Jazz

Jazz

by

Miles Rothwell

Published at Smashwords

Copyright 2016 Miles Rothwell

Cover photo by Lionel Decoster

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Freddie

Second Avenue

Boys Night Out

Lorenzo

Cia

Elvin

Gigi

Jae-yo

Bamboo Lounge

Baxter

Corey

Elvin Revisited

In A Silent Way

Other titles

Connect with Miles

Imagination is a magic carpet upon which we soar to distant lands and climes and even go beyond to any planet in the sky. If we came from nowhere here why can’t we go somewhere there? - Sun Ra -

****

Freddie

Muskrat Ramble ended with modest applause - out of favour and mood - there was no heir apparent as busboys clattered glasses. Snake-eyes rolled out the door as a waitress steadied a glass vase with its single plastic rose. Frosted red candlelight scattered shafts of fiery shade. Starched linen table cloths presented a canopy hiding double breasted coats and raffia skirts.

The bandleader counted in Body and Soul but from a different time. A row of tables held court to businessmen working their way through their catalogue of Soju and Johnnie Walker Blue.

The piano player takes a cursory glance at the tables. A pause mid-chord to wonder would they notice if the music stopped, for what else was there? What held the night together - the clam chowder, the mini-skirted waitresses, the Lucky Strike dart board, perhaps A Fine Romance would help. Freddie smiles as he counts in Potato Head Blues, 1-2-3-4.

He resolves again to look down and concentrate on the piano keys - the only home he has ever known - a respite from the aching in his muscles, the rent due again and the beguiling aroma of Jae-yo’s poached chicken soup.

The songs come and go - like old friends - Freddie salutes each one with his own distinctive renditions. The passing of time is ever present. There is a danger that The Silhouettes could at any moment descend into nostalgia but Freddie has taken pre-cautions, not here, not on stage - that is done at rehearsals. Baxter leans heavily on his piano player, not just the arrangements and getting the guys to focus especially after they complain that Round Midnight is as tight as they can get it. Freddie’s genius is keeping the mood fresh, treating each song as a piece of something sacred, a revered tapestry gilded from Masters past.

The house lights come on. What a Wonderful World permeates over the crowd but the resonance is lost as the background music is flattened out by the Harman-Kardon CD player and tightly tweaked JBL speakers. There is no moment of reflection…just another night with another one to come…

Out on the street it is cold and wet. Was it raining earlier? Had it rained all night? He didn’t know as he tightened his collar and watched the never ending fleet of Taxis stream by in the rain. Their golden lights ablaze, the drivers impassive as they head for Incheon Airport.

Nowhere in Seoul is more than a ten dollar taxi ride away but Ben ‘Freddie’ Thurman is headed for the green canvas tent on the corner. Inside two tiny round women display dexterity beyond belief as pork ribs catch ablaze and marinade is brushed on with small bunches of tarragon. Tiny brown potatoes that look like eggs are turned and cajoled over the charcoal inspired heat. 4000 won - after all this time he still has to convert - five bucks - buys two ribs and a cup of potatoes.

He goes to turn but the rain pelting on the canvas roof roots him to the spot. He looks at one of the cooks who has small pearls of sweat beading under a head band with smiley faces - she nods, bows and quickly turns away.

A few beer breathed men enter the carnival atmosphere - he stands witness as the hot garlic and herb encrusted potatoes warm and nourishes the ache away. The food scalds his tongue but this is trivial, meaningless, in this journey that has purged a link to whatever is possible.

With a full stomach there is no need to remain so he reluctantly moves on, he knows what is coming, the time passages spent away from the stage are necessary, but unwelcomed, there is no respite especially in the dark - the dark is no longer a constant it has become more than that - he can’t remember what Sogong-ro looks like in daylight.

Freddie doesn’t notice the Hana Bank sign anymore or the subway entrance or the Ko-Chon Chicken shop. The grandeur of Top Cloud beckons in the distance, above the other high rise buildings, like dinosaurs on a battle field, their lights promise a life worth pursuing, and under the bluey haze of an electronic Samsung sign positioned high up on the exterior of the American Express building - displaying out over the night sky - the illusion that money is life.

Namdaemun-ro turns into Myeongdong-gil as Freddie ponders the next adventure. Let’s see if we can catch up to him.

Freddie! Hold up, can we grab a minute of your time?

Sure, I was wondering when you were going to appear. Mind if we walk, what do you want to know?

Thanks, what has always intrigued me is the thought of living far from home, in another country where you can come and go as you please with no consequence of family obligations, and not living a mediocre existence, a sort of permanent vacation.

Is that how you see it? Interesting, not sure if I fully agree, but I can see what you are saying.

Well how do you see it?

Freddie absorbed what had been asked of him as if to validate its accuracy.

Music is about expressing what can’t be written down or told. It’s not about how many quarter notes you can play or how extravagant your chord shapes are. There needs to be simplicity in intent but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t carry influential or complex themes. The emotion used to play comes from within the person, the mechanics are motor functions but the breath before the first chord of So What stems from within Miles, a sour bitter angry man who could transcend his human foibles with a whisper of an Em7, then you had Coltrane a blissful patient loving man who could erupt with his horn so it sounded like the archangel Gabriel with a hangover. Music is not primarily concerned with communication, it is about expression. Expressing feelings between loved ones and enemies. There is of course the business side but that don’t matter, it’s like growing grapes, you got to get the wine to the table and it passes through many hands and everyone wants their cut, but when you sitting there with a crust of bread and a hunk of cheese slurping on your favourite grape juice who cares how it got there or who fucked who over in the process…thus spoke Ben ‘Freddie’ Thurman.

Street corners go by - like a trail - half opened kerb grates signal he doesn’t have to look up at the doorway of 529 Toegye-ro. He unlocks the front door hardly noticing the Porsche emblem on the key ring and bottle opener.

The door klunked shut and he is in the foyer. He notices the clock on the wall over a table that has never seen anything different. 4.33 am - a little later than usual - he blames the rain. At the top of the stairs he waits for any sound but none is forth coming. His apartment door is open - no need to lock it - he enters the room.

You can only show people a postcard of where you’ve been - he looks at the small poster above the kitchen sink. The smiling face of Dizzy looks on. He looks around the bed-sit. Eight hours ago he left the same room in the same condition. Why would he expect anything to be different?

It’s a cycle he can’t break and must be endured. What was been gained? The same songs in the same order. Some people listened, there was even applause. Hyo-jo smiled when she sold him a packet of Winston - he left her a tip.

As he looks at his room in the same way as he did the previous afternoon the humour of his situation underscores the monotony. Music hasn’t changed the world, certainly not his, did he think it would? Did Miles, Monk or Bird?

Darkness defines the edges of objects - Television, side table, bed, kitchen sink. The drying rack holds a spoon, fork and bowl. A coffee cup in the sink is filled to the brim with water.

A red light from outside frames the one window where the signs for Omuto Tomato, IBIS Ambassador and A-Shin shine and flicker like a multi-coloured beach ball. On the corner, the One Plus shop is closing, soon the red neon will flicker and disappear leaving its customary tinged silhouette for a minute or two. Time to close the curtain and seal the door with the cushion to keep the encroaching light out.

He washes his face and changes into substitute pyjamas - long socks, t-shirt and cotton pants bought at Chuncheon Nangman Market. Freddie pours a decent measure of Knob Hill - straight no chaser. His eyes feel heavy, tiredness rampant. Thoughts go unnoticed in the background of his mind - a soundtrack of his life with no encore, unrelenting till the final note.

Round Midnight was a bit heavy tonight…couldn’t concentrate…didn’t feel right…those guys in the front…distracting…Lotte food court…fried red mullet…hot potatoes…crumpled photographs…longing for…

Freddie Thurman falls asleep - his room sheltered from distractions. The red neon continues to shimmer as a thin band of navy blue light rests on the skyline. Taxis travel under the bridge and shops remain quiet as another morning arrives.

Dreams were a luxury and seldom remembered but images were forming out of the soup of indulgences…a bar of soap rested in a sink…there was music in the background - no surprises there - it could have been Lady Day. A soft haunting refrain melted in the sky. Freddie was outside, standing next to a pond feeding geese. The countryside was beautiful; blossoms were out, the smell of salt air combined with lavender and someone’s jasmine perfume all around him.

Freddie was aware of the morning going on without him. There were times he slept soundly in forty-five minute cycles, then thirty minutes or so before he trembled under the surface of being awake. Past midday he knew he wasn’t asleep.

There was cold comfort in being awake at this time of the day. For nocturnal sleepers it was like being awake at 2am waiting and hoping the dawn would stay away and sleep would come to the rescue.

Hunger was a problem, the taste of chilli sauce lingered. The thought of hash browns, bacon and maple syrup dredged from the past - Coffee Club. The sound of clip-clop shoes on the polished marble floor in Tin-Tan Palaza Emporium. Little Finger Hoi and her ample breasts seemed like a movie described by someone else. He questioned the validity and serenity those golden moments offered.

Sleep did rescue him. Another few hours - the home stretch - all the mental meanderings were placated asunder. How does tiredness dominate the mind? What is sleep? How is it defined and plotted against the landscape of the mind. Sleep seems such an impossible act, born from what circumstance. Surely evolution should have delivered a better operating model, and why for so long. To be asleep, basically out of action and vulnerable to internal and external thoughts for a third of your life - thirty years or more without any memory except for the occasional dream, and what use are they in the bigger picture.

Gods are created, wars waged and thoughts dictate all the illusion we see around us, then for it to be all dissolved and rendered meaningless by being asleep. Kings dictate and postulate then fall asleep like a child curled in a giant bed while all their subjects run amuck.

Freddie lay awake thinking these thoughts as another night lay before him. The routine thrashed itself onto the shore again. It sat patiently, the clock ticking, waiting for him to climb on board. He waited for something to