Sitting alone
in Preservation Hall
such an unexpected gift.
Echoes of jazz men past,
and women like Sweet Emma,
over 50 years of sweat and swing
too many artists to name
and the walls untouched,
an unscrubbed shrine –
stained pegboard,
cracked floor boards,
old tour posters,
original paintings,
the big bass drum
illuminated from within,
as I am,
with letters of soulful legacy
ready to come to life
at a master’s touch.
My reed is wet
with my inner tears
humbled by this moment
before the audience enters
and tonight’s band
takes them
to places
many of them have never been.
A time before rock
and bop
and country
and way before the internet and
television’s hot media
escalated our expectations.
When Jazz was young
this town
was the catalyst
the secret spice
in the gumbo
that made the senses
explode
with awe.
How did this
rhythmic concoction
come to life,
dancing the generations,
and me not notice?
Yet now I sit
in rapt attention
in an empty room
which exists for one purpose only
to preserve the early jazz
born in this city
when 4 string banjo
and clarinet
were essential
and even violin
was still welcome in the band.
My reed
is now dripping wet
and the horn comes
to my lips
with an impossible mission.
How do I even dare
to attempt to play
amongst these echoes,
now fixed in my head?
Because
the urge comes
from deep within
and only I
can play jazz in my own way.
Practice I must.
To woodshed
is to enjoy the heat twice
in private
and on the stage.
This improv is mine,
really it is me,
suddenly encased in tone
and time
and licks
and even I will reverberate
eternally
between these hallowed walls.
My heart,
my soul,
my longing.
Whatever gift
I can honestly offer,
even if my inner critic
erases it all –
this is my expression
in this moment.
And it is true.