Going for the Jazz 77 finally being onto something, and I’d search for just the way to proceed. Small indications became targets, glimpses of what the way of being would somehow have to achieve. It wasn’t that a sort of jazz line would appear , somewhat bet- ter than another, then one a bit better still, with gradations that revealed readily detectable shifts in a range of isolatable com- ponents of my ways. The distinction wasn’t as between a street corner conversation and a passage of Rilke, a typically compe- tent jazz pianist’s solo and the exquisite elegance of a Chick Corea improvisation. It was like the difference between an aphasic ’s or stu tterer’ s or n ew for eigner’s attempts to put together a smooth sentence, and a competent three-year-old’s flowing “Daddy . . . come see my new doll.” Former ways were lacking at that level of difference, between features of action that all jazz on the records shared and the sorts of struggling amateur efforts that didn’t really count as competent talk at all. This level now becomes my descriptive concern, as it was then an obsessive practical one. What happened, suddenly appearing and disappearing in this way, was dramatically different from what my former practices had achieved. For a brief course of time while I played rapidly along, a line of melody interweavingly flowed over the duration of several chords, fluently winding about in ways I’d not seen my hands move before, a line of melody whose melodicality wasn’t being expressly done, as in my reiterative attempts to sustain continuity. Somehow, a sequence of notes flowing from one chord’ s jazz-related ways to the nex t’ s, singing thi s jazz, was achieved. And it was clear that these ways of interweavingly singing jazz with my fingers, fi rst so difficult to sustain with any satis fy ing f requency we re the wa ys of the j azz on t he recor ds
finally being onto something, and Id search for just the way
toproceed. Small indications became targets, glimpses of what
theway of being would somehow have to achieve.
It wasnt that a sort of jazz line would appear, somewhat bet-ter
than another, then one a bit better still, with gradations
thatrevealed readily detectable shifts in a range of isolatable
com-ponents of my ways. The distinction wasnt as between a
streetcorner conversation and a passage of Rilke, a typically
compe-tent jazz pianists solo and the exquisite elegance of a
ChickCorea improvisation. It was like the difference between
anaphasics or stutterers or new foreigners attempts to puttogether
a smooth sentence, and a competent three-year-oldsflowing Daddy . .
. come see my new doll. Former ways werelacking at that level of
difference, between features of actionthat all jazz on the records
shared and the sorts of strugglingamateur efforts that didnt really
count as competent talk at all.This level now becomes my
descriptive concern, as it was thenan obsessive practical one.
What happened, suddenly appearing and disappearing in thisway,
was dramatically different from what my former practiceshad
achieved. For a brief course of time while I played rapidlyalong, a
line of melody interweavingly flowed over the durationof several
chords, fluently winding about in ways Id not seenmy hands move
before, a line of melody whose melodicalitywasnt being expressly
done, as in my reiterative attempts tosustain continuity. Somehow,
a sequence of notes flowing fromone chords jazz-related ways to the
nexts, singing this jazz, wasachieved. And it was clear that these
ways of interweavinglysinging jazz with my fingers, first so
difficult to sustain with anysatisfying frequency, were the ways of
the jazz on the records.
There was no mistaking it. No recording was needed to verifymy
perception. I was quite certain about it without inviting a
