By John Lunar Richey,
I’M DRIVING FAST AS I CAN TO REACH MY DESTINATION ON TIME. ALL GOOD TILL: HOW’D THAT TROOPER GET BEHIND ME SO QUICK? NO SIREN – BLINDING LIGHTS ON MY BUMPER. HOLDING MY BREATH I SQUEEZE THROUGH THREE LANES AND PARK ROAD SIDE ON THE TUMPIKE WITH THE NYC SKYLINE IS SIGHT. AFTER LOOKING OVER MY PAPERS THR TROOPER WANTS TO KNOW WHY I WAS SPEEDING. I APOLOGIZE AND TELL HIM I WORKED LATE AND NOW – BY THE TIME I GET TO QUEENS TO PICK UP MY FRIEND AND PERCUSSIONIST I SHOULD BE IN NYC. THE OFFICER ASKS, “ARE YOU IN A WEDDING BAND?”
“WHAT?” I STARE AT THE COP IN DISBELIEF, “NO, I’M DOING A PERFORMANCE AT A GALLERY IN NEW YORK CITY.” I LOOK OVER THE BACKSEAT. DID SOMEONE TOSS A TUX IN MY HATCHBACK? THE COP’S BRIGHT ORB SPREAD ACROSS TWO MILK CRATES OF ELECTRONICS AMD WIRES LOOKING MORE LIKE BOMB MATERIAL THAN MUSICAL EQUIPMENT. THE TROOPER RETURNS AND GIVES ME A WRITTEN WARNING: “DON’T LET ME CATCH YOU SPEEDING AGAIN.” HOW ELSE CAN I GET THERE ON TIME? MY RACING BECOMES MORE FRANTIC – FAST – YET STAYING OUT OF THE TROOPER’S REAR VIEW MIRROR – THEN OFF THE TURNPIKE – PASSING CARS IN NYC.
FINALLY, I’M IN THE APARTMENT OF THOMAS AND HIS FIANCEE TERRI. I’M IN A CALM PLACE WHERE YOU TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES TO ENTER. I TAKE A DEEP BREATH, TRYING NOT TO YELL: LET’S GO! THOM IS IN A DIFFERENT SPACE THAN ME. PERHAPS HE FINISHED MEDITATING. ANXIOUSLY AWAITING TO DEPART I NOTICE SOMETHING SCOTCH TAPPED TO THE HANDLE OF THEIR PHONE – ONE WORD: BREATHE. BREATHING IN QUEENS; INHALING THE PEACEFULNESS WITHIN THEIR HOME, EXHALING THE FRET WHICH ONLY CONTINUES AS WE RACE INTO NYC AND ARRIVE AT THE DOWNTOWN MUSIC GALLERY. PEOPLE ARE WAITING. WE SET UP QUICKLY. TAPE DECKS AND READING MATERIALS ARE ON THE TABLE. THOM’S PERCUSSION RACK IS SET UP.
WITHOUT CATCHING MY BREATH – WE’RE PERFORMING.
MY READING IS EDGY. THOMAS PLAYS IN A PEACEFUL, PERCUSSIVE PLACE. I’M SPEAKING STEAMY EROTICA BEHIND A DUMPSTER WHILE THOMAS HAS BIRDS SINGING IN THE TREES; BREATHING LIFE INTO HIS CLAY BIRD FIGURINES. PAINED WORDS WITH JOYOUS INTERPRETATION; WHAT I PAINT DARK, THOMAS GAVE LIGHT.
I MET THOM WHILE TAKING A JAZZ COURSE AT LIVINGSTON COLLEGE. AND I WAS ALWAYS AT THE STUDENT JAZZ ORCHESTRA PERFORMANCES WHERE THOMAS WAS ALWAYS THE FEATURE, THE FUTURE. AFTER COLLEGE I SAW THOM PLAY IN A NEW BRUNSWICK PARK WITH LIONEL HAMPTON. AT ONE POINT THE MUSICIANS WALKED THROUGH THE CROWD PLAYING A MARCH. THOM SNAKING THROUGH THE PARK SAW ME WITH FELLOW MUSICIAN JOSH. HE PAUSED IN FRONT OF US FOR A NOD AND A QUICK HONK AND A TWEET ON HIS SAX BEFORE FOLLOWING THE MUSICIAN’S WINDING PATH. OUR FRIENDSHIP REVOLVED AROUND MUSIC AND I’D GO SEE HIM PLAY AT THE KNITTING FACTORY, BUT EVERYTHING CHANGED WHEN I WAS ASKED TO JOIN MACHINE GUN.
WITHOUT CATCHING MY BREATH – WE’RE PERFORMING.
INSIDE THIS CHILLY ART SPACE CALLED THE GAS STATION; MACHINE GUN IS DOING SOUND CHECK. THOMAS AND I ARE ALONE ON STAGE. I’M NOT THE SOUNDMAN WAS CHIDING THOM, BUT COLTRANE WAS PLAYING SO LOUD THROUGH THE SOUND SYSTEM WHILE PREPARING THE MICROPHONE LEVEL FOR THOM’S SAX. AS I PLACED A SMALL PORTABLE B&W TELEVISION ON STAND NEXT TO MY TABLE OF CABLES, COLTRANE WAS BLOWING TO A HIGHER POWER – REACHING FOR AN EXPRESSION TO LIFE’S PAIN AND JOY. THOMAS JUMPED IN, HITTING EVERY NOTE WHILE DEFINITELY EXPRESSING HIS OWN FEELINGS. THE SOUNDMAN LOWERED THE MUSIC, HUMBLED AND ATTENTIVE. I LOOKED AT THOMAS AND SAW THAT WONDERFULLY SUBLIME, IMPISH LOOK AND GLINT IN HIS EYE. AND THAT WAS ONLY THE SOUND CHECK.
THAT EVENING SONNY SHARROCK, JOINED US DRESSED SHARP ON A FINE 50 STYLE SUIT AND TIE. AS THE RHYTHM SECTION KEPT PUSHING AND HOLDING STRONG – SONNY PLAYED HIS BLACK GIBSON – DROPPING PICS, TRADING LICKS, CALLS AND RESPONSES, WITH GUITARIST BOB AND THOM. ONSTAGE I JOINED IN BUT WATCHED A LOT, SEEMINGLY OUT OF THE PICTURE TILL I PUT MICROPHONE TO MY TELEVISION AND TURNED ON THE 11 O’CLOCK NEWS. CHNAGING CHANNELS – EVERYONE WATCHED AND LISTENED TO A COLLAGE OF NEWS REPORTS. A VISUAL CUT-UP. TURNING CHANNELS – CLICK, CLICK, CLICK – SWITCHING NEWS STORIES WITH SLICES OF COMMERCIALS – SPLICING A STRANGE REPORT OF THE DAY’S NEWS. GUITARS WERE SCATHING AND THOM’S SAX WALING, TO THE EXPLORATIVE RHYTHMS OF SMOKIN’ BIL AND JAIR-ROHM. WE HIT AN AMAZING PEAK TOGETHER, A GLINT IN ALL OUR EYES. WITHOUT CATCHING MY BREATH – WE’RE PERFORMING.
THOMAS CHAPIN; NOW A WORLD-RENOWNED MUSICIAN – HAVING PLAYED JAZZ FESTIVALS ALL OVER THE WORLD – WAS ASKED TO BRING IN OUR NYC EXPERIMENTAL BAND TO HOLLAND. AT THE TIME I LIVED IN TAOS, BOB AND THOM IN NY AND THE RHYTHM SECTION IN SWEDEN. HAVING NOT PLAYED A NOTE TOGETHER FOR A COUPLE OF YEARS WE WERE NERVOUS BACKSTAGE. THOM’S SERENE VOICE QUELLED LAST MINUTE JITTERS STATING, “WE DO AS WE ALWAYS DO: WE IMPROVISE!” AND MACHINE GUN, THE BAND THAT GAVE THOMAS HIS NICK-NAME RAGE, TOOK THE STAGE LIKE TIME NEVER MATTERED. I HAD NO CONCEPT OF THIS BEING OUR FINAL PERFORMANCE. THOMAS – CENTER STAGE BLOWING EVERYONE AWAY WITH HIS TOUCH AND FEELING. HIS FLUTE COULD BE AS PEACEFUL AS HAND TOUCHING A TRICKLING STREAM, HIS SAX A SMOKING CAULDRON ABOUT TO ERUPT IN FLAMES. SOMETIMES PLAYING TWO SAXES SIMULTANEOUSLY THOMAS MASTERED CIRCULAR BREATHING – A MEDITATIVE DISCIPLINE – CREATING OF NEVER ENDING FLOW OF MUSIC. THE SYNCHRONICITY OF WORDS AND MUSIC MIXED INTO A FRENZY VIBRATING THE SPACE WITH ABSTRACT MAGICAL IMPROVISATION. MUSIC DEVELOPED IN THE HERE AND NOW: LIKE BREATHING.