Birth of the Bebop

The birth of Bebop Jazz happened for the same reason that any shift in music occurs – musicians and listeners were understandably ready for a change. After the hyper-commercialization of jazz during the swing era, musicians began rebelling against the overplayed norms; playing faster tempos and experimenting with chord progressions that encouraged listening rather than dancing. Musicians in Harem planted the bebop seed by bouncing ideas off each other after hours in clubs like the legendary Minton’s Playhouse. These brainstorming sessions led to even more focus on the improvisational aspects of jazz, making the solo a particularly special treat to the open-minded listener. Musicians seemingly flew through various scales and melodies only loosely based on the original theme, giving the music a heightened artistic edge that engaged the listener intellectually, and carried them on a journey to the previously unknown.

No one exemplifies this more naturally than Charlie “Bird” Parker, the first in the holy trinity of bebop innovators that includes Dizzy Gillespie and Thelonious Monk. Parker was a troubled soul who battled drug and alcohol addiction until his early death at the age of 34. And like many conflicted artists, his music transcended the status quo. This artistry is wonderfully clear on the track, “Embraceable You,” which he recorded with a young Miles Davis and Max Roach. Parker cleverly contradicts the slow, ballad-like feel of the song by immediately launching into flurry of improvised melodies, notes and phrases punctuated by much faster tempos. The effect is mesmerizing, which may have been Parker’s intent. He had just been released from rehab at the time of the recording, and perhaps the music provided a therapeutic release for his inner conflict. Alas, drug use had become a common problem for jazz musicians by the 1940s, and Parker’s struggle marked the rise of a sad chapter in jazz, when many of its stars would succumb to this abusive path.

Of the three stars in bebop’s trinity, the most eclectic was Monk, whose abrasive, dissonant and non-traditional approach to playing piano asserted individuality – a concept that was beginning to flourish in America during this time. People had begun equating individualism with freedom, and Monk celebrated this sentiment with his incredibly unique style of playing. His percussive, hesitant way stroking the keys broke through the traditional structures associated with the instrument and forced listeners to rethink what music, or art itself, could mean. One need only look to Kerouac and the newly emerging beat writers of the time. They too were motivated by breaking tradition, and it must have been astonishing to witness someone master this quest as effortlessly and confidentially as Monk did. The beat writers adopted this freeing approach to creativity, which allowed their thoughts and words to flow without restraint in a way that was pleasantly reminiscent of a bebop jazz solo. In fact, the emergence of an entirely new and exciting form of literature inspired by music exhibits just how powerful the art of Jazz truly is – especially once its masters began contemplating the music at a deeper level.

A thought

I've found that one of the true luxuries of writing is being able to revisit your thoughts, and seeing firsthand how much you can improve.

Reflecting on my roots

I feel pleasantly strange in the south, floating through each humid scene with a comforting sense of detachment, while countless insects provide ominous soundtracks on a continuous loop. Every moment feels like reading a mystery that you can't put down; all the details spark curiosity. And nearly everyone you meet is incredibly kind.

On the bank of the Bogue Falaya River in Covington, LA

Looking Back...

I've been freelance blogging for Westword, Denver's alt weekly, for exactly six months as of yesterday. It's funny to think about that fact, or at least it is to me; my very first foray into the world of writing.

It's been eye-opening to say the least, and quite a bit more difficult than I imagined, writing for money. I never envisioned I would be doing it. In fact, if you had asked me two years ago what I wanted to do for a living, I'd have answered pr/marketing/event planning for a craft brewery, which is more or less what I was doing at the time.

But looking back over these past months, I feel like I have been writing for a lifetime. Whether or not I do it well enough to earn a living remains to be seen.

my archives from Westword...

The Sports Book

"The man had reached the highest level anyone can achieve in sports: the perfect blend of sweat and pain and champagne, a weathered appreciation of everything that happened..."

The Sports Guy Bill Simmons on Bill Russel in The Book of Basketball 

I'm on the last chapter of quite possibly the most entertaining book I've ever read, and I couldn't be more bummed about it. The Book of Basketball; seven hundred pages of free-flowing wit about nothing and everything to do with sports. Although the book is essentially about one, Simmons touches on the pulse of what makes them all so great: entertainment in its purest form, or in other words, artistry.

I didn't grow up a sports fan, much to my father's disappointment I'm sure, but my younger brother did, so luckily I never had to feel guilty about it. I came to love sports merely three years ago*. I had just moved from Boulder to Denver, into a small, nondescript studio apartment on Capital Hill with no real intentions; other than getting buzzed, and getting laid.

I happened to live a few blocks from my good friend, and fellow poker enthusiast, John; who happens to possess one of the most captivating, intellectual minds you'll ever find. He also happened to have a sick TV with surround sound, and a kegerator tapped with good locals brews. Needless to say, I spent a lot of time there. My visits weren't entirely selfish though, it was his mind that I was most interested in, and at that time, it was keenly focused on sports.

We'd spend countless hours watching them, and with me being such a novice spectator (everything was foreign to me: names, places, rules, everything), John was able to fully realize his pent-up desire to share all that he knew. He'd wildly, and frantically break down every aspect of whatever game was on; the intricacies of it, the background of the players of it, the financial state of it; all of which became fascinating to me.

Over three years later, sports are all I can pay attention to, quite literally. I haven't watched a TV show to speak of, or a movie in its entirety since. Nothing scripted can come close to the athleticism and strategy of sports in my opinion. To witness, first hand, the physical and mental potential of a human is nothing short of awe inspiring, as much so as any other art form. I'm forever grateful to my buddy John for introducing me to it.

And now that I think of it, he was the one who turned me on to Bill Simmons' column, and subsequently, one of my favorite books ever. Which makes sense, they are kindred spirits, John and Bill. They both know more about sports than anyone I've ever encountered, and both have the admirable ability to share their thoughts about it with such passion that one could spend hours listening to them.

Sadly, the book is almost over, and ever since my girlfriend and I moved in together across town, John and I don't get to watch the game together very often. But I'll never forget those days we spent endlessly engaged in sports. Those moments have a special place in my heart, as does this book.

*I'm borrowing the footnote method from Bill Simmons here, part of what's makes his book so thoroughly entertaining is that there are at least two random, yet riveting footnotes on each page. Anyway, coincidentally, the very first football season I watched from start to finish, 2009, when my hometown team the New Orleans Saints won their very first Super Bowl. The entire city went nuts, people stopped their cars in the middle of the highway to celebrate; my mom got stuck on the other side of the river and couldn't get home. My dad, who watched the game by himself in their quaint French Quarter apartment, said the Quarter sounded like nothing he'd ever heard in his life, "like we had won the war". Unfortunately, I was here in Colorado, comfortably slouched on my boy John's couch. But I'd like to think I played my fair-weathered part in their victory, the one last fan they needed so to speak. By the by, my friends here hated me for this sentiment.

"The Rooftop of America..."

Kerouac coined the phrase in reference to the Rocky Mountains, and it has stuck with me ever since I read it -- as do the majestic mountains themselves every time I see them.

In fact, I deeply and constantly miss them; so much so that I fall into a state of depression upon returning to the city. I sometimes think it best to never visit them again, lest their hold of me begins to have a serious, negative impact on my day to day responsibilities: earning a living, being social and whatnot.

But I love the Rocky Mountains, and could never imagine not being near them. Each unfathomably formed formation is so unique, towering with such personality. They humbly provide an imposing, yet comforting companionship that's as hard to describe as it is to ignore. (I'm reminded of a thought from Thoreau "...to the traveler, a mountain outline varies with every step and it has an infinite number of profiles, though absolutely but one form...")

The best way I can convey the feeling would be to say it's like visiting the gods, and casually kicking it with them for a bit, or, what I imagine it would be like to grab a beer with the Dalai Lama...

post camping on Keebler's Pass outside of Crested Butte, Colorado; and hiking to Copper Lake

A Soft Shining Growing Light...

A zen garden tucked into an urban oasis; in the desolate plains between the traffic-packed grey silhouette of I-70, and the quiet bustle of downtown Denver; a few hundred yards from both an abandoned taxi hub turned neon-conceptual-property-development, and the lonely, rusty midwestern railroad tracks that once transferred bums and poets alike across the country.  

The garden belongs to one of my favorite restaurants in the city, and my girlfriend and I were attending a charity event there on a cool summer evening last week, coincidentally annoyed with one another, as couples in love often can be. 

The event was benefiting a new urban farming initiative here in Denver, one that harvests fruits and vegetables from the front lawns of well-to-do residents who care enough to plant food-bearing plants on their property for looks, but not enough to use them for their actual purpose in life. The nonprofit group then shares their uncultivated crop with those in need of food rather than decor.

We spent most of our time meandering in the garden though; a peaceful reflective time. And we acquiesced to make up under the subtle glow from its Buddha nature.