, “Which one of you guys wants to take it? Cleve, you wanna get it on it?”

Cleve shakes his head, “It’s not my time. I wanna play the blues!”

“Oh, we’ll get you to the blues after this!”

Sam Schlicting, a thin, bent, gray-haired man takes the stage with his shining saxophone. The music floats out in a Latin flavor for a few bars and then breaks out into a high-speed swing. Sam looks at the other cats, his eyes bobbing out of his head. He holds onto the music stand with one hand and onto his sax with the other. “You have to be twenty-five years old to play this fast!” he hollers over the band. He stands up to the front anyway and blows rapidly. His upper body bobs up and down, bending backwards at the knees. His solo calls out to the band - to the rest of the cats - to the world: “Don’t carry yourself away,” it says, “I don’t have to show you anything. You don’t have anything to prove. Even when the pace is swift, you can still go slow, slow down, slow down, easy, easy, easy.”

I begin to tap out the time with my pencil on my knee. Cleve, the black trombonist looks me in the eye curiously and then turns back to the band.

The pace gets the best of the band and the song begins to fall apart. Bob continues to play. Finally, everything comes to a halt. The “Cats” begin to murmur amongst themselves: “Where did the bridge go?” “What happened to the bridge?” “OH! There is no bridge to that one!”

The band begins again. Gray snaps his fingers a little slower this time. The band eases into it but Gray has to stops the song twice more to slow down the tempo. “We can’t play it that fast.” he says. The song eventually finds its time and ends with the crashing of the ride, the blaring of trumpets and the hum of Saxophones. “WHOOO!”, shout the Cats, and Bob leans over to tell them, “That was great, I miss the bridge though, I wanted to play that bridge.”

Finally, the band breaks out their “Blues Medley” and all the Cats get their chance to blow. No sooner has the song begun than the trio of black musicians - Sweet Baby James Benton, Bobby Bradford and Cleve Williams - shout out to each other and the rest of the band: “Yeah! That’s right! Play it up!” They wave at the drummer and bass player, pointing to the young band members in turn. Cleve stands up to work out his blues on trombone. The other “cats” gaze up at him from their chairs.

“Blow! C’mon now! Blow! Yeah, that’s right! Now he’s got his blues!”

Cleve ends his solo, sits down and shouts to Bobby: “Go on now! Blow! Yes! Blow! Ooh, man that bass! Go on now!” Bob answers the call with his own smooth lamenting on the sax. I close my eyes. The shouting comes into the music with a rhythm of its own. Underneath the drums the voices lay out a foundation of encouragement and approval.

One of the female students takes a solo on her trumpet. The notes ring out crisp and clear. The cats look at one another. Their eyes widen. Cleve waves at her, meeting her gaze, “Now you got it! Play it baby! Play it up!” I scoot up closer to the Cats to get a look at the girl on trumpet but I still can barely see her from where I sit. My head bobs thoughtlessly with the rhythm. There is a chorus of shouts until she finishes and waves back in their direction.

My eye catches Cleve’s. He looks back at me, at the pencil in my hand, down to the pad of paper on my lap and back into my eyes. I feel the longing to pick up an instrument, anything that might speak back my appreciation, my sheer joy at being a witness to this joining of generations in music. Cleve looks away: a gesture that neither approves nor disapproves.

A question fills my mind: What are you doing here? Charley Gray gazes over the rim of his glasses in my direction and seems to frown. It is clear he doesn’t recognize me as one of the students from his Jazz History class. What am I doing here? Am I a mere voyeur, the audience before the real audience? The words I write. Can they only be from the outside of the music? I have not been told that I am unwelcome, but suddenly I am utterly alone. There is a short moment when the pencil, the paper and my words seem an unpardonable intrusion into something sacred. I attempt to describe a musical process that will not be rooted to the ground by words.

People used to just know that you don’t go talk to Miles Davis before and after his sets. He would stand right up there in front before the concert, cleaning his trumpet. Those who didn’t know him might try to speak to him or ask for his autograph. Miles wouldn’t even wait for the fan to finish. He pointed straight at the person who dared to address him and shouted: “Fuck you!” and that was that.

I shrink back further into the corner as the music plays out its celebration of age and rejuvenation; the celebration of mistakes that ring out purely; the celebration of grace that gathers together all missteps into a glorious affirmation of the imperfect. I am a witness hovering on the edges of this musical conversation. Cleve continues to look in my direction, like an invitation I cannot accept. Then he gazes across to the drummer and smiles. I cannot enter that gaze from the outside; I can only tell you that there is music there that is beyond my reach.

I sit in the corner with my head bowed. Sometimes, my pencil is in my hand tapping out the beat, sometimes it is in my ear. Sometimes it brushes softly to its own kind of rhythm across the paper on my lap as I play my part in the music by telling you these things.

Brian Friesen is a writer and producer for the radio show: "Poets Speak" at the Golden Hours Radio Network at OPB. Brian facilitates creative writing workshops with Write Around Portland and works to bring writing as a form of creative expression to others. He is currently working on a book of literary non-fiction entitled: "Before the Wind." You can contact him via email at brianf@pdx.edu.