Moment's Notice

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I would die for John Coltrane. And I can't imagine a single person who wouldn't. Great Jimmy Heath praised the young sport as the single virtuoso and musical genius of his age. For good reason! Coltrane was the master of counterpoint, a pioneer of musical development, the maestro of blending harmony and melody, the author of a single, elegant art form. But to me, Coltrane was always just my father's favorite.

Count Basie was an awfully good composer, but father said he never wrote any interesting trumpet sections. Mingus was fun at times, but father never liked his thundering harmonies. It was always Coltrane. Always the bounding leaps of musical intricacy, the elaborate shifts in chord structure, the delicacy of quartet construction. I loved Coltrane. But even more than my love for Coltrane, I loved how father loved Coltrane.

He loved Coltrane as if the man was a friend, not just as a gent swept away by the tides of history and the passage of time, but as a companion. Father would tell me stories (he told them often) about how back in his days at university, it was Coltrane who would guide him through dark times. Some were funny, others were sad, but there is one story in particular I always love recounting. Father would start every tale with "from a land way back yonder and a time farther than meets the eye," almost as if he were a poet. A musician? Yes, undeniably so. A poet? A penman? A dramatist? No, no, and perhaps. Father always had big dreams, and these passions sometimes translated into his speech. Those who knew him casually called it culturally sophisticated; those who knew him close called it rather amusing. I found it downright hilarious. So when father said "from a land way back yonder," I always smiled, knowing that he was referencing our little town's University of West London. In fact, I'm really squinting my eyes now, and I can just make out the old building's unremarkable English frame through my window (I had to wipe the fog off the pane to see it clearly – oh, how I loathe London condensation). Then when father added, "and a time farther than meets the eye," I remember involuntarily snorting aloud. What he really meant was back in a particularly awkward stage of adulthood, that transition period where no one really knows what they're doing. Otherwise known as college. Otherwise known as the entirety of my dad's life. Though I really shouldn't be too harsh on the old man.

At the time, father was reaching a crossroads. The absolute grandeur of the world blurred his vision, and he would often peer into the distance, as if confused or deep in thought. If any day could clear up father's uncertainty in one fell swoop, it would have to be March 17th. The day of his audition for the Vanguard Jazz Orchestra. I'm chuckling silently know as I write out the orchestra's full name. It always seems official, important, filled with purpose. Everything my father wanted to be at the time. He took me with him to his audition; father said it would temper his nerves and "cool his tepid soul." As a measure of good luck, his trumpet got front row privileges, comfortably bouncing up and down on the passenger side. I was relegated to back seat duty. Humming his set piece, Father faithfully recited the rather tricky Glen Miller composition. Father's voice danced with ease, and his fingers did the same. What a curious habit for us musicians, dancing fingers that is. It seems impossible to consciously control the drumming, the tapping, the motioning of a quick F sharp or high B flat. Father was no exception to these whims of musical habit. Looking at his outstretched hand, I realized how much I loved the sight of father's calloused fingers gliding across the steering wheel. He played the wheel with an almost elegant ease. I half expected him to rip the thing out of his car and take it with him to his audition, proudly declaring that he had found a new trumpet and would be playing it for the judges now.

We arrived, and of course, no such thing happened. Everything swept along in a hurry, and we soon found ourselves in a tiny hallway, nervously waiting for father's name to get called. Collecting himself, father pulled out his earplugs and listened to Miller's birdsong. He hummed along. Nestled on father's shoulder, I quickly fell asleep, vibrating (perhaps shaking would be a better term) every time he let out a particularly low note.