Jazz Manifesto, part 1

The first live music I ever attended took place at a small coffee shop in Cody, Wyoming.

Well, technically speaking, every Sunday morning my entire family dressed up and went to church, where the best and brightest Baptist music flowed like non-alcoholic communion wine. But the first live music I heard, apart from the church auditorium, sprung from the finest coffee house (at the time) in northwestern Wyoming, The Cody Coffee Company.

I sat under a long-haired guitar teacher who wore Levi 501 jeans and Birkenstocks like they would never go out of the proverbial style. And frankly, they never have. My half-hour lessons with Jeff opened me to all sorts of variety, new and old. I played classic folk tunes, classic country, a little Creedence Clearwater Revival, and nearly every song John Denver put to cassette. National flatpicking champion and releaser of various albums, Jeff’s talents ran very deep.

So, one afternoon, he told me of a gig taking place on some Tuesday or Thursday, I can’t remember exactly. But I do recall thinking it odd to play music for a crowd on a random weekday. My hesitation grew when he mentioned the word jazz. All I knew of jazz was the tortured piping of high school jazz bands, playing what they’re told to play, marching where they’re told to march—mostly too loud, and mostly too terrible.

But everything Jeff played on his guitar acted as character reference. I wouldn’t miss this gig.

My mom and dad and I walked into the Cody Coffee Company and the place was packed.

What is this thing, jazz? I thought. Had I mixed up the files in my brain? This looked nothing like the only jazz I knew, that strained high school wind section barely keeping time to poppy and pathetic numbers. No, these people wanted to be here.

On a random Thursday night.

Apparently, magic happens on random Thursday nights. I’d frequented this particular coffee shop for years, but never seen the lights so low. Two and three-person tables dotted the floor, with barely room enough to move. And a three-piece band began setting up their kit, my teacher Jeff plugging his hollow-body electric guitar into an amp.

This could not be Wyoming anymore. No, this was a 1955 San Francisco basement club, laden with cigarette smoke and human discovery. A place for the Kerouacs and Parkers. The only detail missing was a beret-wearing beatnik in the corner, breathing slam poetry heavily into a microphone. But my 14-year-old-self had no context for all that. I look back now and can plug the round pegs into the round holes.

The lights dropped further. A local restaurant catered dessert. I had a latte and raspberry tort. I can still smell it.

Music started; and my preconceptions faded away.

Jeff sat on a chair and plucked away, while an unnamed bassist slapped an upright bass with the coolness of every guy who slaps away at any bass. And tucked behind them sat an elderly man tying it all together on a drum set. Ronnie Bedford formed a tight jazz career of his own over the years. (rest in peace, Ronnie) I know that now. But to me then, he was just an old guy who played the drums. He held what I thought resembled a whisk and frequently spread it over a snare drum, casting a perfect…

Ti SaSa Ti SaSa Ti SaSa Ti Ti SaSa Ti SaSa Ti SaSa Ti….and on and on and on, hypnotically.

The dissidence and discord resolved, but not always. Each player played the same, but different. Each had their turn for solos, but never asked for it. Each instrument was vital, but not necessary for each song. Jazz made sense, but it didn’t.

What is this thing called Jazz?

anthony forrest

part 2 next week