Circa 1995
When we saw the back seat of Dave’s car, we started to laugh, until we realized that four of us had to spend an hour and a half folded into the glove compartment sized seat. Lucky for him, Dave would be sitting in the passenger’s seat. Mr. Georgini would be driving and Ben, Nora, Cindy and I would be in the back of “The Mighty Turismo.” The Turismo was an awesome machine. It stalled in the middle of intersections. It released thick clouds of smoke into the air. It trembled and began to fall apart at high speeds. Regardless of all its eccentricities, we were still going to take it into the city to see the Mingus Big Band. Since we were all jazz musicians and fans of jazz, this trip was almost a religious experience. Charles Mingus hadn’t made songs; he had orchestrated adventures. They had power, excitement, and danger in every turn. Although Mingus was dead, his big band kept his music going. It took me a long time for me to convince my parents that I should see them in action, but considering so well in school over the past 3 years, they eventually gave in. Finally, via the Mighty Turismo, I would be able to see the Mingus Big Band.
“Hey Dave,” I said, “Did the back seat shrink in the car wash or something?”
“I told you guys not to eat anything this week. You would’ve fit just fine.” Dave hunched over, looking like an old magician, and said in a wise, confidential tone, “You see the mighty Turismo is a deceptive creature. It’s giving you the illusion that it is small when in fact it is quite spacious.”
We were not fooled. Ben and I sat by the windows with our heads tilted to the side to match the sharp angle of the window. Nora and Cindy sat with their feet between the two front seats. When the car hit bumps, we all hit our heads on the ceiling. When we went over speed bumps, the bottom of the car scraped against the concrete. When the Turismo struggled up hills, we had to pet the dashboard and say encouraging things to it.
We spent the first part of the trip listening to Mr. Georgini’s high school stories. He and his friends would march in different directions in the marching band, play songs in the wrong key on purpose, and basically do everything else that he won’t let us do now. He seemed very excited because as he told the stories, he turned his eyes away from the road to face us. I kept trying to think of a story to tell about our high school experiences, but I couldn’t think of one. I looked around at all the people in the car and thought of something we might have done together that would be interesting. But the more I thought about it, the more depressed I felt. I had a few classes with Nora and Cindy, but all of those stories would be about boring classes and boring teachers. I knew Ben and Dave well, but we just hung out in school together most of the time. It never occurred to us to do anything exciting, and if we did think of something there were always rules and consequences to fear. So, as seniors with about four months left together, we were just beginning to live.
It was around ten at night and the streets of Manhattan were curiously quiet. Cindy said that the city folk were intimidated by the Turismo so they stayed indoors. We pulled up next to a car at a stop light. Ben had the great idea to have a race with the guy. The guys in our car all looked over and gave the guy in the other car an intimidating stare while Mr. Georgini revved the engine. Cindy moaned and said “this is so stupid” and Nora just put her hand up by her face and remained embarrassed. The light turned green suddenly, and we had the guy beaten for the first five feet. Then he blew past us and settled his car down at the next stop light. We caught up to him and tried once more when the next light turned green. As before, the first five feet were ours, but the rest was hopeless. We continued this game for a few blocks until the guy in the other car had to turn off down a side street. Dave said he must have been intimidated by the Mighty Turismo and had to scamper off in his cowardice.
We hit a pocket of traffic a few blocks from the club. We were worried now because the time was running out and the line was expected to be long. In addition to this, we were really starting to feel cramped. Mr. Georgini was using his horn liberally. Apparently, the cars around us didn’t like the music we were blasting because the dirty looks were as abundant as the rival sound systems. The green lights were shorter than our fuses, and soon we were yelling at Georgini to use his horn more. A cab cut us off from getting a parking space right in front of the club so Dave asked Mr. Georgini if he could shout obscenities at the driver. After Georgini’s approval, Brain rolled down the window and shouted the word “obscenities!” to the stares of many passersby.
We circled the block a few more times, gave up, and went down two blocks and found a parking garage. Opening the doors immediately, we exploded out onto the pavement. We walked quickly down the sidewalk, but not quickly enough because when we entered the first room in The Time Cafe, we could see the line stretching all the way to the bathroom. The wall facing the street was all glass and the city lights from outside bounced off the white walls inside the room. The place was like a restaurant, with tables set upon on one end, a bar on the other and the whole place surrounded by plants. It was a very bright, forest-like room and at first I was very impressed. But then I started examining things more closely. The men passed me by with blank, expressionless faces, plastic Ken-doll-like hair, and clothes that made them look like they just stepped off the cover of “GQ.” The women looked too beautiful; almost like mannequins on display to attract patrons.
After spending too much time in the first room, the line suddenly moved along quickly. I found out later that a group of about 15 people from Pine Bush were on line, but they left when they discovered that Mingus himself wound not be playing that night. The next room I waited in reminded me of a brothel. It was dark, smoky, and filled with lamps with little furry balls hanging off the lampshades. We caught the end of the waiting line in this room. I looked around and saw men and women lounging around on low couches sipping drinks and smoking. We were being shoved and pushed around by people who needed to get to the other end of the brothel to “mingle.” Two idiots behind me kept asking me if I was on this line because I had reservations, to which I replied ‘yes’ repeatedly. A man on my left started hitting on a woman on my right as if I wasn’t even there. I couldn’t believe these people could stand around and chat while an incredible event was about to happen downstairs.
Ben, who stood in front of me, turned around and said, loud enough for everyone around us to hear, “I don’t know if I’m going to be alright tonight. Having tuberculosis is really starting to slow me down.” After that we got a little more space. Ben will say anything.
At last, after about an hour on line, we broke through to the ticket counter, paid, and made our way down the flight of stairs, down a dark hallway and into an underground room painted in dark colors. It was dark and smoky and people sat around with drinks, but it wasn’t like the brothel. The people in this room had something in common: they were filled with excitement in anticipation of music they were dying to hear. They were an audience.
We were lucky enough to get a seat, and, even though it was towards the back of the club, at least it was facing the stage head on. In reality there was no stage; just a section of the room filled with chairs and instruments with nothing to emphasize it but a few spotlights. When the band settled into their seats, the whole club sat up, filled with anticipation. A black man with dreadlocks, a wide-brimmed hat and a poncho stood up and introduced the band. Mr. Georgini said that was Frank Lacy, but I called him Poncho Rasta Man, because he needed an incredible name to accompany all the amazing things he did throughout the show.
He started out playing the trombone while conducting the band, then moved to trumpet, then to flugelhorn, delivering magnificently deranged solos on each. He even sang a song. The other soloists were also amazing. They would start out with something mild, but as soon as the rest of the band came in with background lines, the soloist would explode, the energy from the band boosting him. For one of the songs, the emcee introduced John Stubblefield as being an accomplished saxophonist who had played with Miles Davis in the past. After everyone applauded, expecting him to take a solo, the emcee announced that John would be playing the tambourine during the next song. After a burst of laughter from the crowd and a humble nod from John, the next song began. Towards the end, Stubblefield put the tambourine down, picked up his saxophone, and took the most incredible solo I’ve ever heard. He went on for several minutes, pushed forward from the energy from the band and the crowd. At certain points he would stop and scream “Oh yeah!” in which the audience would scream in return. After a while he closed his eyes and played the keys at the top of the saxophone with both hands and played the ones at the bottom with the inside of his raised leg. The man was so intense, he didn’t even bother to stop to breath: he just played through his mouth and inhaled through his nose–don’t ask me how. When Stubblefield decided to end the solo, the last song was over–too soon if you ask me. We got out of our booth and headed to the door as we bounced around all the things we liked most about the show.
As we made it toward the door, Dave, who happens to be a saxophone player, bumped into John Stubblefield. When Dave saw who it was, he said, “It’s you!” with his arms outstretched in admiration.
Stubblefield copied Dave’s expression and said, “It’s you!” in return.
Then Dave thought for a second and said, “Wait a minute, I’m nobody!”
Stubblefield complimented Dave’s shirt, which said something like “Make Music Not Garbage,” and then we left. This time I got the passenger seat of the Mighty Turismo.
I started thinking about how much fun I had and how it was stupid of us to wait until the end of our senior year to do this. While on the subject of stupidity, I thought about how ridiculous high school is. It’s nothing but a long journey with many pains and fruitless assignments and the final reward in the end is to get a few months with your friends before you graduate and never see them again. You will see them again, of course, but they will be different. You come back from college and see them over the vacations and you realize that you’re no longer a part of their present or their future. You’re only a part of their past. When I look back on high school now I don’t care about the grades I got or failed to get. I only regret not spending more time with my friends, doing the things we enjoyed doing. Time is the only enemy. It will win in the end, but if you make the most of it, the beating won’t be so bad.
My thoughts were jolted by the sound of the Turismo’s stereo blasting the Mingus classic “Better Git Hit In Your Soul.” I can’t say anything more than this: if you haven’t heard this song, your soul is lost. The Mighty Turismo wasn’t much of a car, but the stereo was the best around. It was the perfect way to end an evening where every minute was spent to the fullest. It was quite an adventure: it was powerful, it was dangerous, it was exciting. It had style.
Shored#Bitless 