The Passion of Jazz and Other Short Stories
By Nicholas Bridgman
Copyright 2016 Nicholas Bridgman
https://www.nicholasbridgman.com
Table of Contents
The Passion of Jazz
No One There to Listen
Grandfather’s Gift
Lost in the Woods
Sleep
The Passion of Jazz
Jim listened to Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue on his headphones, humming along with the melody as his plane flew in to LaGuardia Airport in New York. He knew the melody well because he had transcribed the piano part for guitar. This was all the more impressive for his being only 18 years old, and a protégé on classical guitar.
Meanwhile, another plane approached New York, this one carrying an 18-year-old soprano, Rita. She too listened to classical music on her headphones, a Verdi aria. She softly hummed the soprano part.
The man seated to her left heard and said, “You’re a singer?”
“Yes, actually I sing soprano,” Rita said.
“I could tell by the way you hum. Are you coming to New York to further your studies?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. I’m studying at the Music Academy of New York for six weeks.”
“Oh, their summer program, right, that’s a great program—I have a friend who used to teach there. I was once a singer myself. Never got anywhere with it, though. Best of luck to you, anyway.”
“Thank you.”
After the plane landed, Rita stepped off and went to the baggage claim. She waited about ten minutes and finally spotted her suitcase. She walked outside and hailed a taxi.
Just seconds after she left, Jim walked into the baggage area and picked up his suitcase. He walked outside and smiled, feeling the crisp summer air. “New York City, here we are again,” he said. He hailed a taxi and told the driver to go to the Music Academy.
Rita reached the Academy first, where staff greeted her and showed her to her room. There was a separate dorm for students, with clean grey corridors and two beds to a room. A little later, staff greeted Jim as well and showed him to a room on the next floor.
In the morning, orientation began at around 8:30 a.m. The director, Joe Ritchie, stood in front of the auditorium and spoke with excitement. He told what a great experience the summer program would be for the young virtuosos.
“Only fifty of you have been chosen,” Joe said, “fifty of the best young musicians from around the country. We have brilliant pianists from Miami and Detroit, a great guitarist from Boston, and a tenor from Seattle, just to name a few. Over the course of the next six weeks, you will all get to know one another and share your knowledge and experience. You will learn as much from each other as you learn from us.”
Rita looked up as he said this, with an interested and hopeful expression. She knew teachers always talked like this, saying students learn from each other, and teachers learn from students. But something about the way Joe said it made it sound like it must be true. She looked around at the other students, hoping to learn from them. Jim glanced around too, but they did not see each other.
Joe continued, saying, “Not to downplay our teachers one bit, however, as we have some of the best names in classical music teaching here. So dive right in and check out what we have to offer—in your folders you will find schedules, showing the lectures and ensembles you will be participating in. Also you will find some sheet music and exercises to practice over, which you will perform in class. So go forth, learn, and engage, with everyone you meet here.”
That afternoon, Jim and Rita attended the first master class, held by the famous pianist Michael Blansky. Grace, a 17-year-old Asian-American pianist from L.A., played a piece by Ravel. Jim and Rita sat on opposite sides of the room, listening enthralled by Grace’s playing, and by the pieces of advice Michael gave. Afterwards, they stood up with all the other students and walked back separately to their rooms.
The next day after lunch, Jim sat in the garden outside the lecture hall, strumming his guitar. He played some Gershwin, but then started improvising jazz over the chords. At that moment, Rita approached the garden, listening, enraptured. She smiled through the bougainvillea that grew up the terraces around the garden.
Jim felt he was being watched and looked up, seeing her through the plants. He stopped playing. “Hello?” he said.
“Hi. I like what you were playing,” Rita said. “Was that Ives?”
“Ives!” Jim smiled. “You’re overestimating my improvisation skills. I don’t think Ives would approve of your saying that.”
“You were improvising that? It was brilliant.”
“Thank you, but I’m sure anyone could learn. You probably could too. What instrument do you play?”
“I study the voice. I’m a soprano.”
“A soprano, terrific. I’ve been looking for a female singer to help me with—oh, but you probably wouldn’t be interested.”
“Not interested? In what? Ask me what first, at least, and then I’ll tell you if I’m interested.”
“I like to do a little thing on the side of my classical studies.”
“What do you mean by ‘a little thing’?”
“I’ve told you too much already, the teachers wouldn’t approve. I barely even know you, what am I even telling you for?”
“But, you’ve started to tell me already, you can’t stop now!”
Jim stood up. “Believe me, it’s better for us both that I do stop. If we’re meant to do this together, it will happen, eventually, and without doubt.”
For the first two weeks of the program, it appeared they were not meant to do it together, as they were so busy they saw very little of one another. They smiled a couple times at each other in the halls, but that was it. The rest of the time they were kept busy attending many lectures and practicing for hours every day. Rita was paired up with a pianist who accompanied her arias. Jim played in a quartet with a cellist, violinist, and violist. It appeared Jim’s “little thing” would remain a mystery.
But then at the end of the second week at 8:00 p.m., Rita and Jim performed their first concert in front of all 48 of the other students. Jim played with his quartet a piece by a contemporary classical composer that had just been premiered in the last year. This was a very forward and daring piece of repertoire, chosen bravely by his adviser. It was very atonal and jarring, in the tradition of so much avant-garde writing—not an easy piece for students. But Jim pulled it off well. Later, Rita sang a Puccini aria. Her voice was so pure and beautiful, Jim felt touched.
After the concert, Rita came up to Jim in the green room, saying, “You sounded great tonight. Not everybody could pull off that Williamson.”
“Thank you, it was a lot of work. You sounded great too. I love Puccini’s arias.”
“He’s one of my favorite composers. Mrs. Elswood is having me focus on his arias for the first three weeks of the program. I love his tonal range and the energy of his rhythms.”
“Yes, his energy is almost jazzy.”
“Jazzy? I’ve never heard it described that way. Does that have to do with something about the ‘little thing’ you do on the side of your studies?”
“I’ve said too much already. You performed well tonight,” Jim said and stood up to leave.
“No, that’s enough of that. Show me what you’re talking about.”
“You really want to know?”
“It would make me very happy.”
“Then come. I know you’re a talented performer. So maybe we can make something about this work.”
They walked out of the c
oncert hall together, Jim bringing his guitar. Jim led her to the subway, which they took to Greenwich Village. They exited and walked along the dark city streets, seeing the glamour of the bright city lights shining out at them from the buildings. Finally they arrived at a jazz club, which had the frame of a grand piano sticking out as an overhang above the door.
“The Blue Note,” Jim said. “The most famous jazz club in the city.”
Rita grinned, taking in the ambiance of the street, looking at all the people walking by dressed for evenings out, and the couples striding in and out of the club. They walked inside and found Chick Corea playing, his second set just winding down. Jim paid $30 for both of them to get in to hear the end of the set.
The energy in the club was completely different than the staid formality of the classical world. Chick wore an Indian-inspired black jacket, playing the Steinway grand that sat majestically onstage, the drummer’s flashy drum set arranged to the side. The room was dark, with people drinking and enjoying themselves, talking quietly. An upright bassist laid down the bass groove, smiling at the audience and swaying with the music.
“He’s so…captivating,” Rita said with quiet amazement to Jim.
“He does crossover work too. He’s played Mozart concertos with symphonies. He’s where I first got the idea from to have something on the side of my classical studies. I’ll show you after his set’s over, there’ll be a jam session.”
Not long after Chick