Jazz is night music. Its color is a warm dark hue of indigo or a buzzing red neon light filtered through a hazy blue smoke. Its unremitting solo’s meander above the cacophony of whispers, clinking glasses, hoots, hollers and howlin’ laughter. It smells musky and sweet like jasmine perfume on a women’s heated body, its flavor the mixture of Juicy Fruit gum and nicotine on her warm damp breath in my ear. It’s mysterious and sensual, fueled by the improvisation of a moment, that moment.
Jazz knows no age, unlike rock and roll with its youthful angst and rebel demeanor. Rock reincarnates itself every generation, its thundering three chord progression rattling the walls of the established rules of convention. Its devotees are dressed in black trench coats or multi colored tie-dye. Some wear skulls and cross bones, while others sport rainbows and peace signs. Its sound is loud and angry. It’s impatient and shockingly rude, and then it will suddenly render a tender love story about first love, lost love or no love at all. The lyric’s demand a change to the inequities of this sad life, its practitioners opening their chaste new eyes and ears to the atrocities of their parents, boldly pointing out their inexcusable mistakes and follies. And that drumbeat keeps thrashing away on beats two and four of each measure.
Gospel and blues come from the same place. They speak with the voice of the soul, from worship and praise to misery and sorrow. It can be heard in the rapturous choir shout of one slain in spirit, as well as the grave moan rising from deep in the throat of a sullen bluesman or a share cropper singing from his sagging paint chipped porch to a field of cotton that refuses to grow and to all the women who’ve wronged him and that boss man who don’t give a damn how he suffers in the dust and swelters under that blistering delta sun. Its angst distilled by that wretched dominate seventh chord and ladled from the devils caldron itself, then coaxed out of a bedraggled guitar by a merciful calloused hand. It’s in the god forsaken growl of a B-3 Hammond organ, the shake and rattle of a jubilant tambourine, and everything of heaven and hell, the sacred and the profane, choked on and spat out.
Classical is a concoction of swirling violins, sawed cellos, surging brass and woodwinds with the fracas of timpani, drum and cymbal in close tow. Its fragrance blows in the breeze like the scent of pine needles on a warm July Sunday afternoon. Classical is an extension of nature, its suits, chorales and movements seem to unfold from itself, like galaxies of stars that go off into infinity, breaching the void with unimaginable beauty, stretching across eternal light years, making time and distance meaningless . And the moment is always present, all is one, and one is all. Its color is the refraction of light through a prism. I don’t know how it works, but its miraculous to behold, like God or Zen thoughts, which are no thoughts at all, its composition is only second to silence.
Fire up that stogie and come sit down here next to me by the bonfire and I’ll tell ya a-lil story. Now, pay no mind to them bullfrogs moaning down there by the river, just settle on in and have a pull off my bottle of Thunderbird. Cause mister, if you ain’t got sompin burnin deep down in your belly, then this here story might up and leave ya all goose bumpy and squinty eyed. Ya can have yourself one quick swig, but don’t get all cuddly with-er neither.
Disclaimer-this piece has a two beer minimum. Don’t attempt to listen to this spoken word project until you’ve consumed at least two or more beers. It won’t make a lick of sense to those sober, rational and/or conventional.
This piece was co-written with Robert Finley, AKA Jhango. He was my best drinking buddy, pool shooting pal, fellow night wanderer, purveyor of words and rhythms, a hell-ov-ah guitarist, and most importantly, a gifted teller of tales………we once shared a common key whole view to this crazy world…..
Yeah man, way back then we held the keys to the kingdom——-
Soundtrack “You Said You Loved Me (but I think you lied)” by Victor Uriz
Lyric’s
In this valley where the sun burns hot
upon a levee we both once walked
you said you love me once I thought
I can’t forget the things you forgot
Now you’re nowhere around
made your future in some distant town
you said you loved me in some old letter I found
I tore it up and threw it on the ground
I remember how our bodies shook
your dress on the floor the way you looked
Smell of your perfume as your love I took
these things you did I guess I mistook
I remember how you said goodbye
your voice it quivered a tear in your eye
you kissed my lips and then you sighed
you said you loved me but I think you lied
Winter here’s the snow it flies
skies are gray, the sun has died
and from you ghost I try to hide
I kiss another lips but I still see your eye
God I hate this way I feel
god I miss the way you made me feel
they say all wounds time will heal
I hate you so much but I love you still
I remember how our bodies touched
how warm you were how soft it was
you whispered that you wanted me so much
and in these words I did trust
I remember how you said goodbye
your voice it quivered a tear in your eye
you kissed my lips and then you sighed
you said you loved me, but I think you lied
The Low Lands
When I think of my hometown, I think of that fertile Sacramento Valley, where in late August the smell of rotting peaches hangs heavy in the humid evening air. For a moment, I’m once again consumed by that helpless feeling that would rise up in me when the three rivers that snake through the low lands swelled and threaten to breach the levee’s.
They nicknamed my town the walled city, due to all the eroding levee’s that encircle the houses, churches and bars. When I close my eyes, I can smell the earthy scent of damp sediment carried by the Sacramento, Yuba and the Feather Rivers. The raindrops became puddles, the puddles became little streams and the streams a raging river. The murky water slowly rose as it threatened to crest the river banks.
Every thirty years or so, the rivers would join forces and break the levee leaving the houses ransacked and the tired old town in shambles. The tenacious currents washed away the bridges, the trees and the accumulation of belongings that make up a man’s life. And after the waters receded, the people stood expressionless on the ground where their homes had once anchored them to a sense of permanence.
Thinking back now, I’m not sure if the levee’s were there to keep the water out, or us in. To this day, when I listen to the sound of rain falling outside my window, I never underestimate the power of a single raindrop.
It was here, that I first had my heart broke, but that’s another story……
Life is the Iliad, love but a Haiku===even the slowest of readers must sooner or later turn the page…..
This piece is dedicated to Robert Johnson who is credited with creating the blues. Enough said, the piece will detail the story behind how he acquired this gift, or as some might say—curse. Give it a listen and tell me your thoughts on the project. Thanks
My soul has grown to frayed and warn to carry me comfortably—-pieces of me seep from its cracked walls and leak onto the floor, I’d need a soul-horn to squeeze back into that old life—time moves us on—. With corpses come flowers, freshly cut and ready to die—. For some, love becomes only a word, four letters, uttered with the sincerity of a grocery clerks “have a nice day”. What a trite and meaningless salutation, What’s my other option?—Have a bad day? In-spite of my failing words and their treacherous rabbit holes, I do still love you—I have no other option====
I think the two of us should take the day off, walk around in faded wrinkled pajamas, sitting face to face, two miss matched coffee cups, all sheepish grins and tousled bed-heads, two unclaimed valentines, no return addresses, awkwardly belonging to one another, hearts locked on spin cycle, outcasts in a world consumed by trends and fads, our kind of love never pales or goes out of style, sitting beside one another watching the sky snow, taking it all in–holding hands in silence, best friends communicating with drowsy morning eyes-
We’ll watch “Harold and Maude” and dig Cat Stevens, we can bake hot gooey brownies and wiggle our toes as we wash-em down with ice cold milk, and then take a vanilla scented bubble bath—candles flicker, bubbles burst—-we’re the lucky ones—–knowing that nothing, or no one, can take these moments from us—all else is broken glass, flashing in the sun, glimmering and shattered, inconsequential-
My music and spoken work projects are available at cdbaby.com, Artist Victor Uriz My novel and book of prose are available at amazon.com, Author Victor Uriz
(This piece is intended to be read while listening to the attached song “Long May You Run).
All those late nights driving in my truck, driving to your place and feeling everything—-, never questioning what the journey might bring, or for that matter, where it may lead. Strange but true, being young allowed me to make mistakes, cause there was plenty of time to make things right again. These days, I choose my mistakes more carefully. That old song kept playing on the tape deck, “I Believe In You”—Or maybe it was “Out On the Weekend” or “Long May You Run” I kinda forget, but it was something by Neil Young. I can still hear that sad harmonica of his wobbling in and out of tune. It rained that whole month of January, a cold dampness permeated my clothes, the cab of my truck and it eventually soaked the roof of my soul, causing it to cave in from the weight of it all. I needed a friend, but I hadn’t yet learned the subtleties of making a friend. I was awkward, odd and shy, skulking about my hometown—aimlessly—-in a state of waiting, not knowing what to make of this life I’d unexplainably been pushed into.
A world of strangers meandered by me, through me—and then back out the other-side—they kept moving somewhere beyond me—without me.
The pretty girls we’re a strange and confusing breed for me to grasp. I stood on the corner leering at them, fascinated yet unsure of what to do—or how to get with one of them? They drew me in with their sweet scent—-my eyes trailed after them as their bodies gracefully and rhythmically moved through space. They nonchalantly carried away little pieces of me—
Before this, my dog was my only friend. He took me just the way I was—like only homeless mongrels and fellow outcast can do—it’s an off-handed world when you’re walking through it alone.
I hurried through the school quad trying to keep a safe distance from the jocks, preppies, motor-heads and the brainy-acts. With my head held down, I glanced over to the senior walk and there you were stretched out on the lawn, tan Dickies, white T shirt with one pocket and your hair pulled pack in a pony tail. You were just sitting there with your head tilted back soaking up the sun on your face. You we’re totally out of place, a fucking dandelion on the fifty yard line at a Home Coming football game—-I somehow knew we were destined to be the best of friends.
I was drawn to your indifference to all the bullshit that coats high school with pretension and posturing. It was totally out of my character but I walked up to you and mumbled, “Hey”. You squinted and tilted your head in the other direction and nodded at me. I’d noticed that your pants had dirt or mud all over them. “How come you’ve got mud all over your pants?” “I’m a potter.” “Ya mean a stoner?” You shook your head and gave me a grin “No, I do ceramic’s, I make pots—-And well—-yeah, I get stoned too.” I grinned back at ya—, the Gods had sent me a friend.
We’d cruise the avenues, boulevards and backroads of our hometown in his 1962 Ford Falcon wagon. It was a faded olive green color with peeling paint that revealed an oxidized rusty orange color beneath—she was weathered and worn—she had character and suited us well. We drank beer in dark deserted parks, made campfires down at the river-bottoms and practiced the art of hanging-out. We carried on long involved conversations about Kerouac, Jesus and Star Trek—Oscar Peterson, Poe and Zap Comic’s—Chinese Food, Luis and Clark, and the yet uncharted territories of love. We were committed to our dreams—carrying on our discussions until late in the night, planning extravagant adventures to foreign lands—-the mountains we’d ski, the rivers we’d raft and the challenges we’d conquer. We we’re on fire for everything and for everybody, talking a million miles a minute—speaking with confidence as we bolstered one another’s courage, or maybe it was just youthful bravado —-no topics were off limits—-honesty and authenticity were the dues paid for membership in our exclusive club. Our talks always led back-around to that same enigmatic topic—Girls, those illusive creatures that mesmerized, mystified and mortified us—-some things never change.
We fancied ourselves Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty from “On The Road” but by the reactions of the girls we tried to impress, we were perceived more as Beavis and Butt Head—-, to be mocked as Thelma and Louise would have been an improvement.
We had our deep philosophical talks but it was our humor that sustained us, we laughed at ourselves and the state of the world, we were immortal, all things were fixable—-time was on our side (A Rolling Stones reference)…
Some things change and some things stay the same. In many ways I am still that awkward, odd and shy dude from years past—-a pariah to the mainstream. But these days I’m comfortable in my own skin,—beneath my chipped paint and fading color beats a youthful heart–an idealist to some, a fool to most—-but I like it that way—Juck-em—if they can’t take a foke—hahaha!
How are you my old friend, my potter and fellow romantic? I remember it all fondly, as if it were just yesterday—and for a moment I’m ridding shotgun as you drive us down some dirt-road out in the boondocks, we’ve got a six pack of beer and much to discuss—-Neil’s voice sings his high pitched lonesome song in the background—-and once again, you bring a grin to my face.
