George Coleman.
Amid the frenzy of the New Year, we shouldn’t forget a startling lesson from the Old Year.
That is, we shouldn’t bury a certain lesson in life if we find ourselves in need of optimism and inspiration in the next 52 weeks and beyond.
Let’s return, if you’re willing, to an evening in early December, and to Morse Recital Hall on College Street.
I’d been present in that cozy performance space for a variety of musical treats over the years, all of the classical or operatic variety, but had not considered it to be my go-to venue for serious jazz.
Nor did the name George Coleman, the featured musician, ring a bell. As a longtime jazz fan, and as someone who has tickled ivories since I was a kid, I had to acknowledge the limits of my knowledge of musical history. But, in a way, ignorance of the Coleman chapter was understandable.
He had made his reputation, in large part, as a musician’s musician, admired by all in the business of jazz, but never reaching the level of fame of those he played with and whose work he enhanced, such as Miles Davis, Herbie Hancock, B.B. King, and Chet Baker.
But those folks at the Yale School of Music don’t miss a beat. They know their stuff, and figured that it was high time, considering Coleman’s age of 87, to award the tenor sax great its prestigious Duke Ellington Medal, and ask him to play a concert with his quartet. So, what did I expect when I took my seat at Morse?
Perhaps Coleman would play a standard I listened to when I boned up for the evening. Devotees attest that they felt chills, as I did, when they YouTubed his solos on, for example, “My Funny Valentine,” played alongside trumpeter Davis in 1964.
But no. That’s not what happened at Morse, which is why I’m writing this today. What happened was instead a lesson not only in musical innovation but the power of human will.
When the house lights dimmed, an old man walked out from the wings. He was, it appeared, in a particularly weak state.
That is, the husky frame that audiences in this country and many others witnessed throughout his long career had dwindled by several belt sizes.
His posture has suffered noticeably, and he needed help to get to his stool in the middle of stage. A faculty member was recruited to carry the Selmer Mark VI tenor sax that Coleman had purchased in 1958, while playing with drummer Max Roach’s ensemble.
Uh oh, I thought. The audience – including many music students sitting in the balcony – might have to give the featured performer the benefit of the doubt, and just honor the thought of his achievements rather than his present-day abilities.
As the three other musicians took their places at the piano, the standup bass and the drum set, I figured maybe a 15 minute show would follow and then the award would be presented, and we’d all go home saying, well, that was nice if a little bit sad. And, for particularly people at my stage of life, that’s the fate that awaits us all.
But then, without a word to the audience, Coleman lifted the tenor to his mouth and off he went – not to the gentle melodies of yesteryear but commanding a musical exploration into the future.
For this was true jazz, In-the-moment-stuff. Catch me if you can. Leave your worries on the door step or anywhere else you are able. Stomp on the flatted fifths and the ninths and all the neon ornaments. Have a crashing good time.
Between numbers, he barely moved, except to adjust his seat, seeming almost numb.
But then he played again with such velocity and passion that the whole scene became bizarre.
What we were hearing and what we were seeing were of two conflicting universes, connected only by the general worry in the seats that at any moment the man might tumble from his perch.
Coleman seemed to play without taking time to breathe, an ability he showed in early years, as perhaps the Frank Sinatra of reed instrumentalists.
To be sure, he wasted little breath speaking to his audience, instead launching into one inventive tune after another, with no announcements of their titles.
At one point, he did pause to address his fellow band members but only to heighten expectation. He flashed a half smile and peculiar instruction: “When you figure out what I’m playing, you can join in.” A little musical mischief.
On and on he and his musicians played for 90 minutes, without intermission except for the brief moment imposed by the university, which had to present the Ellington prize.
Even then he made no speech, preferring to pay tribute to a legend, with the Duke’s “Satin Doll,” which Coleman soon turned into something delightfully unrecognizable.
And on it went. This was not an evening of celebrating only a blast of music from the past but presenting a model for endurance and the possibilities of the soul even when the body seems an impediment.
And at the end, the audience stood to recognize the night’s miracle and sustained its appreciation with such persistence that Coleman was almost able to remove himself from his stoop, and, with the help of others, get to the wings before it ended.
Lary Bloom’s new book, I’ll Take New Haven: Tales of Discovery and Rejuvenation, is available at both Atticus locations, Barnes & Noble, R.J. Julia Booksellers in Madison, and through Internet vendors.
Interesting that the writer did not seem to be aware of the fact that George Coleman is blind.