Fundamental Problems, Page 3

The deep bass notes echo into the hallway as I approach the door. They sound like raindrops hitting the top of a gigantic metal barrel, vibrating the air. Just as I open the door, the piano kicks in, a quick, agile run of notes putting me in mind of a cat trotting across the room. There is a brief pause and the piano settles into a nice syncopated melody, complimenting the resounding bass in perfect partnership. My friend, Greg Macon, is responsible for the piano, and his friend, Big Sherman Stemple, plucks the bass with long and nimble fingers. That's what his friends call him - “Big Sherman” - because he's a big guy, maybe six-four and just over two-hundred, fifty pounds. Greg and I go way back – we were in college together and played a few gigs together. He turns and grins when he sees me walk in.

  Greg is a songwriter, mostly jazz, but occasional pop and new country. He writes both music and lyrics and several of his songs have been recorded by famous artists. I play guitar, though I should say it's more like I play around with the guitar. I'm not bad, just not good enough to play professionally. But I do enjoy jamming with Greg, especially when he's got one of his studio buddies over...like right now. I glance over and notice there's an old Telecaster sitting in the corner and I'm tempted to hook it up and join in, only I don't know the song and I'm not quite good enough to fake it. They're doing a jazz number, one that I don't know. Maybe they're in the middle of writing. I sit and close my eyes, allowing myself to flow along with the melody.

  Doing this with a good mid-to-up-tempo jazz tune is a little like riding the rapids. You can see where you're going, but every now and then the current shakes you a bit and guides you in a direction you weren't anticipating. The cool thing about a good jazz song is that you can get a full-body experience without a full band. For example, even without a drummer, I feel the rhythm of this song. In fact, my brain fills in the drums...definitely brushes rather than sticks, but no less pop to them. It's amazing how a good jazz drummer can make the skins pop with a pair of brushes. For this particular tune, I'm thinking sticks would be too much.

  “Grab that axe!” Greg yells toward me, but I'm too busy playing the drums in my head, so I grin and shake my head without opening my eyes. The music gets inside you and you just begin to flow, like going down those rapids, and all you can do is hang on and enjoy the ride. Just then, Greg starts tiptoeing outside the lines, darting just outside the melody in short bursts, bringing a laughing exclamation from Big Sherman as he tries to keep up. That's the great thing about jazz...it's free form, no rules to which one must adhere. Jazz is to music as free verse is to poetry or abstract is to painting. Can't do that if you're playing pop or country, rock or classical. The minute you step outside the lines in pop or rock, you're playing jazz...or at least what artists call a jazz-pop fusion or a jazz-rock fusion. Going with the flow in music is jazz, man.

  After the song, Greg reminds Big Sherman of our previous meeting, a reminder he apparently doesn't need as he jumps around his big stand-up bass and grabs my hand, exclaiming that it's great to see me again. The three of us sit and talk and laugh, Greg telling me about the song they just played and how it's been simmering in his awareness for a week or so.

  “A week?” I ask, somewhat incredulous.

  “Yeah, man,” he says, grinning. “Sometimes I need to marinate in the music a while before I cook it.”

  I laugh at the mixed metaphor, and when I point it out, he leans a little closer and gives me a deadpan look.

  “But dude, if I used a straight metaphor for jazz music, it would be so...rude.” He flashes a wily grin just as this is out of his mouth, then leans back and mocks smoking a cigar.

  This brings laughter from Big Sherman. “Man, you a trip,” he says to Greg, shaking his head.

  Later, it's just Greg and me and a six-pack of Yuengling Black & Tan. We drink from the bottles and talk about inspiration and perspiration. I know where he believes his music comes from, but I want him to elaborate on it, so I ask.

  “It's just there...everywhere,” he says, struggling with the concept of giving directions to someone who is visiting for the first time. He shakes his head and smiles as he turns the bottle up.

  “That's kinda vague,” I point out.

  He nods to this. “Yeah, and if I could draw you a map, I would.” He pauses and takes a sip from a freshly-opened bottle. “The music is like in the background...always playing. All you have to do is tune in to it and pay attention.”

  He says this as if anyone can hear it. I believe that he believes this. I'm not sure I do.

  “Why can't I hear it?” I ask.

  He gives me a long, pensive look, and then takes another sip. “Maybe you're not supposed to,” he says, shrugging. Then, after another pause, he adds, “You write...where do your ideas come from?”

  I think about this. While I draw upon my life experience for articles and stories, I must admit that the best things I write seem to come from nowhere...or everywhere. When I'm in a particular place, the stories write themselves. This sounds like a cliché, even as I think about it, yet despite this, I cannot deny the truth of it. It also points me toward some common ground the two of us may share.

  “What about the lyrics?” I ask, opening my second beer.

  “Same thing,” he says.

  “Always?”

  “No,” he says, shaking his head and leveling his gaze at me. “Only the good stuff comes as a gift. I can write music and lyrics anytime, but they are mundane compared to the good stuff.”

  This immediately strikes a chord with me, the thought of which makes me laugh.

  “Did I say something funny?” he asks.

  “No,” I say, and explain my amusing thought, which brings a smile to his face and a light to his eyes. “There's a song there...,” he says, then sits silently, sipping his beer and, I can only assume, listening.

  “Ever wonder why we talk about an idea as striking a chord?” he asks after a moment of silent sipping.

  I shrug. “Not really. It just makes sense, I guess”

  He stares off into space, tapping his fingers along the neck of his beer bottle as if tapping out a rhythm to the melody he's hearing.

  “Yeah, it does make sense. A lot of sense,” he says, finally, taking another sip.

  We both sit a moment or so in silence, sipping and thinking.

  “Think every songwriter just plucks music from what's there?” I ask after a bit.

  He shakes his head. “I dunno. Maybe.” Then after another moment of thought, he adds, “But honestly, there are some songs that I cannot imagine come from that place. In fact, there are a lot of songs like that.” He empties beer number two and then says, “I dunno, maybe that's just me being a bit of a musical snob.”

  But I don't think so, and I tell him that. I think about the writings of Dostoevsky compared to Harlequin romances and I cannot help but think there is definitely a qualitative difference. Of course, literary critics would agree, perhaps nearly everyone would, but is this snobbery toward those who may not agree? If some, however few they may be, happen to think that Harlequin romance novels are just as well-written as anything by Dostoevsky or Dickens, are they wrong? Ignorant? Or just have a different perspective? I pose the question to Greg, only in musical terms.

  “Is Bach's music qualitatively better than Justin Bieber's music?”

  He frowns. “Of course,” he says.

  “So if someone thinks otherwise, they are wrong?” I inquire.

  “Wrong?” he repeats. “Why would they be wrong? It's just what they believe.”

  “Yeah, but you just said there was a qualitative difference. If that's the case, then either you or they must be wrong, don't you think? I mean, there either is or there is not a qualitative difference, right?”

  He sips and shakes his head. “I'm quite sure there is a qualitative difference. But that's only my perspective. Someone else just has a different perspective, that's all.”

  “But what is the truth?” I ask.

  He gives me a quizzical look. “What I just sa
id,” he says, “We have different perspectives.”

  “I get that, but which perspective is right?”

  He laughs. “Depends on which one of us you ask.”

  That strikes a chord.

  Gradual Epiphany