Post-Jam: A Blog Post 9/15/2023
I go down Highway whatever-the-hell that leads to exit 35A, which is all the directions I can give coming from Pinellas. It’s about a 30-minute drive back to Tampa. It’s 3am, and I’m a little stoned. Four hours earlier, I had taken a call from my friend M—; she told me to come over to the studio and bring my tenor mouthpiece. She got her hands on a Mark VI tenor saxophone and would love for me to play it. I had planned to spend my Friday night with some raspberry Uncrustables, two tall boys of Guinness, and some Final Fantasy online. Yet when M— called, I answered and came barreling down the street with Screamin’ Jay Hawkins as a passenger, in a spell towards St. Pete.
I’m gripping the hell out of my steering wheel going down Highway whatever-it’s-called (I’m a slave to the GPS) and listening to “Planet of New Orleans” by Dire Straits. I had never listened to the band before, unless it was playing in the background of some venue I was at and never knew it, but this particular song was recommended by M—’s boyfriend. The song is damn good. It’s cool, it’s smooth, it makes you want to go back deep into your memories while you’re coasting by an ocean that looks like a black crater at night, going down Highway whatever-it’s-called.
My legs are spread in brown corduroy jeans, my back is resting against the seat, my auburn hair is hanging down below my shoulders. I feel handsome, this song is making me feel groovy. I think about how much of a great jam session I just had. The saxophone solo in the song kicks in, the tone is bright like David Sanborn’s. Like Warren Hill’s. M— told me earlier in the night that I had a great tone. I really appreciated the compliment. I do feel very connected to my alto tone in particular. The solo sends me back to when I was a young girl.
I always hated practicing whole tones. Ayyyyyyy Geeeeeee Ayyyyyyy, Ayyyyy Fsharrrrrrp Ayyyyyyy. I only truly practiced when I went to lessons. Yeah, I was that student. I didn’t realize that those exercises were helping me get in touch with my own sound. One day the saxophone just seemed to sing. I eventually began to practice whole tones and scales on my own once I noticed progress from what I thought was boring. I can thank my debilitating embarrassment of sitting in a sound-proof room with a sarcastic 30-year-old teacher as he watched my chubby cheeks burn red as I focused on breathing exercises; knowing the moment wouldn’t be so humiliating if I had just done this at home like I was told.
M— asked me earlier what I’d be doing the next day. Before I could respond, she said, “practicing, right?” We laugh. She tells me, “I just call it getting in some vibe time with my horn.” Or something like that. That’s what I did when I was a kid and that’s what I still do now. M— and I were both once two jazz-loving scene kids in middle school who felt threatened by the How of it. At least, M— has a better understanding of the circle of fifths, or what comes first: the chicken or the Mixolydian scale. But I think we both grew up naturally embodying the Isness. Closing our eyes and playing deep into our closets. Stopping to cringe at a squeak, apologizing to that invisible audience of naysayers. Elated to find flow and melody next to our Hot Topic sweaters, hoping to be heard but not too closely.
Before I left for the jam at M—’s and her boyfriend’s studio, the passing thought came to me to bring one Guinness. I scooped that thought under the rug and put it into the attic. I put my alto in the back of my truck and left immediately. Besides, having a court-ordered breathalyzer connected to your engine is a pretty good incentive not to. One year ago, I decided that whiskey could help loosen the spirits for me and a tightly screwed cover band rehearsal. There still remains a puke stain on the ceiling of my truck and one fat-ass insurance bill.
I’m restarting “Planet of New Orleans” and flipping through the memories of my childhood as I follow the GPS home. Earlier, I told M— that young middle school me thought that by age 21, I would be playing on stage with Warren Hill somewhere. I never had a plan growing up to make that happen, I just hoped I could will it into existence. I’m now 2,000 years old, quickly approaching 2,030 years old, and I haven’t made a single album or toured with any band. I think of young Bataille with all that dreaming. I remember my box-dyed black pixie haircut, my braces, trying to conceal my bare awkward shoulders slumped underneath a green scarf— even though I chose to wear a tank top dress. It’s been a while since I’ve thought about that photo I took with Warren Hill. How I seemed to duck underneath his arm, smiling embarrassedly at the camera. Wanting so badly to tell him how much his music was getting me through my life while my proud and wine-drunk dad took the picture.
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An Edit For Nobody:
That girl, the one other female saxophone player I have ever played with… well, she turned into a… a fuckin… total… fart noise. But! If anyone were ever to ask what I think of her, I’d say Hell Yeah, She Can Play… BUT!!! The song goes a little sumptin like this:
I was a-workin a shitty job
9-6, drinkin’ piss, part of the St. Pete Mob.
I was workin’ off central, needed a friend
My boss was Andrew Tate, his product was my heart
AKA I was flippin’ books fer a man that ain’t know how to read.
So I called my buddy up, she played the sax
I asked her, “Mind if we meet up, cuz’ my souls beena taxed?”
She didn’t reply, I thought alright, I’ll try her another day…
A few days went by and I’d thought I’d perish
Dirt under my fingernails, the protein of memories
From the books I was scrapin’, my boss talkin’ bout Date Rapin’
I tried my friend again…
(Chorus) NoooOOOooo Response! So I texted her boy!
I said a-howdy-doo a-howdy-ho, I just caint getta through!
Yer girlfriend ain’t reply but I’m tryin to get by… Please
Let me in through the gates of your jam space!
THEN WHAM! Like lighting my friend text me back
Don’t come a-runnin’ to my boy to get yer music
I told ya he’s bad, you knew I’d be mad!
I said GIRL, I was trying to jam. I don’t want your crusty
Little white man. But Low and Behold it never really mattered…
She had me cooked from the start. And the music was thus shattered.