Concert in the Park: Free Jazz with Joe McPhee

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Concert in the Park: Free Jazz with Joe McPhee

Jesse Ashlock

On a mellow April afternoon, a most unusual performance was scheduled to take place in Manhattan's last remaining natural forest, in Inwood Hill Park at the northern tip of the island. The veteran avant-garde jazz composer and improviser Joe McPhee, in town for a concert at the Brecht Forum, planned to wander among the park's old growth oaks and tulip trees, playing the saxophone unamplified, Pied Piper-like, his audiene trailing behind.

Directions to the meeting place, near the park's natural rock caves, left something to be desired, so a cluster of concertgoers found themselves at the edge of the Harlem River, staring at the Henry Hudson Bridge in confusion. No McPhee, only a Little League game in full swing. "Maybe the 'C' stands for caves," said a man with a French accent and a long goatee, pointing at the Columbia University logo painted on the cliff across the river.

A friendly park ranger at the nature center provided directions and a map, encouraging everyone to hike to the top of the hill for a view of the New Jersey Palisades after the show. The group meandered towards the woods under a benevolent spring sun, the sounds of shouts and batted balls echoing through the park. "I've lived in New York for eight years and I've never been up here," said one attendee, who'd taken the subway up from Williamsburg. "So what better to do on a day like this?"

Just beyond the tree line, a crowd of about 70 was gathered in a circle beside the path. The audience included both graybeards and strollers, with several whole ragged families in attendance. McPhee, a heavyset middle-aged black man with a graying mustache and mirrored sunglasses, stood at the far edge, greeting arriving guests and occasionally checking his watch. At the last minute he scuttled his plan to roam, instead climbing the hillside to stand atop a massive boulder, where he raised a slim gold soprano sax and began to play.

A plane thundered overhead as he sounded his first tentative, gentle, carefully enunciated notes. Passersby walking dogs and bicycles slowed to see what was happening. Rocking a bit, McPhee began an intricate series of little runs, fingers flying over the keys. His high notes were often manic, twittering, breathy moans that sounded like the birds in the trees, while his lower register was all molasses and caramel, drifting lazily through the warm, leaf-scented air. Some listeners nodded rapturously with half-lidded eyes; others looked very somber. The park was quiet, but not quiet: besides the chattering birds, digital camera shutters beeped, leaves crunched underfoot, a little girl cried out, "Mommy!" And the planes kept coming, one every few minutes. McPhee played under and around their roar, stopping only once to stare up balefully at the sky.

After half an hour, he lowered his instrument and said a few words about Steve Lacy, the late soprano saxophonist whose outdoor recordings had inspired McPhee to play outside himself. "Maybe we can do this again sometime," he said. "I'd really like to. Enjoy this day -- it's a great day."

The audience applauded, then slowly began to disperse. A well-wisher approached, joking, "You couldn't get LaGuardia to impose a flyover ban?"

"I thought the planes made it great," responded an organizer from April Is the Coolest Month, which had sponsored the event, with a patient smile. "And he was definitely playing with the planes."

Looking a bit drained, McPhee sat on a low rock wall, accepting congratulations from his guests. "I was so nervous," he said. "I started shaking, and then I got goose bumps. This little tree kept hitting me in the head, and I thought it was a little kid saying 'stop.'"

He stood to put his sax back in its case, then paused. "I love these ambient sounds," he said, gazing off into the woods. "It started with this recording I did. It was so hot, and I heard the birds chirping through the window, and I said, 'Don't close the window! Let's go out there!'"

McPhee looked like he might like to spend the rest of the afternoon in the forest, but it was time to leave -- he had to head downtown to teach a master class in improvisation at the Brecht. His entourage began walking down the path towards the entrance. A late arrival had chalked "McPhee" on the pavement, an arrow pointing up at the trees. "McPhee, your name's all over this park!" someone hollered. The saxophonist chuckled and strolled towards a waiting car.

www.joemcphee.com