Week 8. Sprezzatura: "The Legendary Jazz Kings"

To have sprezzatura, one must “. . . conceal all art and make whatever is done or said appear to be without effort and almost without any thought about it.”  The Book of the Courtier, Baldassare Castiglione (1528).

THE LEGENDARY JAZZ KINGS

“Ice” Jones couldn’t leave the stage, not yet.  The other musicians had packed up their instruments and left the club, headed for home or wherever they went after a gig.  Ice picked up his sax, blew a few more sad notes, then put it away, probably forever.  “It had to end sometime,” he thought, adjusting his hat just so before walking out the door.

Ice had never made it big, but those who’d heard him knew they’d heard the best.  His solos would soar with ecstasy or crush your soul.  He never played too long or missed a note and you always wanted more, but you knew that what you’d heard was just right.

The Jazz Kings were Ice on sax, Al Reynolds on bass, “Fingers” Washington on piano, and “Sticks” McGee on drums, the only white guy, but he could make them swing.  Other musicians had drifted in and out, adding their parts before disappearing, but the original four had stayed together.  Until now.

Ice didn’t know how to break it to the others, so he didn’t.  That was his style – cool ‘till the end.  “They’ll figure it out,” he thought.

He decided to splurge and take a cab back to his apartment.  It wasn’t much – jazz never paid, but that was ok.  He’d tried work as a session musician for a recording studio, but he'd kept improving on what they'd told him to do, so they'd let him go. 

He didn’t know what he’d do now.  With painful arthritis in his fingers, Ice was losing his touch on the keys; he knew he couldn’t play the sax any more, at least not his way, and his way was all that mattered.

After getting home, he started looking for that bottle of scotch he’d bought years ago for when it would end.  “Time for that drink,” Ice thought, rubbing his fingers, "time to call it quits.”

Usually, he put his sax on its stand; he liked having it handy, so he could just reach for it and play.  But this time, he left it in its case and put it in the closet, next to some old shoes.

“Hey,” a muffled voice said, “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“What the hell do you think I’m doing,” said Ice. “It’s over.” 

He was used to hearing that voice – Ice was never sure if it was in his head or came from the sax.  Either way, he didn’t care.  The voice had been with him all these years, after his mama brought the sax home from a pawn shop.  She’d had cancer and thought it would help him.  It didn’t.

Ice hadn’t picked the sax up until after his mama had passed.  Other kids had played ball or gone to parties, but Ice’s only friend had been that damn sax, and they’d talked night and day, practicing ‘til his fingers bled.  Mama had said it was magic, and maybe it was, but he’d been good, right from the start.

“You can’t just shut me up in here,” said the voice.  “I gotta breathe.  Let me out!  This case is too damn dark.  And what is it with these shoes?  They stink – don’t you wash your feet?”

“Get used to ‘em,” said Ice.  “I’m done.  There’s no music left in these hands – you know that.  Been fakin’ it for too long -- people’ll notice.  I hear it, and so do you.”

“That’s crazy talk,” said the voice, still muted by the case.  “You just need to practice more, give those fingers a real workout.  They’ll feel better.  Just take me outta this damn case, gimme a fresh reed, and get to work.  It’ll be like old times.  Remember when . . . .”

“Too many memories,” said Ice, cutting the voice off.  He knew it would talk forever, until he gave in and started playing.  “Not this time,” he thought, fighting back the temptation. 

Whenever he felt bad, Ice would just play, and he was feelin’ pretty damn low right now.  He started looking for the pain pills from the clinic.  They didn’t help much, but it was better than nothing.

“You gotta let me out,” said the voice.

“I don’t gotta do nothin’,” Ice shot back.

Then the sax started playing “Puppy Love” through the case.

“Donny Osmond?” said Ice.  “That’s low, even for you, but I can take it if you can.”

The sax began a medley of disco hits, deliberately playing flat.  Ice put his fingers in his ears, but the sax played louder.  The neighbor underneath started pounding on her ceiling with a broom handle.  “Cut that #@$! out,” she yelled.  “It’s three #%&*+#! a.m. in the #%&*+#! morning!”

“What’s it gonna be,” said the voice, “let me out or lose your lease?  Nothing sadder than a jazz musician on the streets.  Maybe you could play for quarters.”

“Hah!” said Ice.  “Shows what you know.  I’d get dollars, at least.  But I’ve always been a good tenant even if you are a sonofabitch.  You win this one.”  He took the sax out of the closet and put it on its stand.

“Thank you, Jesus,” filtered up from below.

“Jesus’s got nothing to do with this one,” said the voice.  “She should thank me, and you should too, Iceman.  Put that bottle of scotch away for when you’re really finished.  I’m gonna save your ass.  Are you cleaning this place anytime soon?  And . . . .”

“You ever shutting up?” said Ice, who managed a grin after turning away from the sax.

“Not in your lifetime,” retorted the voice.  “Now get some sleep.”

The sun was up and the sax blatted a few harsh notes.  “Time to drag your sorry ass out of bed.”

“The only thing my ass is sorry about is letting you out of the closet,” mumbled Ice.  “And what is it with those notes?  I thought you had some pride.”

“You want sweet sounds, pick me up and play me,” said the voice, “we make music together.”

Ice sat on the edge of his bed, squeezing a rubber ball, trying to get his fingers to work the way they did when he was young.  “What’s your big idea?” he said.  “It better be good.”

“It’s a damn sight better than that silly ball,” replied the voice, who blew a fanfare before proceeding.

“I’ve been with you from the start, from the first note to the last.  I know what you play and how, probably better‘n you,” the voice continued.  “I know how you phrase things, how you breathe, your fingering, and even how you screw up.”

“Yeah,” admitted Ice, “we’ve been through it all together; it may save you from the pawn shop, but right now you’re headed back to the closet.  So what?”

In response, the sax launched into “Mama’s Blues #2,” Ice’s signature.

Ice gave a long, slow clap.  “Those are the notes, but there’s no soul.”

“That’s your part,” said the voice, “I can help bring back your touch. You still have the soul, but when your fingers can’t handle it, I will.  No one will notice – all they care about is what comes out my bell.  We can make this work, an’ I don’t get locked up with those foul shoes of yours.”

Ice picked up the sax and started in where it had left off, right before the hardest part.

“Soundin’ sweet,” yelled the tenant from below.

“Thanks, Gladys,” Ice yelled back.  “I’ll stop now.”

“No, you won’t,” replied Gladys, her voice coming through the floor.  “You owe me after last night.  You come’n to see me later?”

“We’ll see,” said Ice, who liked to avoid entanglements.

Ice got dressed, put on his hat and looked in the mirror, then packed up the sax and headed back to the club.  Mickey let him practice there if it wasn’t too crowded.

They worked hard all day.  It took a while for Ice to trust the sax, but the voice had been right – when his fingers faltered, the sax supplied his touch.  They just needed to practice enough that Ice could believe it.

“You comin’ back tomorrow?” asked Mickey, as he wiped down the bar, getting ready for the evening show.  It was a new blues act – he liked to give kids from the neighborhood a break.

“Thanks, Mickey,” said Ice, as he put on his hat and grabbed the sax case.

The next day, Ice got in a little later.  Gladys had been persuasive.  The practice went better.  Mickey went back to the office and made some calls, and before too long, Al, Fingers, and Sticks wandered in.

“You’re soundin’ pretty good,” said Sticks, “but you’d sound a whole lot better with a little help.”  The Jazz Kings spent the next couple of hours playing together.  Mickey made another couple of calls, and people started filtering in just to hear them.

“It’s like old times, Ice” said Al after they were done.  “You’re playing so smooth, and you’re cooler than ever.”

“Told you so,” said the voice.  “Relax, you know he can’t hear me,” it said after Ice started looking around.  “Why’s Al so lucky?” thought Ice.

Ice was excited for Saturday night, their next gig at the club.  He hadn’t felt like this in years.

When the band showed up for their performance, Mickey had changed the sign outside the club to “The Legendary Jazz Kings.”  “You’ve been promoted,” he said to Ice when he walked in. 

The Jazz Kings were better than legendary that night – they were immortal.  People who were there remembered it all their lives, and those who weren’t there, lied about it.  They were on fire and they knew it, led by Ice on the sax.  There were nuances and complexities the Kings hadn’t heard before, and Ice just made it seem effortless.  No one wanted it to end, but finally, at two o’clock, they stopped, exhausted.

"Told ya it would work," the voice gasped, as Ice waited for a taxi. "You still got a long time to go."

"Long as you can keep that up," Ice said.

"Hah! I got notes you never even dreamed of . . . ."

When he got home, Ice put the sax on its stand and collapsed in a chair.  “No closet for you,” he said to the sax, “At least for tonight.”

The voice was too tired to fire back.

“I finally got you to shut up,” said Ice, falling asleep in the chair.

“Not in your lifetime,” murmured the voice.

*     *     *     *     *

A big thank you to halfshellvenus  for her inspiration and for beta-reading this story.