The first time I became aware of the name Al Jarreau was when receiving a letter (of the old-school variety penned by hand) from a former college roommate exclaiming how thrilled he and his girlfriend had been to attend one of his concerts. Despite my former roommate's enthusiasm, which rarely bubbled over so heatedly for anything other than football and slightly-older women, I did not really understand all the fuss over Jarreau.
Then a couple of years later, in the early 1980s, I got to see the rhythm-bending phenomenon myself in Berkeley, California, on a bill that also featured Carlos Santana and Frankie Beverly and Maze. The world by then had come to know him as the Grammy Award-winning talent behind the albums Look to the Rainbow (1977) and All Fly Home (1978). For my part, I finally got to experience the truth of a statement Jarreau would make many years later:
“I have missed the boat over my career by not doing every second or third CD live, because things happen on stage that don't happen in the studio.” (Al Jarreau Biography.com)
By its accommodating democratic nature, live jazz is often a music of improvisation. And by his brilliant fluid aesthetics, Al Jarreau was able to adapt his vocal vibrations to whatever genre he chose. But he was also, in essence a flesh, blood, and soul embodiment of jazz. It would not be absolutely wrong to describe him as a male Ella Fitzgerald or as a contemporary Cab Calloway, both of Harlem Renaissance fame, rolled into one. It might be more accurate, however, to say he was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of talent.
Among the things to which he alluded that could "happen on stage" was for him to suddenly turn his chest and rib cage into a drum set, transform his clapping hands into tambourines, or absorb an inspiration from the improvisational moment and blast it out of his lungs like a laser cannon lighting up multiple Sonny Rollins solos.
What happened on the stage was the kind of inexplicable enchantment that made music journalists rush to describe the "quintessential jazz musician" who could duplicate the superlative performance of a brilliant quartet, or even an entire orchestra, with just his singular voice and body carved from music. Think of him this way--Al Jarreau did not just perform his music: right before your astonished eyes and heart he brought it to kicking, shouting, dancing, holy cosmic life that left you breathless with wonder.
Forced to Make a Difficult Decision
The horrible dilemma with which I had to deal the night I saw Jarreau at the Berkeley Coliseum was that he had already been onstage for an hour, took a very short break, then came back for an additional set that lasted even longer. Dependent as I was on the Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) subway system to get me back to San Francisco, I could not ignore the fact that it was close to midnight and, according to my schedule, the last train to the city would leave at that time.
Thoroughly immersed in the essential work of channeling raw creative energy into musical genius, the singer himself clearly had no use for clocks or schedules and the band seemed happy to match him song for song. Knowing no one from whom I could beg for a ride if I chose to stay, I forced myself to leave and head for the subway.
Just as I was about to enter the station some blocks away, something incredible caught my attention. It was his voice. Whether due to the unique acoustics of the coliseum or the undiminished intensity of his performance, I could still hear him. It was if the night itself with the surrounding buildings, street lamps, trees, and sweet cool air had become his microphone and speakers. I smiled, then laughed out loud, and then laughed some more while simultaneously trying to sing along with him and hurry down the subway steps.
NEXT: Jarreau Jazz-riff Earth-tunes for the Angel of Compassion: Essay with Poem (part 2)
Bright Skylark Literary Productions
Author-Poet Aberjhani is currently completing a book of nonfiction narratives about race relations, histories of erasure, the cultural arts, and practices of slavery in his hometown of Savannah, Georgia, USA.
Anyone in the habit of keeping journals––as I have been for many years––has probably noticed the advantage they provide when the need arises to confirm specific incidents or meetings from the past. Writers of memoir, biography, and autobiography in particular can appreciate such leverage.
The habit of journaling becomes especially useful when looking back and discovering that you were part of an extraordinary occasion, or associated with an exceptional individual, that you somehow failed to recognize for their greater value. It was only after Time placed within your hands the proper tools of knowledge and perspective that you could recognize the experience for the individual nugget of golden significance that it was. The possibility of claiming such overlooked treasures the first time around is only one reason to consider making it a habit to recognize the innate potential for beauty and worth inherent in all things.
Connections Known, Unknown, & Rediscovered
As wisely as most of us guard against over-sharing on the internet, there are some ways––literally and figuratively––it functions as a supplemental journal of our lives. Celebrities who have seen extremely private photographs suddenly made public can testify to why that is not always a good thing. Researchers who have needed to identify leads to critical hypotheses proposing connections between seemingly unrelated elements can demonstrate why and how it can be.
I had given little thought to either prospect until receiving an inforapid infographic illustrating different facets of my literary connections. Most of what it shows has long been a matter of public record and knowledge. What, however, caught me by surprise were the associations it identified from my time at the New College of California in San Francisco.
Although it is a great honor to see my name beside that of such superb modern talents as the author of The Opening of the Field, Robert Duncan, and Black Mountain Poets founder Robert Creeley, the one name I would have expected to see was not there. That would have been educator and poet Duncan McNaughton, who established the school’s Poetics Program and with whom (as pointed out in my recently-updated literary profile) I actually studied. Yet, ironically, the New College of California poets identified to represent a legitimate substantial line of influence on the evolution of my literary aesthetics.
I say more in the pages of a current book in progress about important lessons learned from McNaughton after making my way to class following eight full hours at work, but for now I will focus on the dynamics of reclaiming contexts and meanings. Since I was only one of many that McNaughton taught at New College, it is unlikely that he would remember me as well as I remember him. Still, while revisiting this period in my life to complete the noted work in progress, I have been greatly inspired to read online about his more recent literary activities and publications.
Seeing someone who served as your mentor decades ago continuing to burn his literary candles at both ends in 2015 has a way of obliterating any excuses you might want to latch onto for not completing challenging work. In this case, I was particularly intrigued when I came across a piece titled “Rewilding Poetry,” by Canadian poet Sharon Thesen, in which she discusses an aspect of McNaughton’s poetics that runs parallel to recent observations of my own:
“What San Francisco poet Duncan McNaughton referred to as ‘sweetness of heart’ strikes me as a possibly interesting move toward a re-wilding that I believe is constantly trying to take place anyway. Sweetness of heart, McNaughton says, is ‘what is really common to our desirous souls, the quality which overcomes all barriers in order to circulate anew the heart’s creative feeling among men and women, who have more than enough reason to despair.’ To radically expand the field of feeling seems an unintended ongoing work of any poetic practice of the wild.” –– (Sharon Thesen, Rewilding Poetry, 2015 Cascadia Poetry Festival)
The term “rewilding poetry” was new to me until I read Thesen’s essay (she actually expresses a preference for the phrase “re-worlding poetry”). However, the essence of the concept is one I began contemplating after the late Ja A. Jahannes edited and published Black Gold: An Anthology of Black Poetry.
Jahannes looked to a strategy of demographic inclusiveness to practice rewilding poetry after noting, like Amiri Baraka before him, the sterility some would impose upon contemporary poetry through an institutionalization characterized by elitist exclusion. Impressive intellects, and sometimes even seductively beautiful minds, may still be found periodically within such superbly-positioned chambers but any “sweetness of heart” tends to be less readily available.
An Exercise in Mindfulness
Contemporary award-winning author of classically-styled works in history, poetry, creative nonfiction, speculative fiction, and journalism.