The club was bustling with an unusually large crowd that evening, almost as if rumors had spread that it could be the final Monday night performance for Elijah Coleman's Quartet at Bookie’s after a three year run. It started as a rowdy, talkative audience, using the music merely as a backdrop for their chatter, but as the performance intensified, the music commanded silence, compelling everyone to listen.
As Elijah made his way to the stage, he came upon Victor Callaway, the proprietor of Vic's, a spacious club located on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. "You guys are really lighting it up,” Victor offered as Elijah passed him.
Elijah smiled, warmly. He always liked Victor.
"You think they'd be willing to come uptown, your minions?" Victor wondered. "I want to showcase exceptional music at Vic’s. Like what you’re playing here.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Why don’t you come by? We've got a phenomenal new chef."
"I’ll do that.”
As he hit the bandstand, ready to play as if the set would be his last, which he always did, he was approached by his drummer, Emerson Sutherland. “Was that about a gig?” he asked.
“Could be.”
“That would be so great.”
“Wait ‘til we get a real offer before celebrating.” Elijah knew that expectations could be dangerous.
After Vance Carter tuned his bass, Elijah stepped up to the microphone.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to Bookie’s.”
In a departure from convention Elijah, unlike many other band leaders, preferred to kick off the set with a drum solo, particularly during the final set of the night when energy levels were waning. Emerson relished this opportunity as it allowed him to establish the mood for the rest of the performance, but always adhering to Elijah’s rule of limiting drum solos to no more than three choruses.
"We'll begin by showcasing our drummer, Emerson Sutherland, with an up-tempo rendition of Charlie Parker's 'Koko,'" Elijah announced, signaling the start of a bebop burner that would jolt the audience awake.
Emerson wasted no time in immersing himself in the performance, seizing the spotlight with his undeniable charm and skill. He knew how to tell a musical story on the drums and how to build a solo, even if its only three choruses long. As always, his efforts were met with enthusiastic applause, leaving him visibly delighted.
As the other band members joined in, it became evident that something special was unfolding. The cohesion of a seasoned ensemble in full stride created an electric atmosphere, elevating each subsequent song beyond the last. The musicians were attuned to the synergy, delivering performances that surpassed expectations. Across the room, Victor nodded approvingly, his demeanor suggesting he was ready to make a deal.
For the next forty-five minutes, the band blazed through their repertoire, holding the audience captive with everything they played. Despite the late hour, the club pulsated with energy as patrons hung on to every melody, every solo, providing unwavering feedback that propelled the musicians to even greater heights. Each solo and ensemble passage outshone its predecessor, leaving the crowd exhilarated and spellbound. Great jazz can do that.
Finally, Elijah took the microphone. “Thank you ladies and gentlemen, we have a special guest tonight, Caleb Monroe, who's new in town and joins us from Tulsa, Oklahoma. Let’s give this young man a warm New York City welcome.”
There was some polite applause, as if the audience needed to hear what Caleb had to say on the tenor before validating his creativity.
Caleb walked up the stage briskly, looking like he was if he was ready to play everything he knew in one solo. Anticipating an uptempo burner, he took his place awaiting the countdown and was ready to blast off. He knew, instinctively that this one solo could launch his career in New York, the Jazz Mecca.
In such scenarios, often termed as instrumental battles, it's typically the rapid tempo that distinguishes the seasoned players from the novices. However, Elijah had a different plan in mind: a ballad.
“Every tenor player has to play Body and Soul. Tonight we’re going to play it as a ballad,” Elijah revealed. He deliberately set the tempo as slow as possible. Playing the song at this pace posed a significant challenge, and Caleb's expression betrayed his apprehension. Since arriving in New York, he had devoted most of his time to practicing fast-paced, high-energy pieces—music akin to a sports car hurtling around a racetrack at breakneck speeds. Now, he found himself confronted with an unexpected trial.
For jazz improvisers, tackling ballads presents a unique array of hurdles owing to their leisurely tempo, minimalistic harmonic structure, and emphasis on lyrical expression. Ballads, in contrast to faster-paced jazz standards, demand a distinct sense of timing and phrasing, necessitating heightened control and patience from the performer.
The emotional depth inherent in ballads requires improvisers to forge a profound connection with the music's mood and sentiment. This demands not just technical prowess but also emotional sensitivity and vulnerability, qualities that often take years to cultivate and are regrettably lacking in many younger musicians today.
Furthermore, ballads demand a level of subtlety and restraint in improvisation, as excessive embellishments can undermine the music's intimate and reflective nature. This calls for a heightened sense of musical maturity and sensitivity from the improviser.
Elijah played the melody and motioned to Caleb to join him, playing in unison. Caleb knew the music, every tenor player does, but he looked concerned, obviously wondering just what the hell he was going to play during his solo. Although he’d played ballads before this, he was still incredibly apprehensive. This was literally at a snail’s pace.
Very few young musicians liked to play ballads these days. Sadly, playing slow tempo ballads seems to have gone out of style. Is it because younger musicians just can't play something that slow? Or perhaps our culture rejects emotional depth? Who has time for it? After all, how many ballads do you hear on TikTok?
Despite Elijah's guidance, Caleb's solo failed to ignite. His notes lacked cohesion, failing to weave a coherent musical narrative, the total opposite of Emerson’s drum solo at the start of the site. Disheartened, Caleb faltered, his performance marred by disjointednes.
It was obvious he was more than a few beats above the tempo. Elijah made a motion for him to slow down. Suddenly, everyone in the club stopped talking to listen; all eyes were on him and he knew it. But something was wrong, he wasn’t telling a musical story, just a bunch of seemingly unconnected notes that offered no hint of the melody.
After one chorus, he began another but it was obvious he had nothing to say, musically. And even worse, he was totally out of sync with the rhythm section. Everyone could sense his embarrassment yet no one was sympathetic, after all, he volunteered to do this. He thought he was prepared for a battle but now he was just confused. This wasn’t Tulsa, it was New York City and everyone in the club knew what was happening. The kid was bombing.
Into the third chorus, he was just playing random notes. Yet he didn’t stop; for some reason he just kept on going. Tobias wasn’t going to wait for the end of the third chorus and started playing the same block chords that he used for the intro, slowly working his way into a piano solo.
Tobias stood out as one of the top pianists in the New York jazz scene, and his solo was undeniably powerful, like the way John Hicks played. Caleb, feeling out of place, nervously scanned the club for a means of escape. As soon as the song concluded, he hurriedly left the stage and made his way to the dressing room to retrieve his saxophone case and coat. He just wanted to get the hell out of there.
The band played a few more tunes and then the set was over. The audience applauded like there was no tomorrow, giving the band a standing ovation, at one o’clock in the morning, a Tuesday morning. Elijah introduced the group, and then looked around for Caleb, who was of course, no where to be seen. “Well, I guess Caleb went back to the woodshed. Hopefully when he gets it together, he’ll be back.” This prompted a chuckle from the rest of the group.
The club emptied quickly with a couple of people staying for a nightcap. As the musicians were packing up, Caleb came out of the dressing with his saxophone case in hand and approached Elijah. “Why did you set me up like that?”
“You just weren’t ready.”
“I know the song, but that tempo...”
“That’s not the definition of ready.”
“I’m going to drive back to Tulsa tonight.”
“Really?”
“I was playing too many notes. And it was like I just couldn’t figure out how to stop.”
“When Coltrane was playing with Miles, in the first Quintet, he played long solos and sometimes it really bugged Miles. Trane told him sometimes he just didn’t know how to end his solos. You know what Miles said?”
“No.”
“Take the horn outa ya mouth.”
Elijah stopped packing up and put his hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Playing this music, it takes tremendous perseverance and it doesn’t happen in a day, a week or a year. I’ve been playing for sixty years and I’m still learning.”
“But you sound so great.”
“This is a world of obstacles, Caleb. You can battle them, or you can let them destroy you. Your choice.”
“I guess everybody has to battle their instrument, sometimes.” Even though this experience bruised him, Caleb wasn’t going to quit.
“Just keep going. You think you’re the only musician who ever messed up a solo?”
“But this is New York. How many chances am I going to get?”
“Next time make sure you can play in every key and tempo.”
As Elijah finished cleaning his horn he packed up. When Caleb got to the front door, he said his goodbye, “Elijah. Thank you.”
“Back to the woodshed, brother.”
Caleb looked back. “Yeah, back to the shed.”
A great ending to this saga!
Once at the Blue Note I heard Billy Eckstine sing a ballad that was so slow I think there isn't a metronome marking for it. Then he started singing so far back on the beat he was 2 beats behind! Then, of course, he tied it all up with a ribbon on the downbeat of the piano solo.
You give us a voice, Bret. Jazz musicians are a minority clan with deep inter connections. You've described the dialogue and the environs and the sheer difficulty of playing this bottomless music and getting it as right as your abilities allow. It is a true meritocracy. You can't fake it in jazz.