Wynton’s Blogs
In the Land of Luigi
Highway of the Flowers from Nice to Genova (from the break of day) may be the most beautiful stretch of road in the world. It is an engineering marvel of tunnels, bridges and grainy asphalt slithering alongside the shimmering Mediterranean.
We go straight up through the Pre-Alpine range in northern Italy. The sights are unsurpassed.
Pastel towns and villages in various stages of undress emerge at all angles on every turn.
Spires, a diversity of wild foliage interrupted by pristine farmlands, and ancient and modern structures side by side, testify to the fleeting permanence of life.
This road drives well too. Viva L'Italia.
Wynton
Be Present and Bring a Good Woman
We stop in Pont De Molina Spain on the way to Barcelona. It's 11:30 and we're starving. Irene tells us to stop at Amiel & Molina, a local restaurant she's spotted from the road. Fernando doesnt want to. They aren't open.
Irene goes in…20 min. later they are rolling out an Epicurean feast for us. Tortilla de Patatas, Iberian Ham, Manchego Cheese, Gazpacho w Rum, Fried Pescadillas, Pa Amb Tomaquet, Have Mercy! it went on and on. We said,"we'd hate to see when you're open." Fernando tells Irene, "I was wrong." She says, "Let's record that."
Chef Gabriel Marin even brought out some Louisiana Tobasco (always a sign of civilization) with a portion of the Cocido that he had prepared for himself. I went to the kitchen and played some New Orleans blues for them. Brother Carlos, the sui chef, started clapping a syncopated groove. Everybody started vibing. Upon finishing, Carlos said, "flamenco."
As we walked out the door they told me, "remember us when you get famous."
Wynton
We Are Still Out Here
Leaving Nice at 9 am.
Fernando, Irene and I stop by the airport to pick up Boss Murphy's late arriving bag as the band flies to the next destination. We play the jazz night of the festival with Ahmad Jamal and Roy Hargrove. It's good to see some actual jazz musicians at a jazz festival.
Some loud non- jazz blaring from the main stage has created the campy atmosphere of a bad casino throughout the city all day and is now bleeding into every song we play. We have to laugh. It's like a 'collateralized debt obligation'. What could possibly be better to sell than nothing, with the name collateral to describe it.
Jazz beat our financial systems to this level of fraudulence with the first generation of 'selling out as artistic statement' some 40 yrs ago. Now it's a way of life. The equation: many of our bankers and traders resell unscrupulous loans using THE LOAN ITSELF as collateral, wreck the world economy and keep their jobs and our money (actually are given more)= Non-Jazz stands in for actual jazz, is easier to sell because it's not, headlines jazz festivals and destroys not just the festival ambience and intimacy, but even the late-night jam sessions with a lot of loud, sad, non-playing assed bullshit.
This non-jazz is celebrated for being 'open' and 'of it's time' and sells more and is more pervasive than the actual music whose name it carries. HaHa. This is 'of it's time', because corruption is of all times. My great grandma Mama Rosie used to say, "A lie will go around the world twice 'fore the truth ever gets started."
She wasn't lying.
Wynton
Iberian Ham at 2:15
On our way out of town, we see some of the cats sharing a meal and drink at an open street corner cafe w the soulful Tokyo Ska Paradise Orchestra (also in our hotel).
Our waiter starts talking 'bout we better pay now, and pisses Fernando off. As we discuss Japanese musicians we both know and love, Fernando becomes temperful, drags the man away, and slaps some money down with an earful of vitriol. We cool off and recognize that he's been working as well as sampling beverages all day.
A few diplomatic words from Irene (fernando's much better half), and ten minutes later it's Japan meets Jazz meets Ska in Spain w some free Sangria and good Iberian ham sandwiches. As we leave, our inebriated brother asks me, "what do you sing?"
Wynton
Tour Redux, Atlanta Jam and BBQ shoulder sandwiches w Book-Nova
Gigs in Atlanta are always festive. All kinds of family and friends sitting on the right side of the stage. Walter's momma and sister, Chris' wife and daughter, Marcus Printup's mother, so many people. Soulful people, Mrs. Pearl Fountain. Some of Sherman's people. Frank's grandson, the irrepressible William Edward Lee (age 7 with blue jacket and khaki pants) running all around, dancing to the music with controlled abandon.
The last night of a tour is always bittersweet, but this gig was fun. The blues was on the menu and people were hungry. The tour was, as always, revelatory. New and old friends, all kinds of different stuff happening on the bandstand. We mainly played the Vitoria Suite and our arrangements of Chick Corea's music.
Whenever I announce Chick's music, someone yells,"Yeah!" above the general murmur of approval.
I pointed this out to our audience last night and said that I told Chick and that he was happy about that response.
The cats' dedication is evidenced by the attention to detail they give to each song on every concert. On stage, I say we have an embarrassment of riches. And we do. Everywhere I turn, Ted, Vincent, Carlos, Marcus…....Ryan, Vic. Bam! A lot of ability writing, playing and teaching. A lot of soul and love of the music and experience. Ali.
I consistently receive a plethora of wonderful comments about how generous all the guys are when interfacing with students, audience members, and staff. Generally we speak to student groups after soundchecks and sometimes after gigs. I love when guys who are not scheduled to teach come in and share a few anecdotes with the youngsters.
Of course, everyone is bone tired now. We normally have a group toast in the intermission of the last gig of a tour. We missed it last night. The President of Moorehouse College, Dr. Robert Franklin celebrated his birthday at our concert which was presented by the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra. I love him and the orchestra also for doing their best to play my Blues Symphony (which I still need to do LOTS of work on). Normally we get out right after the gig.
Tonight, there are so many great musicians in Atlanta, I go with my boy Milkshake to Danny and Terry Harper's jam session at Churchill Grounds and play till 2 in the morning with a room full of swinging trumpeters including their son Terence. It was a late-night affair with great warmth and the feeling of informal profundity that good jazz brings to a space.
John Robertson came in around 1 and played all kinds of piano. His son James, 12 and of sterling personality, was already there tearing up the place and is someone to watch out for on the alto sax. Now, at 7:30am we are on I-85 staring hard at 16hrs of driving. No soon as we finish lunch, Frank and Boss Bragg strong arm me into going to a rib restaurant. We circle Lexington, North Carolina for 1hr looking for Lexington One Barbecue. Frank and Lolis wrote THE book on BBQ- 'Smokestack Lightning', so you can't tell him anything about it.
They get a couple of chopped shoulder sandwiches and I cajole them into stopping at North Carolina Central so's I can see Branford and his students. Book (branford) gives us the directions and at 4pm we fall into a room full of students and talk about and play jazz music. We conclude by playing some modern counterpoint on Sweet Georgia Brown. It's so much fun playing with him, I want to laugh. I remember how Gerry Mulligan used to smile like a mischievous kid when telling me,"Hey, let's play that counterpoint." Yeah me and Book riffed on it for a while to great mutual enjoyment. Even Frank admitted he liked it. Boss Bragg said the music was cool but he enjoyed the educational questions (about mouthpiece sizes and what not). Now we are back on that same road except it is 6:20pm.
Two hours just evaporated like that. The sky is giving way to headlights, and birds cut stark unpredictable rhythms against the fading horizon. Soon, trees are shadows and there is only asphalt, white lines, green and blue signs, and specks of intermittent yellow. In order to avoid finishing my arrangements for next weeks concerts, I put on a recording of William Warfield singing Aaron Copland's arrangement of the American song, 'The Golden Willow Tree' with Mr. Copland himself conducting.
I knew Mr. Warfield, and I swear I can hear the feeling of how orchestra members who are not playing listen to him on this recording. Copland's arrangement is spare and beautiful and imaginative and bubbling. Mr. Warfield's voice is full of the sweet, anguished fire and intelligent pride I hear in Lester Young. The song is poignant and rich, but I confess I don't quite understand the meaning of it. If anyone does, please let me know.
We're out here. Still in the swing seat.
Early in the 21st.
Wynton
