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Haruki Murakami


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Am currently reading Murakami's latest short story collection 'Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman'. Thought some might enjoy this extract from the story 'Chance Traveler.'

As a kind of preface to a tale, then, I'd like briefly to relate some strange experiences I've had. I'll stick to the trifling, insignificant ones. If I started in on the life-changing experiences, I'd use up most of my allotted space.

From 1993 to 1995, I lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts. I was a sort of writer-in-residence at a college and was working on a novel entitled The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. In the Charles Hotel there was a jazz club called the Regattabar Jazz Club, where they had lots of live performances. It was a comfortable, relaxed, cozy place. Famous jazz musicians played there, and the cover charge was reasonable.

One evening the pianist Tommy Flanagan appeared with his trio. My wife had something else to do so I went by myself. Tommy Flanagan is one of my favorite jazz musicians. Usually appearing as an accompanist, his performances are invariably warm and deep and marvelously steady. His solos are fantastic. Full of anticipation, then, I sat down at a table near the stage and enjoyed a glass of California merlot. To tell the truth, his performance was a bit of a letdown. Maybe he wasn't feeling well. Or else it was still too early for him to get in the swing of things. The performance wasn't bad, it was just missing that extra element that sends us flying to another world. It lacked that special magical glow, I guess you could say. Tommy Flanagan is better than this, I thought as I listened--just wait till he gets up to speed.

But time didn't improve things. As the set was drawing to a close I started to get almost panicky, hoping it wouldn't end like this. I wanted something to remember his performance by. If things ended like this, all I'd take home would be lukewarm memories. Or maybe no memories at all. And I may never have a chance to see Tommy Flanagan play live again. (In fact I never did.) Suddenly a thought struck me: What if I were given a chance to request two songs by him right now? Which ones would I choose? I mulled it over for a while before picking "Barbados" and "Star-Crossed Lovers."

The first piece is by Charlie Parker, the second a Duke Ellington tune. I add this for people who aren't into jazz, but neither one is very popular or performed much. You might occasionally hear "Barbados," though it's one of the less flashy numbers Charlie Parker wrote, and I bet most people have never heard "Star-Crossed Lovers" even once. My point being, these weren't typical choices.

I had my reasons, of course, for choosing these unlikely pieces for my fantasy requests--namely, that Tommy Flanagan had made memorable recordings of both. "Barbados" appeared on the 1957 album Dial J.J.5 when he was pianist with the J. J. Johnson Quintet, and he recorded "Star-Crossed Lovers" on the 1968 album Encounter! with Pepper Adams and Zoot Sims. Over his long career Tommy Flanagan played and recorded countless pieces as a sideman in various groups, but it was his crisp, smart solos, short though they were, in these two particular pieces that I've always loved. That's why I was thinking if only he would play those two numbers right now it'd be perfect. I was watching him closely, picturing him coming over to my table and saying, "Hey, I've had my eye on you. Do you have any requests ? Why don't you give me the titles of two numbers you'd like me to play?" Knowing all the time, of course, that the chances of that happening were nil.

And then, without a word, without as much as a glance in my direction, Tommy Flanagan launched into the last two numbers of his set--the very ones I'd been thinking of. He started off with the ballad "Star-Crossed Lovers," then went into an up-tempo version of "Barbados." I sat there, wineglass in hand, speechless. Jazz fans will understand that the chance of his picking these two pieces from out of the millions of jazz numbers out there was astronomical. And also--and this is the main point here--his performances of both numbers were amazing.

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It's not uncommon to use astronomical in this sense when speaking of odds ("a million to one") rather than chances or likelihood (one chance in a million).

Flanagan played and recorded both tunes during the same concert in July 1977 at Montreux (Pablo Live album "Montreux '77"), so it's not so unlikely that he might have played them together on other occasions. Flanagan had also recorded "Barbados" more recently in April 1990 on "Beyond the Blue Bird" (Timeless). Of course it must have been quite a surprise to Murakami when it happened.

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I was struck by that Murakami passage when it appeared in the New Yorker a while ago (2 years?).

I definitely saw Flanagan at the Regattabar right around that time, and I definitely remember that he played "Star-Crossed Lovers."

I can't be sure if it was the exact same gig that Murakami saw, though, as Flanagan usually played for three nights of two sets each when he hit town back then.

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A buddy of mine who claims Murakami as his favorite author recommends Wind Up Bird Chronicles as the best starting point.

Could be that that's the peak...

That is the consensus (one that is well-nigh unanimous).

True. It is widely considered his best but there are others that I am probably more likely to reread. Novels such as 'A Wild Sheep Chase', 'Norwegian Wood' and 'South of the Border, West of the Sun' are less ambitious but hugely enjoyable.

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The second coincidence.

The second incident took place around the same time and also had to do with jazz. I was in a used-record store near the Berkeley School of Music one afternoon, checking out the records. Rummaging around in old shelves of LPs is one of few things that makes life worth living, as far as I’m concerned. On that particular day I’d located a used copy of Pepper Adams’s recording for Riverside called 10 to 4 at the 5 Spot. It was a live recording of the Pepper Adams Quintet, with Donald Byrd on trumpet, recorded in New York at The Five Spot jazz club. “10 to 4,” of course, meant ten minutes till four o’clock, meaning that they played such a hot set they went on till dawn. This copy of the album was a first pressing, in mint condition, and was going for only seven or eight dollars. I owned the Japanese version of the record and had listened to it so much it was all scratched. Finding an original recording in this good shape and at this price, to exaggerate a little, was like a minor miracle. I was overjoyed as I bought the record, and just as I was exiting the shop a young man passed me and asked, “Hey, do you have the time?” I glanced at my watch and automatically answered, “Yeah, it’s ten to four.”

After I said this I noticed the coincidence and gulped. What in the world is going on? I wondered. Was the god of jazz hovering in the sky above Boston, giving me a wink and a smile and saying, “Yo, you dig it?”

Neither one of these incidents was anything special. It wasn’t like my life turned in a new direction. I was simply struck by strange coincidences–that things like this actually do happen.

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A buddy of mine who claims Murakami as his favorite author recommends Wind Up Bird Chronicles as the best starting point.

Could be that that's the peak...

That is the consensus (one that is well-nigh unanimous).

True. It is widely considered his best but there are others that I am probably more likely to reread. Novels such as 'A Wild Sheep Chase', 'Norwegian Wood' and 'South of the Border, West of the Sun' are less ambitious but hugely enjoyable.

Of those I've read so far, I've enjoyed Dance, Dance, Dance the most; probably Kafka on the Shore the least...

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I have several of his novels, but only finished (so far) Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World. What made it especially cool was wrapping it up while staying at a posh hotel in Tokyo. It definitely gave me a bit more appreciation for the discussion of the Toyko subway system. It sounds like maybe I should leave Wind-Up Bird for last. Though I am intrigued by After Dark, which has a jazz musician as a recurring character. Pity he's a trombone player.

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"Wind Up Bird" is awesome read it in college for a class. There are numerous jazz references there, including a great reference to Eric Dolphy where the main character says explaining something to another character would be like explaining a Dolphy solo.

I remember the Dolphy reference being much more colorful than just that. I wish I still owned the book. I'd look it up for you. Last time I saw it, burgundy candle wax had rooted over the jacket and it was on its way out the front door, along with a couple of Wayne Shorter albums that I never saw again.

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