A BN Round Robin Tale

[jazzbo]

Since many of the contributors are here now, here's an archived thread from the board that I thought was pretty interesting. . .

Late

Member

Member # 136 posted May 14, 2002 03:07 PM

On Thanksgiving weekend, in the year 2027, you will walk into a Starbuck’s. After ordering your Grande Non-Fat Fortified Soy Pumpkin Frappuccino with two straws to-go, you will pause. At first faintly, and then quite clearly, you will recognize a familiar tune emanating from the satellite-linked in-house sound system: Steve Lacy’s “Bone.” Before paying the cashier, you scratch your chin, then lean slightly to the barrista and ask, “Which version is this?” Anticipating your question, the friendly barrista will reply, “This is the ‘97 version, from Portland, Oregon. It’s from the The Rent — right over there on the rack. We also have the ‘76 version from Udine, Italy, just below it right there. Would you like to add those to your order?” You consider only briefly — yes, something to play during dinner — then pull the generously stocked said discs out of the revolving rack. Turning to the cashier, you smile, she smiles back at you, then totals your order.

Now I will step back. Let the inner-Nostradamus in you shine ...

Posts: 715 | From: Eugene, OR | Registered: Jul 99 | IP: Logged

nately

Member

Member # 1515 posted May 14, 2002 04:22 PM

sounds like something that belongs here!

Posts: 274 | From: Oakland | Registered: Feb 2001 | IP: Logged

MilesDavis

Member

Member # 575 posted May 14, 2002 04:29 PM

I see the future just a bitdifferently.

I'll pick it up from here..."We also have the ‘76 version from Udine, Italy, just below it right there. Would you like to add those to your order?” You consider only briefly — yes, something to play during dinner — but look at the price and think, "wow! this is expensive! A bit too rich for this struggling student's blood!" Then, you open up your big trech coat and carefully pull the generously stocked said discs out of the revolving rack, along with another copy of Money Jungle, and slip them into one of the inside pockets without anyone noticing. Turning to the cashier, you smile, she smiles back at you, then says, "one Grande Non-Fat Fortified Soy Pumpkin Frappuccino. Will that be all, sir?" You say, "yup!," and walk out.

[ May 14, 2002: Message edited by: MilesDavis ]

Posts: 976 | From: | Registered: Dec 1999 | IP: Logged

Lon Armstrong

Member

Member # 137 posted May 14, 2002 05:01 PM

As you pull out of the parking lot on your solar skooter, the satelite station beams the receiver implanted in your jaw the latest blockbuster hit, Celine Dion digitally dueting with Billie Holiday to "Mon Homme (My Man)."

You grimace because you literally CAN"T get it out of your head!

Turning the corner, the sirens only you can hear indicate that the thought police are on your trail!

Posts: 9095 | From: Austin, TX USA | Registered: Mar 99 | IP: Logged

JSngry

Member

Member # 1611 posted May 14, 2002 05:06 PM

You pull over, and the officer approaches your car, walking slowly and menacingly, with an air of invincibility. Terrified of what might transpire, you look at his badge, It reads...

SGT. JEFF - SOUL STATION I!!!!

Posts: 7244 | From: Tx, USA | Registered: Mar 2001 | IP: Logged

Chaney1

Member

Member # 3006 posted May 14, 2002 05:18 PM

quote:

Originally posted by Lon Armstrong:

Turning the corner, the sirens only you can hear indicate that the thought police are on your trail!

You hit overdrive on your solar scooter hoping to out-run the wailing siren (Celine Dion) in your head. Taking a turn too fast, you loose control and are thrown from your almost-new SkootAbout (last payment made three days ago), hitting the ground hard and taking a stunning blow to the head. The Skoot is totaled and you are bloodied BUT the head-shriek is gone! But for how long? And was your pilfered copy of "Money Jungle" damaged?

[ May 14, 2002: Message edited by: Chaney1 ]

--------------------

-- Tony

Posts: 517 | From: Western New York | Registered: Apr 2002 | IP: Logged

Gene Harris Fanatic

Member

Member # 1529 posted May 15, 2002 05:52 AM

My turn ...

You reach inside your pocket and happily finger your pilfered copy of Money Jungle, still intact despite the dizzying impact.

As you stumble back to your low-slung bio-dome, the lights come up automatically and the DVD-TV begins to recite tonite's programs:

"At 8 PM on video feed #68-"The Making Of The Trainwreck: Anatomy of a Modern Jazz Masterpiece"

"On Video Feed #9, #9, #9-The Making of the Beatles White Album"

As you marvel at the crystal clear clarity of the DVD feed, you offer thanks once again that the Militant Commandoes of SACD were finally defeated. "Terrorism got THEM nowhere" you say out loud, as the DVD-TV displays a live feed from the latest carnage in the Middle East. "Maybe its time for the Palestinians to learn the same lesson."

Just then, your security system barks a warning-the Thought Police have just breached your perimeter ...

[ May 15, 2002: Message edited by: Gene Harris Fanatic ]

--------------------

The floggings shall continue until morale improves.

Posts: 1336 | From: South Florida, USA | Registered: Mar 2001 | IP: Logged

impossible

Member

Member # 515 posted May 15, 2002 06:06 AM

"Think. Come on, THINK!"

You pace back and forth between spaces, the kitchen, the relaxation area, the kitchen. Opening cabinets, drawers, using your infrared domicile control unit. There is nowhere to stash the disc.

Panicked, you decide at the last possible second to ship the disc to its rightful owner, soulstation1. Just as the mental police are closing in on your every thought, you slip the disc into your USPS vacuum tube, not before adhering a micro-digital code to the jewel case. Who knew compact discs would last this long!

Moments later, your mind is rendered numb by the thought police. You are in their hands now.

Posts: 1607 | From: Charlotte, NC USA | Registered: Nov 1999 | IP: Logged

Gene Harris Fanatic

Member

Member # 1529 posted May 15, 2002 06:36 AM

As the Thought Police release you with a cheery "Here's your receipt, sir" Lindsey comes through the door.

"Its about time you made good on your debt, you pathetic no-good bum!"

"I told the dude I would send it to him as soon as I had the cash" you reply, snickering to yourself, knowing the truth of the "transaction".

"So sweetheart, we got two choices for tonite:

"Jazzin' New Year's Eve with Dick Clark" They've got Nat Cole, Natalie and her Granddaughter singing "Forgettable."

OR we can try and see "BlueNoteMania!" ... you can watch clones of Hank, Lee, Bobby Jymmie and Art kickin butt at Birdland. You can shoot up with Hank in the bathroom! Hell Yeah! They even got a clone of PeeWee walking around, shooting up flames to light your fattie!

I didn't have the cash for tickets, but we'll just wait about 30 minutes and then stroll in through the side door ...

what do you say, baby?"

--------------------

The floggings shall continue until morale improves.

Posts: 1336 | From: South Florida, USA | Registered: Mar 2001 | IP: Logged

Lon Armstrong

Member

Member # 137 posted May 15, 2002 08:46 AM

Staring incredulously at the silver cd in the battered jewel case, Soul Station fumed. Twenty odd years later, after I've bought the JRVG and the RVG and the Connoisseur vinyl special limited edition, here that ingrate sends me finally the 80s cd!

I'm getting old, and I should be forgiving, he told himself. I should be, he repeated, as he pulled the safety loose on his retro-phaser and punched in the coordinates for the Mobley Arms Hotel, just south of Skid Row. . . .

On the DVD telescreen the advertisement for the Annual Bix Soundalike Contest blared. As Bix was unable to be cloned, the search is still on for the "new" Bix. . .well maybe this year!

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impossible

Member

Member # 515 posted May 15, 2002 01:49 PM

Meanwhile, down on Skid Row, a young trumpet player walks north toward the Arms, trumpet case clutched in his left hand. It took him about a month and a half, but he finally scrounged the money up to get the instrument back out of the pawn shop (Some things never change). He ducks into a broad alleyway, unlatches the case and absorbs the gleam of the beautiful brass tubing. Its been a while. Polishing the brass with a handkerchief, he begins running through the changes to Royal Garden Blues in his head. He cleans his mouthpiece, inserts it with a slight clockwise twist, and begins blowing softly into the horn.

Posts: 1607 | From: Charlotte, NC USA | Registered: Nov 1999 | IP: Logged

Lon Armstrong

Member

Member # 137 posted May 16, 2002 05:44 AM

You have totally mystified the thought police. They are sorting through the rambling roses in your head, the unbridled desires, the impulsive bleatings and blurtings, and are exhausted trying to find a pattern.

Your hands are toying in the air as if hitting a keyboard that is not there and you are wishing you had something. . . a j. . .a popper. . . a pick. . . a pickle . . . something to return your thoughts to the more normal form of chaos, to have control of the randomness, not to have the thought police probing and prodding. . .

Though one of them you think is pretty darned HOT.

You become aware that Hank Mobley is not going to appear in the air before you and give you words of wisdom THIS time. You notice that a patrolman has just entered the Skid Row station and approached the thought-a -tron.

Posts: 9095 | From: Austin, TX USA | Registered: Mar 99 | IP: Logged

Gene Harris Fanatic

Member

Member # 1529 posted May 16, 2002 06:06 AM

As the thought police officer approached the machine, he mentally reviewed the case file:

a cheat and a louse; sexist, homophobic; delusions of grandeur; harrassing phone calls to so-called idols ... and worst of all, crazy beliefs about some long-gone jazz artist of the last century.

The time has come to cure him of all these ills, thought the officer.

He cued up the stream of images ... dark, ugly images of wanton destruction, rape and brutal violence. Then he cued up the soundtrack to accompany the Movie of Madness only he would see and hear.

He pressed the transmit button, and the images started flowing, unstoppable. Then the soundtrack slowly came up ...

"A Caddy For Daddy" indeed thought the officer ...

--------------------

The floggings shall continue until morale improves.

Posts: 1336 | From: South Florida, USA | Registered: Mar 2001 | IP: Logged

Lon Armstrong

Member

Member # 137 posted May 16, 2002 10:40 AM

Yes, it's a beaut, this shepherd's crook cornet, Malcolm Merriweather told himself, seeing the brassy gleam in the dimming late afternoon light penetrating the alleyway. How did I let it stay hocked so long. Putting it to his lips halting notes fell out, a specter of Royal Garden Blues to the initiated listener. That old tune, he thought, I can still remember when I first heard Wynton playing it and got interested in the trumpet. . . . and then the piano. And then the "dixieland" players of the forties and fifties. . . and then all the way back to the New Orleans Rhythm Kings and Bix! Plenty thought it odd that this Kansas City black kid would be playing dixieland in the 2020s, but the music claims you and makes no excuses.

Now I have to get my lips back together and my gut full of air again, but first I have to get me a few pints. . . I won't make it through the night without juice. . . .

Posts: 9095 | From: Austin, TX USA | Registered: Mar 99 | IP: Logged

impossible

Member

Member # 515 posted May 16, 2002 11:52 AM

Overtaken by the visions, the tired thought officer's body collapses on the sidewalk in convulsions. The suspect's latent homosexual tendencies were overbearing, the images shocking the officer's cortex like a sudden high-watt flash in a pitch black room.

Beggars, theives, whores, criminals and business people alike rush toward the officer's body, sizzling on the concrete like a slice of bacon. Grabbing and kicking at the body, someone grabs his taser and activates it. The crowd backs off. We've got ourselves a problem here.

Another officer runs an optical scan on the armed woman. Dangerous, extremely dangerous. Anonymous. Hmmm. An outrider. What is she doing within city limits? All officers within a 10 mile radius are immediately sent mental notification of the situation. Screaming obsenities and uncoherent rantings, the woman threatens her audience. "Anyone come near me and I will fry the entire city mainframe!" She lets off a warning, by activating the taser and letting off a large blue in green spark. Impressed by the actual power of the taser, her arm jerks backward as she looks down at the weapon.

Obviously, this is an absurd bluff. How could this woman know anything about the city mainframe. Officers slowly approach the woman, hands out front, as if consoling her. At an instant, the woman is inundated with paralyzing thoughts from all directions. The thought police are more powerful than we think.

She is down. The taser slides across the floor, into the crowd of observers. Gone.

Posts: 1607 | From: Charlotte, NC USA | Registered: Nov 1999 | IP: Logged

lawther

Member

Member # 971 posted May 16, 2002 12:40 PM

Meanwhile, Malcolm is meandering down 4th St.

He notices that an auto-kiosk in on the next corner. The cheap brew is out-of-stock but they still have some decent suds.

He looks into the Retinal-Recognition viewer and is about ready to speak his order into the mic when "insufficient funds" starts blinking on the monitor.

"Damn, that horn took all I had," he muttered. With the thought police seemingly out of range, he freely searches his memory for where he might find a generous soul to spot him a few drinks.

"Aric Efron has mellowed out quite a bit since that stint in state custody. Maybe he's working over at Weizen's tonight and will have a place in his heart to give me a few on the house."

Making his way into Weizen's, Malcolm sees Efron engaged in an animated discussion with the Paul Whiteman clone at the end of the bar. "Maybe not as mellowed as I'd hoped," Mal says with a full smirk.

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Lon Armstrong

Member

Member # 137 posted May 16, 2002 04:35 PM

Malcolm realizes however that that is the second Aric clone, the one whose politics were too rightwing for even Reichmarshall Weizen . . .and even more tightfisted than theo original.

Besides, I need the real stuff. . .mash. . .sour. . . hard. . . . And I need valve oil.

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impossible

Member

Member # 515 posted May 16, 2002 08:21 PM

Only one place to get valve oil and a drop of whiskey... Roland Joince.

Roland Joince was Mal's last teacher. This was years ago now. Five or six years ago. Tough motherf*cker. The man could play. Somehow Mal ended up on cornet after all these years, but Roland was a hard-assed trumpet player. To this day his embochure stays poised, ready to play. He just doesn't have the air anymore.

Mal came to Roland fresh, with bad habits. Roland never stood for any of that. He taught Mal proper embochure, breathing techniques, and most importantly, pulling air from the diapragm.

Mal came to Roland from time to time, caring for him in his old age. Roland's flat was always a mess. His health was slipping and his self-discipline was all but gone. Whiskey. Mal would help around the house, straigtening up, shooting the sh!t, passing the bottle, talking about the ancestors. "Always remember your past." Roland would say, "always remember your past."

Mal headed over to Roland's part of town, all the while running changes through his head. On his way over, Mal traded an old pack of playing cards for a few cigarettes. Mal's pop owned a cardhouse over on the eastside. Mal always carried at least one pack of cards with him. His pop was a sucker, but he did have one piece of wisdom for his sons. "You never know when the cards will come into play."

All three of the Merriweather boys were known for carrying poker decks at all times.

Posts: 1607 | From: Charlotte, NC USA | Registered: Nov 1999 | IP: Logged

Lon Armstrong

Member

Member # 137 posted May 17, 2002 07:42 AM

As he searched Roland's scarred rolltop for valve oil, Mal began to sweat, feeling the swiveling knees that meant he was long overdue for a drink.

"Why are you bothering with that darned Wonderbread competition?" Roland's rasp billowed across the room towards him. "All those cats just jumped up on the bandwagon and took jobs from the fathers of the music man!"

"Maybe, maybe not. We've been through this Rol." Mal stepped back, wobbly, valve oil in hand and eyed the glass that Roland had just poured. "This is an opportunity, and I need it. Maybe some cash, maybe some gigs, at least a chance for ME to make ME get my chops up." Walking over he grabbed the glass of whiskey and tossed it down his throat, shivered and placed it carefully back down on the coffee table and eyed it hungrily. . . .

Posts: 9095 | From: Austin, TX USA | Registered: Mar 99 | IP: Logged

impossible

Member

Member # 515 posted May 17, 2002 11:03 AM

Daylight was slowly withdrawing from the clouded sky. It had looked like rain all day. Not a drop. Roland poured Malcom another quarter-glass of sour mash as he continued to press the boy on tonight's performance.

"...ell, if you're gonna play this thing, you gotta hit it hard. You thought about tunes?"

"Yeah. I don't know Rol. I've been running through Royal Garden Blues all day, but I don't think that's the tune."

"Royal Garden... hmmm. Yeah, that's a good tune."

"Yeah, but its not doing it for me. Something else."

Roland works his way out of the recliner. The old kind, with the lever on the side. With a sharp sigh, he helps himself up and grabs a stack of sheet music from the piano bench. Shuffling through the leafs of paper, he comes across an old composition he wrote years ago. "Fantastic Predictions". Roland hums his way through the head at an allegretto tempo.

"Here you go boy."

"What's this Rol? Fantastic Predictions? You write this?"

"Ah, long time ago. Its a good tune. See what you can do with it."

Mal studies the sheet as he downs quarter-glass after quarter-glass. He's not so sure about introducing an original tune to the house band the day of the contest. What the hell. We'll play it by ear.

He lights up a cigarette for himself and Roland. The whiskey is going down smooth now. Mal's feeling it in his pores. His belly's getting hot. It's time to start running these changes.

Posts: 1607 | From: Charlotte, NC USA | Registered: Nov 1999 | IP: Logged

Lon Armstrong

Member

Member # 137 posted May 17, 2002 11:20 AM

Just as the thought-policeman is about to send you in agony over "A Caddy For Daddy," his double, the patriarchal source of the clone, Soul Station One, bends down and unplugs the machine.

"He'll stay corrupted," he says as he bends down to peer into your face.

"Long time no see."

You maybe recognize him really, maybe not. Been a long time. Not much face contact either. With now four officers around you, all tense because of the taser incident, you don't have much cockiness to spare, so you're quiet.

"And I didn't want to see you again." You still don't respond. You're starting to be a little nervous.

"So just get on your way then." You hardly know what to think. Is this a trap? Are you going to be shot trying to escape? You dust off your britches, take a long look at your skooter, and slowly back away. . . . A channel forms for you in the small crowd, you back into it, turn. . . and skeeeedaddle baby!

The twilight streets swallow you. Sorry Lindsey, you say to yourself. Each dog to his own. I have to get away.

As you run along the sidestreets towards downtown, the telebell rings in your skull. You click your front teeth with your tongue and gasp "Hello."

"What they heck are you up to now?" the voice in his brain is cold and weary. You're always putting him through this. You're always disappointing him. You should have been at his place, working out that arrangement for the new record for Blue Note. Lou doesn't like you missing a rehearsal, and he has fired you before. But you are the one who has that greasy tenor sound that he needs for this band, and you have the keys and the arranging going on too. . . But don't blow it.

"Lou, I got tangled up with the thought blue and I'm going to be late."

"Well bring some grub when you come, damn it!" Click and he was gone.

Sure grub. . . and Lindsey had all my cash.

Posts: 9095 | From: Austin, TX USA | Registered: Mar 99 | IP: Logged

marvin g

Member

Member # 470 posted May 19, 2002 12:18 AM

One day in the future I'll have a full time job and have all the CD's I want and be debt free at the same time.

Isn't that a fantastic prediction!

[ May 19, 2002: Message edited by: marvin g ]

Posts: 706 | From: Chicago | Registered: Oct 1999 | IP: Logged

Lon Armstrong

Member

Member # 137 posted May 19, 2002 06:08 AM

Mal had the tune down, sitting in his battered armchair in his battered room in the battered Arms, his battered lip buzzing along with his battered head. . . .

This one will work. This tune I can make seem twenties, it has this great riff, and I can bring the feel into it. . . .

His fingers flexed the valves, feeling them sliding under their pushes correctly now. My lip and my mouth need weeks to really be up to shape, and I don't have weeks, I have the day ahead. . . . Must remember to spit those notes out, like rice spit out, like a hammer hitting wood and sending out splinters, like an elephant spewing out his rage. . . that is how I get that Bix sound, that is how come I've really got a chance to win, because I can get that sound.

The feel, that is the problem I have heard on the simulcasts of the competition, the music just doesn't have the feel. There's only one person I know that I need on that stage to help me spit these notes out with the right feel, Tom Terrific, my old drummer, now with that soul band, the Browners. Damn. Got to find him. He grew up with this swamp rocky two beat thing and he is the only person I know who can really play that authentic early jazz beat, who doesn't do MORE than was done then, who just lays it down.

So plan Mal: A good meal, some phone calls, some cab fare, and some more practicing, gotta get my head and my chops breathing again. . . and have to stop this sick feeling that comes over me when I don't play and don't move forward. . . got to win and get a second wind on my career. Lou Donaldson, that ancient tyrant, will be very very sorry he canned my ass!

Posts: 9095 | From: Austin, TX USA | Registered: Mar 99 | IP: Logged

Lon Armstrong

Member

Member # 137 posted May 24, 2002 11:48 AM

You watch as they demolish the bucket of chicken you waltzed in with, and then begin to noodle and tune and trade musical notes.

"Where'd you get this chicken?" Tom Terrific asks?

"Don't ask," you respond.

Your whole day was topsy-turvy and here you are without a horn so you're on keys tonight. . . . Luckily for you Clarence Williams V is not here and so you're needed there. Good cuz you have that new arrangement of "Mercy, Mercy, Mercy" to work through.

"Bresnahan International Booking on the line" comes the voice from the back of the rehearsal hall. Slender and exotic, Lou's latest squeeze has a nice voice too. Damn. Maybe when my ship comes in I'll have a "latest squeeze" too!

You park yourself on the bench and turn on the ancient Hammond. First thing you always do: crank it up. A rearing roaring rolling chord rips through the room and gets everyone's attention.

"Thanks A!" Lou's high and warm voice says as he wheels his exoskeletal-reinforced form towards the group of musicians. "A call to order. Let's get down to business."

Everyone snaps into attention because THE MAN, MR. DONALDSON pays well and hell yeah we're proud to be in his band! Not exactly in the musical forefront any longer, but not just re-treading his old hits either, doing something different all the time.

"Listen up man," Lou addresses them all, "I'm finally not jealous of Cannon any longer. Time to bury that envy man!" A lot of blank looks, you notice. "I mean Adderley, Julian Cannonball Adderley---good god darned I'm trying to be funny!" Okay, they get it now and they're chucklin' away. "We're going to work on 'Mercy, Mercy, Mercy' cuz I think that tune could indeed use the revival and we could make it a slammin' one. A has come up with an arrangement. Tell 'em A!"

So you ran through it with them, and then started out on a try. Everyone knew the groove to fall into as you played that keys part on the organ, nice and soft and mellow, and they played the backing riffs and you let it float and glide and drift dreamily. . .Lou came in on the soprano and just layed out the coolest melody line, real hip and slick, and then they all dropped out. . . you left that long tense moment of silence that just seems so odd and begs for some action and then WHAM you went full blast into the loudest and wildest organ sounding main riff and the whole band took off into a free form screaming of the tune. . . BOOM, collective soloing, and you all Herman Sonny Blount all up in the center, with Tom Terrific's vintage old Simmons five piece drumkit (with that killer Sun bass amp and that old Gallian-Kruger guitar amp cranked!) set for that real phasey sounding snare and toms. . . . Wow, it sounded to you like it did in your head and YOU LOVE WHEN THAT HAPPENS!

[ May 24, 2002: Message edited by: Lon Armstrong ]

Posts: 9095 | From: Austin, TX USA | Registered: Mar 99 | IP: Logged

JSngry

Member

Member # 1611 posted May 24, 2002 02:43 PM

"I need to clear my head", Mal thought. "A long drive out in the country is just what I need". Mal got in his ride and headed for the outskirts of town, and before he knew it, he was travelling on a two lane highway w/no shoulder. The 50 foot pines trees on either side of him blocked out any moonlight that might have been available.

Gradually a fog began to form, slowly at first, but rapidly thickening to the point where driving further would a hazardous proposition at best. "Schitte", thought Mal, "this is phukked. Ain't a DAMN thig going right for me."

Suddenly the fog lifted, and Mal saw an intersection up ahead. The first crossroad he had seen for over an hour.

BLAMMMMMM!!!!!!!!

Mal knew that sound all too well - the sound of a blowout. He let out a groan as he realized that his spare had gone flat last week, and he hadn't bothered to reinflate it. "TAKE ME NOW, JUST FHUKKIN' TAKE ME NOW GAHDDAMMIT", Mal screamed in agony as he pulled his crippled vehicle to a stop in the middle of the crossroads, hoping that a semi would come along and sent both the car and him to oblivion. What better place for it to happen than out here? He had lived in failed obscurity, why not die that way too?

As he got out the car to go lie down underneath it, he fell a sudden chill. He felt a presence behind him and turned.

"Need some help kid?" It was a disembodied voice, barely audible, raspy, nearly unintelligible. Mal squinted to see if he could find the voice's source. He was finally able to make out the outline of a small, shriveled figure with long slender fongers slowly making it's way towards him.

"I said, you need some help mutthafukkah?"

Suddenly Mal realized what was happening.

"M..M...M....Miles....I thought....I thought you had....I thought you were......"

Posts: 7244 | From: Tx, USA | Registered: Mar 2001 | IP: Logged

Lon Armstrong

Member

Member # 137 posted May 28, 2002 10:15 AM

So Lindsey wouldn't answer your phone call. . . wonder why? Nah, she's not going to put up with more of your crap and desertion more's the pity. . . .

You are beat after the rehearsal but Big Boss Lou was happy and you made points with the new arrangement and Tom Terrific gave you a ride back home and now you have a big fat one in your hand watching the smoke curl up towards your face and you just don't care.

Just don't care about those cops and especially that one that let you go. . . just don't care. You're safe here you think.

But then you realize. . .those were the brain pigs, the thought police, I ain't safe til my brain stops. They can come and get me any time. SHEEITE. Man.

Situation normal for you, right, all fouled up. Okay, there's not many times but even when you do try to do right, it ends up wrong, and when you set out to do wrong, that you can really get right in spades.

You take another deep drag because it is helping you think. . .not straight, but for you normal.

The cd spins. Tina's tenor on "Everything Happens to Me" seems to be talking right at you. The syringe sticking out of the left speaker grille seems to be speaking right at you. The video phone seems to be speaking right at you.

Hey, wait a minute, it IS!

Posts: 9095 | From: Austin, TX USA | Registered: Mar 99 | IP: Logged

Lon Armstrong

Member

Member # 137 posted May 28, 2002 10:32 AM

The table by the stage has no one standing in front of it registering. . . there are about eight trumpet cases on the stage either being held by nervous hands or propped on chairs as the owners smile and chit chat as that Jess Stacy clone is doing some stride stuff in the back of the stage on the old standup.

"Name please," the middle-aged woman asks. Malcolm swallows and says, softly, "Mal Merryweather." Mal hands her a 100 dollar bill. "Here's my registration fee."

The woman sought information, scratched it down, hastily wrote a receipt, and handed it to Malcolm who climbed the eight steps to the stage with it held limply at his waist. The trumpet case hung from two fingers of his left hand. He took measured deliberate steps to the ninth chair on the stage. Past Nichoals Payton, who is still trying to win this one. Past a pimply white teenager in a double breasted suit and a beanie cap complete with propeller. Past a foxey gal who looked a bit like Angela Bassett before she started working out maniacly, way back in the nineties. Past Wynton's young cousin, Marcus Assinius Marsalis. Past a heavy set dude, bald and in a sweat suit. Past an asian gal, hair so short that she was also almost bald, and skirt short enough to match.

Past a cat who looked like a clone of Doc Cheatham. (Maybe he was.) Past an old white dude, in a floorlength duster, chrome domed with wire-rim glasses and as long and as sad and sorry a face as you have ever seen. Finally Mal stands in front of the ninth chair and shivers. He places the receipt for the registration in his pocket. He pulls from the same pocket a mouthpiece. A black chromed mouthpiece, shining with dark brilliance as if it were new and polished as hard as if it were ancient. With his agile left hand he placed the trumpet case on the chair, opened it, and removed the cornet that hardly fit within.

Mal could feel other eyes turn towards him and quiet settle in as he lifted the cornet to his chest and inserted the mouthpiece. This was hardly the same cornet that had been in the pawn shop. It was now black chrome plated. It gleamed with a luster that seemed to swallow light and spit it back out. The inside of the bell was a maroon chromed finish. Mal held it to his chest, closed his eyes and became deadly still.

The sound of a banjo, loud and rude, accompanied by the slap of a bass violin erupted from the back of the hall, the supporting band starting to get in place and warm up.

"I wonder," Mal thought, "who's going to take chair number ten. . . "

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impossible

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Member # 515 posted May 28, 2002 01:49 PM

As he closed his eyes and tried to pull his sh!t together, the black cornet quietly hummed against his chest. He attempted to open his eyes, wondering what the hell was going on, but couldn't. Damn fine whiskey. Good call Mal... you can always count on Joince.

It wasn't the whiskey though. He found the cornet sending warm vibrations through his bones. Mal began to sweat profusely. The room was raucous, conversations swirling around the room, outbursts sending his gut into a knot. Something wasn't right. Deep breaths, deep breaths. After 30 seconds of eternity, Mal gained control and began to relax into this spin. He suddenly found himself looking out into the crowd from center stage. He grabbed a glass of water off of the stool to his left. His reflection!

"Man, I'm f#cked up."

His eyes were blackened, his iris a dark maroon. His hands were strong, his embouchure taut. A rush came from the bottom of his gut and he began to count out the tempo quicker than he had practiced it.

BAM!

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Member # 515 posted May 28, 2002 02:01 PM

Mal wakes up, confused as hell. He looks around. Sh!t.

"Car still broke down in the middle of nowhere and I'm still breathing."

Miles had just slapped the everliving sh!t out of him. Mal had collapsed beside the car. "You alright kid?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm ok. I thought..."

"Damn son, you are f#cked up! What the hell are you on motherf#cker!"

"Nothin! I'm on my way to a cutting contest. There's a Bix-a-like going on down at the Arms. What time is it?! What just happened?"

"Its time to get up with it boy!"

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Lon Armstrong

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Member # 137 posted May 29, 2002 10:35 AM

The vidscreen glowed and the face of Soul Station, Thought Police Commodore III appeared, smiling.

You go "OH SHIZAM" and the j goes behind your back and into the ashtray quick. It's the brain pig! Now you're really screwed!

"Look man I don't care about your fatty and I don't care about the seven or eight violations I can see just scanning your room" Soul Station said with a chuckle. "A, you don't even remember me and that is cool. I should have let you be brainfried. Or I should have stopped them and brainfried you myself---now that would have been fun. But there are plans for you and by GOTT you are going to see them through."

You are flipping out. Maybe you're just flipping because of the weed. But this dude is scaring you. Hank, oh Hank what is going to happen to me. I'm too damned good looking to go to prison. Oh crap if only I had stayed in school. If only I'd taken that corrective psychotherapy offered to me for free by that hot shrink. If only I hadn't gotten fired from Pharaoh Sanders' band. If only. . . .

"You can wallow in selfpity later A. Right now you are going to listen." Commodore III moved back from the camera and held out a photograph. "See this man?"

You look at the grainy screen. You can just make out the can-opener of a nose. . . the runny eyes. . . that scraggly hair pulled back but still burling out around the head like an unholy nimbus. . . you pull back from the screen in revulsion.

"No, I don't know who that is."

"Yes you do, forkin' A, yes you do." Soul Station stuck his face right up into the camera and it filled the screen. "You recognize him. He's a big name ain't he?"

You swallow. You look around the room. "Okay, sure I know him. Kenny G. Some beetch been at the top of the jazz charts and he couldn't play a jazz lick unless he sampled it from a recording of a real jazzman. A forkin' disgrace, and no jazzman wants to look at him. See him. Hear him. Know he is alive. I'm a jazzman and he makes me sick."

Soul Station grinned. He laughed, he rubbed his eyes and smiled wide. "Oh you're going to see him. You're going to see a lot of him. He's your assignment. You're going to be his new best musical friend, playing tenor for him and making him climb to the top of the charts again. And then he's going to fall." Soul Station laughed hard again. "Some of us have tried to get him before but he's been too crafty and clean, but you're not the only ones that want him to go down; you jazzguys aren't alone. Many of us can't stand to hear one more pretty note come out of his damned horn." Soul Station pointed his finger straight at your nose. "You're going to bring him down for us."

You swallow, again, though there is nothing to swallow. You're scared. You're angry. You're just mystified that you could get into this situation. You want out. "I'm not going near that man you mutherin' brain pig! I'm not doing you any favors."

Oh you will. . . yes you will. . . or you'll be in our custody. I have men all around your crib right now. We have a portable brain buffer ready to go. We'll start you on the slow path to lobotomization. We can use any of the charges in your file. That stalking of Norah Jones back in '03. The hate mail to Branford Marsalis in '05. The petty larceny in Frisco in '06. The armed robbery in Spokane in '07. We'll try you for a new charge each week and burn a little portion of your brain as punishment each week." You laugh. "Not me personally. I'm a forgive and forget kind of guy. But Commissioner Burke and Mayor Lukrion aren't so forgiving and not near as forgetting."

His face is nearly bursting out of your vidscreen now. You're starting to feel those beads of sweat forming on your forehead that mean you are breaking down. . . surrendering. . . not going to be able to resist. . .the kind of beads of sweat that Lindsey and Norah and Cybil have induced in the past, but there ain't no fun attached this time. . . .

"But. . . " you begin and then the first bead of sweat starts to dislodge and rolls down and to the top of your nose. You feel embarassed by it and totally overwhelmed. "But. . . "

"A, you're going to do what we say and you'll come out of this okay, free, maybe allowed to have a cabaret card again. Maybe. Depends how you do."

"But. . . "

"Yes that's right, you're sunk. You're in deep. Just go with the flow. Look around in that rat's nest and get out a pen and paper. . . "

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Lon Armstrong

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Member # 137 posted May 29, 2002 11:02 AM

So Mal drove and drove and tried not to wonder about Miles in the boonies by the crossroads. I know that isn't one of the Miles clones he thought. Not the one that goes by Dewey Davis IV and has that art dealership in Belair. Not the one that goes by Miles, just Miles, and has that dance show on tv with the bootybabes. Not the one that tries to play the trumpet and just can't seem to get the sound that everyone expects from him. . . .No this either was Miles come back as a demon or Beezel himself, the king Bub.

Because that horn in that case right next to him on the seat was proof. That was not the horn he drove out here with. That was not even close. That horn he drove out didn't hum and glow like a radioactive cooling rod. That horn he got out of the pawn shop didn't just about play ITSELF.

Mal drove into the city, into the ancient automated parking garage, up the elevator into the Arms, and into his hovel. I need a drink he thought as he threw the trumpet case onto the couch and strod into the bathroom and over to the sink. No I don't either, he realized. I'm scared sober and somehow steady, there's no time to kill, I better get over to the Hall.

So he took the 'way under the night dark city and came up from the station with his trumpet case, into the Hall, registered, onto the stage, all just as he had seen it in that fever dream when that Miles had handed him back the cornet. . . .And now he was there, the band was warming up, and the tenth trumpeter in this round was just walking onto the stage. .. a goofy looking little cat with big ears, hair slicked back from the crown of his head leaving a highway parting his skull, shabby suit that was only two sizes too big, and grinning that drink heavy grin. . . looking all Alfred E. Newman like.

"Howdy," he spoke as he passed Mal. "I'm Texas Tim an' I play a mean horn. Prepare thyself.

All Mal could do was laugh! He introduced himself and then closed his eyes and bent his head. . . I will not start my feature TOO FAST. I will not. I'll be very relaxed and make the tempo just right. . . .

[ May 29, 2002: Message edited by: Lon Armstrong ]

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Lon Armstrong

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Member # 137 posted May 31, 2002 07:50 AM

They started off the competition with "Royal Garden Blues." They cycled through the different trumpeters, starting with the #1 chair, and moving on down the line to #10.

Right after #6 James Carter scrambled onto the stage and executed a wild and wooly alto solo. This seemed a cue to notch the tempo up a bit, which worried Mal. . . . He had been feeling the initial tempo and was prepared, and now he had to get the new brightness into his bones. . . .

When it did come time for his solo Mal brought the cornet to his lips and let loose his usual solo on this tune, as Bixian as he could get it. The tone from the horn surprised him. . . it was clearer and meatier and yet lighter than he had ever heard from the horn, before it's last incarceration at Action Pawn. Mal was ON IT, he was happy that it was coming off so well, and he actually relaxed a bit, slouching down a few inches, arching back, and blowing a very strong finish. After his turn had passed and a brief piano interlude was setting up Texas Tim, #10, Mal sat down and mopped his forehead with a few swipes of his sleeve. He was amazed again that he DID NOT feel he needed a drink. Something happened in that crossroads that set him solid. . . as if he had the buzz he required, but wasn't worn out by it. . . .Curiouser and curiouser. . . .

Texas Tim flew into his solo with abandon and yet control, with a tone that was like a schoolbell at noon, and each note floating out even at this tempo. Mal sat up straight and looked at the rumpled jacket hanging over Tim's back. Just as I feared he thought, THIS guy is the competition.

The tune drew to a close and the judges set to scribbling, on to their task of removing one contestant. . . . Poor Nicholas, he was the one given the sign to pack up.

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Lon Armstrong

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Member # 137 posted June 04, 2002 10:48 AM

You drink in the salt air billowing around you on the deck of the ferry that was moving towards Hydros from Athens. You have two hands on the rail and your eyes closed because you are weary. . . too many time zones, too many js, too many cigarettes and not enough food.

You remember how weary and disappointed Lou looked when you asked for a leave of absense. Maybe you just imagined that. BUT his exoskeleton actually did CREAK as he slumped a bit when you were admant that you couldn't stay.

You remember the furtive meeting with Soul Station 1 that left you with shuttle tickets and a few pocketsful of gadgets and some interesting instructions that you had to memorize including a few klunky code words.

The ferry docks and you shake yourself from your wooziness and step off the boat into the bright afternoon Aegean sun. You shade your eyes with a hand and see a bicycle rental shop, a few women in swimsuits (hell yeah!) and a few old men sitting in the sun with glasses on and in hands.

A hand taps your shoulder from behind, and you see a man, bald, tall, wearing of all things a long black cloak and cowboy boots. You peer into his face in the bright sun and realize. . .it's Michael Bolton. Former singer. Now sort of Kenny G's grand wizier, head shaman. Now you're here, and in it deep.

"MR. A?" Bolton's voice, you recognize it, a bit huskier now, but there it is.

"Yes," you reply. One of the boat stewards just dropped your bag at your feet and you smiled at him and handed him some paper.

"Quite generous," Bolton notes with a chuckle.

"I sure didn't mean to be" you reply. Bolton holds one arm forward and places the other on your shoulder steering you so gently towards a long white limousine you can see sticking out from behind the bicycle rental. You grab your bag and shuffle off to the limo.

A short quiet ride in which you reply that your trip was fine, it is very nice to meet YOU TOO Mr. Bolton, no I didn't expect it to be so sunny here, but I should have, etc. You finally have a few moments of quiet because you quit adding to the conversation and you light up a cigarette and stare out the window, past the small ruined temple, past the small white houses, and suddenly you see it ahead of you, the huge mansion surrounded by walls. The limo pulls through the gates that slide whisperly behind it, and in a minute you are walking into the mansion, into the main lobby which is like some area of the Vatican in its look and feel, down a hallway to a huge room full of monitors and speakers and standing in amidst a bank of microphones and a mixing board. . . . Kenny G himself. His hair is unbound and billowing around his shoulders. He has a madras print sport shirt on and hiking shorts. He looks awful, as if he hadn't slept in three days, nothing at all like the air-brushed cd covers. . .he looks like a wrinkle with a big shnozz and runny eyes. Louis Armstrong's "Someday You'll Be Sorry" comes drifting over the speakers in the room, quietly.

"Aha, my new tenor player has arrived!" His voice was surprisingly deep and resonant, the very antithesis of his soprano sax sound. "I hope you had a nice trip!"

You suddenly note that there are two men in the corners of the room behind G, dressed in khaki British looking combat wear, automatic weapons draped across crossed arms. You suddenly hear the door to the room closing behind you whisperly. Bolton seemed to glide, his cape rustling, past you to G's side. You don't like this.

"I hope you don't mind if we ask you a few questions about your musical education Mr. A." G smiled, and revealed gleaming large teeth, unnaturally gleaming and large. "I really need only the finest players and although you were highly recommended, I can't seem to find too much about you in the industry circles."

You light up another cigarette, using the antique matches you found in your Athens hotel bar, and casually toss the match to the marble floor, hoping hoping hoping you look as cool and composed as you want to look. "Well, I don't have much education. Musical, formal, classical, etc. that is. I almost went to law school, but then I got in a scrape with the law, and law school seemed rather against the grain." You take a long drag on the cigarette and exhale slowly. "I just picked up keyboard on my own in college, and learned tenor in high school. I can read but don't like to. I blow and I swhirl on the organ. I'm an improviser, I feel the music and let it out. I was told that was what you want." You smile what you hope is a very confident untroubled smile, and work more on the cigarette.

"Exactly. . . " G responds, rubbing his chin with one hand, "Excellent. Yes, I think you'll suit my purposes well. I'm intending to move into a new area of jazz and carve my niche in it. . . I'm going to put together a soul jazz band and I think you'll be perfect for that from what I am told about your musical skills. We'll do some rehearsing this week." G strode forward and stuck his hand out towards yours. "Welcome to the G-Xanadu Mr. A, and I hope you enjoy your stay!"

[ June 04, 2002: Message edited by: Lon Armstrong ]

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Lon Armstrong

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Member # 137 posted June 05, 2002 06:06 AM

And then there were two. When there are three, the final three get to call their features, and then after all three are played, the top player, the Bixalike or "Bixie," is chosen.

The third player, the Asian gal who it turns out is named Sara Lee (can that be right?) did one tremendous job on "Fidgety Feet." I mean. . . she put her all into it. She got so behind that horn for the final chorus, got scrunched down in a primeval squat, that Mal was afraid she was going to blow herself through the trumpet! Fiery, fat notes. Mal shook his head, and got ready for "Fantastic Predictions."

The band had the sheet music he had left at the registration desk and had done a little run through, then played the tune for a while before Mal joined in, so they could get it just the way he wanted it tempo wise; he counted them off and then steered them with some looks til it was just so. They were sounding good on it; afterall it was just "Tiger Rag" in yet another new skin, but it was a good one and Mal had the solo in his head ready to roll, thick and pushing out of his cortex into his lip. . . he took his moment and it was as if he was gone, he was there, holding that black gleaming cornet level and paralell and yet he was somewhere else, idly watching himself as he swayed in a little tipsy turvy happy mood, watched each note spit out of the horn like a perfect seahorse drifting in the current of the tempo, watched the color and the light whisping inside the now blood red bell pulse, saw himself tighten up and wind out the final bit of the solo with deadly serious execution, saw the audience drinking in the sound and glancing around as if they were certain this were IT, this was the winning moment. . . .

Then it was over and as he removed the cornet from his lips and felt the indentation relax and flow out to a smooth lip the applause broke and he shivered. . . . Damn that felt good. . . damned good. . . this is what you NEED every day every week every month every year. . . . Mal slowly eased into his chair, crossed his leg and rested the gleaming ebony finish of the horn against his knee. . . . Not one glitch, not one twitch, this was the solo of his life.

Wasting no time, Texas Tim rose from his chair, bowed in mock (?) tribute to Mal, and tapped his foot off to a torid tempo for his feature, "From Monday On." He swayed from side to side from the hip up as he layed out the melody in what seemed to Mal to be silver notes flowing out of the horn. . . .damn, this is going to be a ballbuster too, Mal thought just as a shot rang out and a bullet slammed into the tubing of the left side of Tim's horn, sending it flying up in the air and Tim jumping back in self-defense over and behind his chair. . . He sprang to a crouch and looked off to his left to see a small figure, dressed in a gold silk trenchcoat and wearing a ski mask behind huge bug-eyed sunglasses dart down the left wall and out the door leading to the concession area.

Tim yelled with delight and leapt to his feet, leapt again off the stage and barrelled down the front of the stage to the left wall and zipped down that wall and out in pursuit. . . and then he was gone.

He was gone. . . there was just Mal on the stage and a messy confused audience looking all around, some filing out hurriedly. Time hung for Mal as he sat and took it all in. What does this mean for ME he thought. . . .

The answer was broadcast over the P A. . . "Ladies and gentlemen, because of the unusual method in which our final contestant defaulted, the judges have conferred and have named Malcolm Merryweather the receipeint of this year's Bixie. . . "

[ June 05, 2002: Message edited by: Lon Armstrong ]

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impossible

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Member # 515 posted June 05, 2002 10:04 AM

Five beautiful Mediterranean women escorted A to his quarters, all of them dressed in similar ivory flowing gowns. A, a man with a taste for the finer things in life, noticed the flawless seem-work on the women's gowns, wonderfully form fit to their every curve.

"Damn" he thought to himself, "I could get used to this..."

The entrance to his private quarters opened like a small breath of air, revealing a grand room, high vaulted ceilings, fine ivory colored european furniture and (!) more synths, saxophones and hybrid electronic instruments than he could count. Some of these instruments he had never seen before, much less imagined! Some of the electronic instruments looked more like weapons of the future than they did musical instruments!

His vista overlooked Kenny G's private harbor. Cerulean seas rolled in toward the rocky shore, the sounds were a dream for A. He remembered the coastline of the Great Northwest United States. This was too much! What a view. He picked up the binoculars to his left and looked out along the waters. Panning from right to left, a large trawler came into his view. It looked like a Nordhavn, but he wasn't sure. It had been a while since his summer affair with the Saudi Arabian princess. It sure looked like a Nordhavn though. If only he could get a view of the stern.

He took the binoculars from his eyes and discovered a keypad accessing viewing options. "360? What's this?" He focused in on the boat and pressed the button. Immediately his view spun gradually around the object in focus. Once the stern was in view, he pressed 360 again. The image froze. He looked at the keypad again. Zoom, enhance. With the stern clearly in view, he read aloud,

"PreTeshious

G-Xanadu"

"Man, I need a smoke." He began looking around the room for a light. The first drawer he opened was filled to the brim with the nicest batch of White Widow he had ever seen. Oh boy. He reached into his back pocket and grabbed his Zig Zags, broke up one crystaline bud, sprinkled it evenly across the paper, rolled it with one hand, gave it a lick, and voila! "A's got a J, baby!"

A sat down in front of the Yamaha DX-1 and began to feel out chords as he puffed on his perfectly rolled cone. A had never smoked bud like this before...

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Lon Armstrong

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Member # 137 posted June 06, 2002 02:40 PM

The press conference was tiring but Mal was high with his win, and even though the glory was a bit difused because the media was also chasing down the story of the bullet that took down Texas Tim's horn.

Mal told about Roland, about his tenure with Lou, about how he really digs the early jazz but doesn't get to play it much, and he dodged two direct questions about his "beautiful cornet." He smiled and mugged and did his best to look good. He felt good. Recognition on the way! Some green in his pocket! And hopefully gigs, really good gigs, and some attention. Maybe he could move, maybe he could afford to have a girlfriend, maybe he could get Roland in a better place.

Finally he was able to slip away, check in envelope in his coat pocket, cornet back in its case. As he slid out the side of the Hall and into the street his phone rang in his pocket right in front of the check. He reached in, pulled it out, flipped it open, and said "Boy howdy."

"DAAAAHAAAAM mother, you done good I hear."

Mal was taken back by the voice. Been months since he heard from that old man. "Lou, what do you want? I thought you were 'never going to talk to' me again."

"Mal, Mal, I was just jivin'. You know how I am. Volatile. Fiery. You did me wrong. Let's not go there. Let's talk about tomorrow. Tomorrow at the rehearsal. Tomorrow when you learn the new tunes. I want you in the band again."

"Word travels fast doesn't it Lou?" Mal smiled wickedly. "I'm not sure that I would come back to that band of yours for twice the money."

"How about three times the dough?"

Mal leaned back against the wall. His smile straightened out to a grin. He paused, counted in his brain to five. "Maybe."

"We can talk about it tomorrow then."

"We can, yes." Mal flipped the phone shut, and leaned back against the wall hard. Man, this is unexpected. This tastes good, this little bit of being wanted back. I may say yes tomorrow, he thought.

"You might want to see if more offers come in" came a raspy voice next to his ear, and he jolted to the other side astonished. Under a blue-tinted shower cap he could see the yarn-looking weave. The piercing red eyes were boring into his. The same gold trenchcoat was scraping the floor, over the black silk leisure suit with the gold mesh belt.

"Cheez, I had half convinced myself that you were a hallucination man!" Mal was beginning to shiver again, beginning to feel that need for a drink, beginning to feel as he had before he hit that crossroads.

"I'm real mother," Miles whispered. "And now you're going to earn your new lease on life. You're going to help me, you're going to pay up!"

[ June 06, 2002: Message edited by: Lon Armstrong ]

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Lon Armstrong

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Member # 137 posted June 07, 2002 10:43 AM

"Listen up," Miles whispered raggedly to Mal as he hurtled the yellow Ferrari down the center of the street. Mal could hardly hear him, he was intent on watching the cars that Miles ALMOST broadsided or hit head on and was trying to tune out the gear whine that bounced around in the car cabin. "Listen up, you can take that gig with Lou." Miles reached into his trenchcoat and the Ferrari lurched a bit as his left hand wiggled the wheel. He pulled out a large pistol, and handed it to Mal. "Toss that under your seat man."

Malcolm did so. "That was a helluva shot Miles," he said, remembering the Texas Tim horn. Miles screeched the car around the corner and headed north, towards the Mobley Arms. Mal clung to the arm cushion on his door with a death grip.

"Yeah, I didn't just get lucky there. I got the eye. Now as for Lou, take the gig, but let him know that you need side gigs too." Miles downshifted suddenly lurching the car and doubling the gear whine. "When I'm ready you're going to get yanked to do a Woody Shaw Memorial Concert."

Mal swallowed hard and peered over at Miles. The bug-eyed sunglasses were on and totally obscured half his face. "Miles, you mean the Shaw Memorial Concert that's being talked up for New Year's Eve?" Mal reme

[jazzbo]

(Continued)

Lon Armstrong

Member

Member # 137 posted June 10, 2002 10:06 AM

Mal put his hand to Roland's door surface and was about to knock.

"You can't come in here with that thing," Roland's voice came through the door.

Mal was taken aback. "WHAT thing?" he asked loudly, mouth to the now open door, open but on the chain.

Roland's runny right eye appeared in the space between the door and jam. "That horn. That tainted evil thing."

Mal stumbled back to the opposite wall of the hall and let the trumpet case drop slowly with his hand to the hall floor. It shouldn't have surprised him so that Roland knew about the cornet and knew what it was. Probably more than Mal knew what it was; "I'm wearing blindfolds, at least up to this moment," Mal said to himself.

The door closed, and then reopened without the chain and Roland stood holding the doorknob as if it were his only support. He stared up at Mal's eyes long and hard. He seemed to start to say something and then think better of it. Again he seemed to start to say something and then thought better of it. Finally he said, "You one sorry cat, Malcolm Merryweather. What you going to do now?"

Mal looked at the floor, to the case on the floor, and imagined there was a dark glow emanating around the case clasps. His mind went blank of anything to respond.

"You going to get a band together, cash in on the fame from the contest?" Roland asked, warily; he too was beginning to stare at the trumpet case on the floor.

"Yes I am!" Mal suddenly said, realizing that was the thing to do. "Yes, I'm going to put together a little dixie outfit, sort of a Wolverines thing, and milk this fifteen minutes of fame."

"You could have won this thing WITHOUT that horn Malcolm. You could have done it on your own."

"No I couldn't have Roland."

"Says YOU."

A few minutes later Mal was on the street again. Yesterday he would have turned to the left and gone to the Red Rooster bar, one block away, and had some ryes and pretzels and drink down the resolve that had come into his head. When you were in Mal's shoes of yesterday, resolve was just a frustrating thing, to be drank away or otherwise ignored til it wandered off. But now there was this horn, there was this demon Miles, there was this contest check, and there was this resolve he knew he couldn't shake. And he didn't even feel like a drink. That alone scared him, but made him feel good too.

He stepped instead to the right to the vidphone/cash machine that usually was something he had no business approaching. But he took out the check from the contest, endorsed it, dropped it in and punched in his info, and he had five twenties in his hand a minute late, and actually money in reserve. MONEY IN RESERVE.

He punched in a collect call to Albinia VanSelleck. Once she had been his agent. Once he needed an agent. Been quite some time since he had spoken to her, but he knew she would take his call.

"Malcolm, darling!" she said enthusiastically as she took his call. Someone had once told Albinia that she looked good lying in bed, and she decided to maximize that potential. She spent as much time as she could in bed, having her bedroom her office. She was wearing a set of black silk pajamas, and their sheeny darkness made her pale white skin glow. Her long golden hair framed her face and fell behind her shoulders. She was lying back, her hands on the keyboard across her belly, staring up at Mal's image on the vidscreen in the ceiling above her. All Mal could see was the keyboard up, her skin, pajamas and hair on the royal blue satin sheets.

"Alby," Mal said, softly, "I think you can be my agent again.

"Of course dear," Albinia purred. "I've already had a few phonecalls about you and I have a few offers and---"

"FORGET those offers Alby." Mal said forcefully. "You're going to help me round up a band, and find a place to book that band for a month or so."

"I am?" Albinia said skeptically.

"Yes, you are," Mal replied, with a phlegmy chuckle.

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David Ayers

Member

Member # 862 posted June 10, 2002 10:09 AM

Lon, you'll *never* get to a million if all of your posts are going to be that long.

Posts: 1090 | From: England | Registered: May 2000 | IP: Logged

Lon Armstrong

Member

Member # 137 posted June 10, 2002 10:35 AM

Good point!

Posts: 9095 | From: Austin, TX USA | Registered: Mar 99 | IP: Logged

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[jazzbo]

Your groggy head enjoys the rolling sound of the synth as your left hand lazily picks a walking line and your right hits those odd Milesian Oberheim chords that you had been fooling around with to use in "Lou's Dues are Blues," the composition you are going to lay on the man himself soon as a feature.

You can't remember if you've done with the j, but there it is cold and crisply dead in the black onyx ashtray. . . you want to relight it but you know you shouldn't.

Now you find yourself at the window again with the breeze and though you want it to, it doesn't clear your head. Suddenly you hear a voice as if it were right behind you but you spin and no one is there, no one at all. You then see the image on the vidscreen on the wall in front of you. Your Host, Master G. Ugly as sin.

"Aric," the voice was even more deep than before, and the bevy of babes were surrounding him, and smiling your way. "Do you know Malcolm Merryweather?"

At first the name meant nothing, then a memory came floating up to the fore of your cranium and you said, "Yeah. He's an asshole."

The babes tittered and G giggled. "Maybe so," he finally said, "but he's right now HOT, just won a big contest, and I want him in my band!"

Edited June 4, 2003 by jazzbo

[jazzbo]

Mal was not at all surprised to see that he had a message from Albinia. . . yeah, he was going to be doing some work now, making some coin.

Then he saw that the message said "Kenny G wants MM for his band."

"What the FUCK!" he shouted dropping the message to the fllor.

[jazzbo]

A post from Soul Station reminded me of this one.started by Late . . the brain police!

[Soulstation1]

Frank Miller needs to see this

[jazzbo]

Been on a Frank Miller kick lately, read "Eisner/Miller" (fascinating), watched The Spirit on Blu-Ray several times, and am re-reading The Dark Kinght.