The Victoria Hall in Geneva is a prim, flouncy, puckered chocolate-box of a venue with a narrow auditorium and balconies around the sides and back. We were up there toward the back somewhere, having to lean out a little and look sideways to see the stage, which my wife didn't want to do on account of blocking the view for others. The place was packed with immaculately turned-out Swiss burghers paying respect to one of the great tenor players. Silverheaded men, some sporting crisp Van Dykes, wearing their specially-ironed Jazz Shirts. Going a little wild for the evening. Wives dressed more for the hall than the music.
So Sonny and his band come on, and it's clear they aren't intimidated by the respect and the politeness and the suffocating Swissness. They start blowing, loud and free, and at the end of the first number they get a thin wash of golf applause, gray heads nodding like dashboard toys. I'm getting annoyed and frustrated and - sick of my fucking life.
During the next number (this is early 'nineties Sonny - basically Afro-jazz dance grooves - no standards) I can't stand it any longer. I sneak away, down to the side, downstairs, and find my way back in through the door leading into the empty orchestra pit. The stage is right up in front of me, an almost head-high wall behind fencing off the audience. I'm standing, I can move, and I can see every bead of sweat spray from the drummer's head. A security guy follows me through the door, puts his hand on my arm. Sonny says "hey! it's okay!". At some point I start moving a little. Sonny's running the voodoo down and the band's a jungle storm, all tigers burning bright and twisting snakes, and the drums, the drums, the heartbeat. I'm sweating. I know what life is, and I'm swept up by it, into the current.
At the end of the gig, Sonny comes over, leans down and clicks a finger pistol at me with a mile-wide grin, and I see his eyes, burning behind his shades like stars.
(Another of those dates where the dame don't speak to me on the way home.)
Early 90s Sonny Rollins - any Sonny, is great Sonny. Nice piece.
ReplyDeleteMonster player. Someone once described his tone as "bellicose", which is perfect.
DeleteThanks Farq, the great power of music mate, sorry your wife was not so moved.
ReplyDeleteIn these strange times people keep saying they can't wait to go to the pub or bar again, but I think the first proper concert or gig will be very powerful stuff. Nice (disturbing) card btw.
It was either Bosch, or Goya's Saturn Devouring His Son. They're both fun pictures.
DeleteSweet!
ReplyDeleteAnd exactly when are you going to turn in your assignment, FG?
DeleteThat's a pretty original excuse, so okay.
DeleteOne of my dogs got bit by a snake a couple of weeks back. She used to hunt and kill them - crack them like a whip - but this one - a mean flat-head male - got the best of her. Her leg swelled up, whole system shot to bits, staggering, thought she was a dead one, but she's pulled through. Tough old Thai mutt. (My wife killed the snake with a shovel).
My cat got bit in the back of one of the back legs far from the heart buy man was he messed up. You know the drill then. Good on your wife! Wow. There's a shovel or a Crossman match BB gun in it's future.
DeleteSonny is a National Treasure.
ReplyDeleteWhen I wanted to know if a girlfriend was a keeper: the "acid test" was Free Jazz. I'd start with 'A Love Supreme' and go from there. I married the one who said "This is really cool!" the first time she heard Brötzmann's 'Machine Gun'.
".....and at the end of the first number they get a thin wash of golf applause,....."
Textbook example of Too Hip for the Room.
Very cool trading card!
How do I love Cheez Whiz?
ReplyDeleteLet me count the ways...
I love it to the depth and breadth that the Velveeta consciousness will allow...
but, the golf applause makes a great garnish!
In fact, it needs its OWN trading card!
(The Golf Applause, I mean)
Man, the whole orchestra pit to yourself!
ReplyDeleteTHAT was better than watching Shane as a 'young-gun'
(Re: Dem damn dames...What would you have talked about anyway? Voting?)
My uncle was Rufe Ryker in that show. He was also the sergeant who leads the guy off for execution in Paths of Glory.
DeleteI caught Sonny Rollins for the last time at the Cocoanut Grove nightclub in Hollywood during the late '70s. He played solo, rarely landing on recognizable tunes other than the occasional quote. Forty-plus years on I'm still ambivalent about the show. At the time, as my focus on Sonny's improvisations drifted in and out, the music sounded like well-worn warmup exercises alternating with brilliant stream-of-consciousness blasts with only Sonny's reed between his consciousness and the crowd. My old lady wisely stayed home; it wouldn't have been remotely her cup of tea.
ReplyDeleteA gig from his own point of view must be like a single note in a lifetime of one long improvisation on a theme. He's always just passing through. What a life.
DeleteBeautiful! Nothing worse than an audience that doesn't get it. My most recent experience with that was going to see the travelling version of Hamilton last year; my teenage daughter was obsessed with everything Hamilton so we listened to the soundtrack a lot the previous year and knew the words (she all of them, me the catchy bits). I was expecting everyone to be singing or at least moving along since it's such a visceral musical but nope; everyone was there just because "Hamilton" and had no connection to the (outstanding) performance at all.
ReplyDelete