I knew as soon as I listened to the voice mail my mom left for me.
Usually they last upwards of two minutes, covering all of the points she intended to discuss if I had answered the phone, leaving nothing of substance to talk about when I call back.
This time, though, the message was brief and cryptic: “Nick. Give me a call back when you get this. I have something to tell you.”
My childhood cat, Tom, was dead.
It’s something we had feared/expected for a while. He was frail. You could see his ribcage through the matted fur on his stomach. He had trouble jumping from the floor to the couch and moved like you would expect a 19-year-old cat to move.
I had just seen him because I visited my parents in Arizona for Christmas this year, along with my roommate Matt. I’m glad I got that chance. I spent the morning before my flight saying my final goodbyes, knowing he probably wouldn’t be around the next time I traveled west.
I didn’t want to, but I called my mom back. She picked up the phone and her voice cracked upon “Hello." “The cat?” I asked. Already knowing. “The cat,” she said and broke into tears. Then we sat in silence for a bit before she said she wished she could hug me.
It was harder for her than it was for me. She was the one who lived with Tom. I hadn’t been in the same house with him for more than a vacation stay since college.
The shocking part was that he passed while my parents were in Philadelphia visiting family. The cat-sitter left Tom wrapped in a blanket and wrote a note to my parents about what happened. My guess is the sitter didn’t want to ruin their vacation by calling with the grim news. Still, that got to them. That they weren’t there with him until the end. My mom, especially. But even my dad, who rarely cries. They made preparations immediately for a backyard burial.
As I laid in bed listening to my mom talk about how peaceful he looked, how he went out on his own terms, the memories flooded back. Tom was a gift from my parents to me when I was in kindergarten.
It’s funny how pets are intertwined in our lives. As I started to think about Tom, I didn’t think about his glory days of being able to leap on top of the microwave or running recklessly up the stairs to chase a laser pointer. Which, it seems, is the typical pattern for human deaths. Someone close to us passes away and we remember them for who they were, what they used to be like.
Instead, I found myself remembering my own childhood, not Tom’s.
I remembered my 12th birthday party, the one where we played street hockey until the sun set and then came inside to eat greasy pizza. That day, my friend Pat got scratched pretty bad on the arm by Tom. He never forgave him.
I remembered the Super Bowl when the Eagles lost to the Patriots. All my close friends and my family, including my grandfather (who has been an Eagles season ticket holder for decades) were gathered in my living room to watch the game. Occasionally, Tom would sprint across the floor on his way upstairs. Then back downstairs to eat. He didn’t like big crowds.
I remembered playing wiffle ball in the backyard, which happened to have the perfect dimensions for Home Run Derby (until we outgrew it), and hearing my parents yell from the front door. “Dammit, Tom!” He ran outside again. Sprinting toward momentary freedom before being corralled and returned inside to plot his next escape. I took another swing.
I remembered watching baseball late at night, sprawled out on the couch with Tom by my feet, his head tucked under his paw. Perhaps he was shielding his eyes from another inevitable Phillies loss.
I remembered cleaning his litter box. An early lesson in responsibility (though my parents ended up being far more responsible than I was).
I remembered the day my grandmother died and I came home and petted Tom on the head for a long time. Somehow, he felt what I was feeling, and we both realized it was going to be OK.
I remembered the day I moved to York, Pa. to take my first real job. Tom rubbed against my leg. I sat with him for a long time. I knew he wouldn’t be happy about me leaving. I knew it wouldn’t be easy for me to grow up, nor would it be easy for him to live without me.
I have another cat now. Her name is Hallie and I got her the night Roy Halladay pitched his perfect game.
I know the day will come, just as it did with Tom, when it will be difficult to say goodbye.
As my mom was about to hang up the phone and begin preparing for the funeral, she said something that stuck. “He lived a good, long life,” she said. “He wasn’t perfect. But we loved him.”
If we could all be so lucky.
2.26.2012
12.14.2011
The living map
I often think about this idea of a living map.
It wouldn't exist in reality, only digitally, but it would include a very specific, very interesting (to me, at least) feature: Wherever you've walked, driven, flown, sailed, trained, etc., the map would record the exact path of the trip and place a red footprint or blue tire mark or a green flight path on the page. So ultimately, you'd end up with a sort of heat map of the precise places you've set foot on this earth (as well as the modes of transportation you used to get there).
What fascinates me most about this idea would be seeing the disparity between the marks placed near your home (naturally a high volume of footprints, tire tracks, etc.) compared to somewhere you've only been once -- like that open field you traveled to and played touch football or a random concert hall on the west coast. It could take hours to explore your own map, and, literally, re-trace your footsteps.
There's bound to be one little speck of a spot that's not filled in on your front doorstep. After all the times you've trekked in and out, you might never have stepped on that one spot. Would you make it your mission to step there after seeing the map? Or let it happen naturally? Or consciously avoid it? Would you set target goals for optimum stepping places? Would you take a different flight from Chicago to Los Angeles just to cross over a state in which you've got no representation? Or would you shun the technology altogether?
I'm sure innovators aren't too far off from being able to design such a map. After all, our every move already is being documented by our phones. But for now, maybe I'll just slap some red paint on the bottom of my shoes and see where that gets me.
It wouldn't exist in reality, only digitally, but it would include a very specific, very interesting (to me, at least) feature: Wherever you've walked, driven, flown, sailed, trained, etc., the map would record the exact path of the trip and place a red footprint or blue tire mark or a green flight path on the page. So ultimately, you'd end up with a sort of heat map of the precise places you've set foot on this earth (as well as the modes of transportation you used to get there).
What fascinates me most about this idea would be seeing the disparity between the marks placed near your home (naturally a high volume of footprints, tire tracks, etc.) compared to somewhere you've only been once -- like that open field you traveled to and played touch football or a random concert hall on the west coast. It could take hours to explore your own map, and, literally, re-trace your footsteps.
There's bound to be one little speck of a spot that's not filled in on your front doorstep. After all the times you've trekked in and out, you might never have stepped on that one spot. Would you make it your mission to step there after seeing the map? Or let it happen naturally? Or consciously avoid it? Would you set target goals for optimum stepping places? Would you take a different flight from Chicago to Los Angeles just to cross over a state in which you've got no representation? Or would you shun the technology altogether?
I'm sure innovators aren't too far off from being able to design such a map. After all, our every move already is being documented by our phones. But for now, maybe I'll just slap some red paint on the bottom of my shoes and see where that gets me.
11.29.2011
The Mexican restaurant
The nature of covering high school football is such that you'll almost always work on Thanksgiving or the day after. This year, I was lucky enough to spend the holiday with my friends and family in Philadelphia, but Black Friday led me to Montgomery County for a Maryland state semifinal.
As much as I wanted to stay in Philadelphia and spend more time watching MLB Network with my friend Chris, I used the three-hour drive to the DMV suburbs to clear my mind and bask in the glory of endless Christmas music.
Because I anticipated more traffic from the throngs of shoppers I envisioned clogging the highways, I arrived at the high school an hour and a half before game time. And because the only thing I ate all day were four Take 5 bars my aunt gave me, I was hungry.
The high school concession stand would have been an affordable option, but I don't like to patronize the schools I'm covering. There was a Wendy's and a McDonald's across the street, but in my jaded attempt to eat healthier, I passed. I hoped to discover a smallish place with a counter at the front that wasn't necessarily fast food. Basically, a place that didn't have table service, but that wouldn't send me 3,000 calories in the red.
With time to waste, I drove around the shopping plaza three times before parking in between a jewelry store and an Italian joint that, from the curtains alone, was too pricy for me. I walked along the storefronts attempting to peer in at the setup and maybe catch a whiff of the cuisine. I quickly ruled out Papa John's and a sushi place. It was between Afghan or Mexican. While I've been on quite the kabob kick lately, the interior looked more like a store and less like a restaurant. I settled on Mexican.
Truth be told, I forget the name of the place. All I remember is that when I looked in, I saw a decent amount of tables and chairs and, the key to this grand plan, a counter with a cash register up front. Had I looked closer, I would have noticed that there wasn't a menu hanging overhead. It was a sit-down place after all.
"OK," I thought to myself, "I've eaten out by myself a few times before. It's not so bad." I made my way to the counter, but before I reached the host anxiously waiting to greet me, I caught sight of, well, nothing. Nothing and nobody. Not only would I be dining by myself, I'd be dining alone. I was the only non-staff member in the building.
I approached the counter, at this point realizing it was too late to turn back, and sheepishly asked for a table.
"For one?" asked the 20-something Latino host with black gel-spiked hair.
"Yep," I said. "Just one."
"OK. ... Anywhere you like."
No matter how polite a host or hostess is, there's always a certain twinge in the way they respond to a single person's request for a table. Only one? Really? Are you sure there's nobody else who can join you to eat? Just for 30 minutes?
Once I sat down, the reality of the situation struck me. In the near corner, I spotted a busboy sitting sideways in his chair, neck craned skyward, gawking at the chicas on Telemundo's "12 Corazones." It was hard to avoid watching with him. Despite understanding one eighth of the words, it was my only respite. So help me if Manuela made the wrong choice, the evening would take an even harsher turn for the worse.
I wanted to use the bathroom as soon as I sat down, but feared it'd be rude to run off before my waiter had a chance to come over. Turns out, he wasn't that busy. I'd wait.
My waiter, the same guy who seated me and whose name I never found out, sneaked up behind me -- my back was to the counter -- handed me a menu and took my drink order (water). He soon dashed back with my drink, chips and salsa, then vanished to the unknown world behind my head. The world where he and, presumably, his mother the chef watched all of my actions.
I counted the tables in front of me. 10. I counted the chairs. 34. I played Scrabble on my phone and, once my turn was over, came close to counting the leaves on the plants and the chili pepper lights draped across the top of the front window.
The silence, save for the meringue tones humming from the flat screen, built. I questioned every move that otherwise would have gone unnoticed while dining in a crowded restaurant. A restaurant where there were conversations, clinking silverware, laughter. Should I put my elbows on the table? Does it matter whether you do that when there's a table cloth? Is it rude to text someone instead of read the menu? How much time is too much time to decide? Should I bother putting my napkin on my lap? Would putting my feet up on the chair across from me be taboo?
I can only imagine what questions the owners were asking themselves at that same moment.
Before I had a chance to finished reading every entree option, my waiter appeared and starting naming the specials. Even if I didn't like any of these house specials, I knew that's what I'd be getting. I didn't have the guts to turn down one of his offerings and order something else. He put in the time, the effort, to suggest these dishes for me. At least in a crowded restaurant, the adjacent table might overhear him and make a hasty decision because of it. Not here.
And so it was, the chicken enchiladas with no sour cream or guacamole. At least I stood up for my dislike of liquidy condiments.
The food was delivered before I had a chance to play my next Scrabble word. Quick even for an empty restaurant. I cut into the steaming tortilla and pulled it from the plate, long melting strand of cheese failing to cooperate with my plan to remain as unassuming as possible. I was careful to not make too much noise with the silverware and chewed a soft chew. I made a conscious effort to cut the cheese thoroughly so it wouldn't stick to my chin. Fool me once.
The first bite was satisfying more because the Take 5s had long since taken five than because of the taste, but overall, I enjoyed the meal. In a strange way, it felt home cooked. It felt delivered with special care and attention. I heard the pots and pans clanking around making my dish. There was a human element added to the dining process that doesn't come with eating in a crowded restaurant. When you eat in a group, you discuss your food with everyone. Sometimes share. When you eat alone, you're the only critic.
Upon finishing my plate I sat back, sipped on my water and polished off the last few tortilla chips. The busboy watching Telemundo was gone. I somehow missed his departure. I was ready to pay and head to the game. Problem was, I didn't know whether I paid up front or if the check was brought to me. Having no other customers upon which to base my decision, I pushed away from the table and walked toward the counter. Risky, but (turns out) correct. The host showed me the bill and I then faced another interesting decision when considering the tip. The food wasn't anything special -- though I made a point to say I really enjoyed it multiple times when asked because, honestly, what else would I say in that situation? -- but the service was exclusively mine. The proper amount to tip occupied plenty of my thoughts at the table. Twenty-five percent seemed in order. And really, on a nine-dollar bill, what's the difference?
I grabbed my coat off the back of the chair, walked past the counter and asked, "Is this the way to the restroom?" knowing good-and-well it was based on the restaurant's design. My host kindly said yes and I rushed back, excited to finally relieve myself.
I scurried down what seemed like far too long a hallway given the size of the building and spotted the men's room on my right. Sensing the impending end of this unique experience, I pushed the door but was surprised to be met with resistance. It didn't budge. Not an inch.
Wouldn't you know it? Occupied.
As much as I wanted to stay in Philadelphia and spend more time watching MLB Network with my friend Chris, I used the three-hour drive to the DMV suburbs to clear my mind and bask in the glory of endless Christmas music.
Because I anticipated more traffic from the throngs of shoppers I envisioned clogging the highways, I arrived at the high school an hour and a half before game time. And because the only thing I ate all day were four Take 5 bars my aunt gave me, I was hungry.
The high school concession stand would have been an affordable option, but I don't like to patronize the schools I'm covering. There was a Wendy's and a McDonald's across the street, but in my jaded attempt to eat healthier, I passed. I hoped to discover a smallish place with a counter at the front that wasn't necessarily fast food. Basically, a place that didn't have table service, but that wouldn't send me 3,000 calories in the red.
With time to waste, I drove around the shopping plaza three times before parking in between a jewelry store and an Italian joint that, from the curtains alone, was too pricy for me. I walked along the storefronts attempting to peer in at the setup and maybe catch a whiff of the cuisine. I quickly ruled out Papa John's and a sushi place. It was between Afghan or Mexican. While I've been on quite the kabob kick lately, the interior looked more like a store and less like a restaurant. I settled on Mexican.
Truth be told, I forget the name of the place. All I remember is that when I looked in, I saw a decent amount of tables and chairs and, the key to this grand plan, a counter with a cash register up front. Had I looked closer, I would have noticed that there wasn't a menu hanging overhead. It was a sit-down place after all.
"OK," I thought to myself, "I've eaten out by myself a few times before. It's not so bad." I made my way to the counter, but before I reached the host anxiously waiting to greet me, I caught sight of, well, nothing. Nothing and nobody. Not only would I be dining by myself, I'd be dining alone. I was the only non-staff member in the building.
I approached the counter, at this point realizing it was too late to turn back, and sheepishly asked for a table.
"For one?" asked the 20-something Latino host with black gel-spiked hair.
"Yep," I said. "Just one."
"OK. ... Anywhere you like."
No matter how polite a host or hostess is, there's always a certain twinge in the way they respond to a single person's request for a table. Only one? Really? Are you sure there's nobody else who can join you to eat? Just for 30 minutes?
Once I sat down, the reality of the situation struck me. In the near corner, I spotted a busboy sitting sideways in his chair, neck craned skyward, gawking at the chicas on Telemundo's "12 Corazones." It was hard to avoid watching with him. Despite understanding one eighth of the words, it was my only respite. So help me if Manuela made the wrong choice, the evening would take an even harsher turn for the worse.
I wanted to use the bathroom as soon as I sat down, but feared it'd be rude to run off before my waiter had a chance to come over. Turns out, he wasn't that busy. I'd wait.
My waiter, the same guy who seated me and whose name I never found out, sneaked up behind me -- my back was to the counter -- handed me a menu and took my drink order (water). He soon dashed back with my drink, chips and salsa, then vanished to the unknown world behind my head. The world where he and, presumably, his mother the chef watched all of my actions.
I counted the tables in front of me. 10. I counted the chairs. 34. I played Scrabble on my phone and, once my turn was over, came close to counting the leaves on the plants and the chili pepper lights draped across the top of the front window.
The silence, save for the meringue tones humming from the flat screen, built. I questioned every move that otherwise would have gone unnoticed while dining in a crowded restaurant. A restaurant where there were conversations, clinking silverware, laughter. Should I put my elbows on the table? Does it matter whether you do that when there's a table cloth? Is it rude to text someone instead of read the menu? How much time is too much time to decide? Should I bother putting my napkin on my lap? Would putting my feet up on the chair across from me be taboo?
I can only imagine what questions the owners were asking themselves at that same moment.
Before I had a chance to finished reading every entree option, my waiter appeared and starting naming the specials. Even if I didn't like any of these house specials, I knew that's what I'd be getting. I didn't have the guts to turn down one of his offerings and order something else. He put in the time, the effort, to suggest these dishes for me. At least in a crowded restaurant, the adjacent table might overhear him and make a hasty decision because of it. Not here.
And so it was, the chicken enchiladas with no sour cream or guacamole. At least I stood up for my dislike of liquidy condiments.
The food was delivered before I had a chance to play my next Scrabble word. Quick even for an empty restaurant. I cut into the steaming tortilla and pulled it from the plate, long melting strand of cheese failing to cooperate with my plan to remain as unassuming as possible. I was careful to not make too much noise with the silverware and chewed a soft chew. I made a conscious effort to cut the cheese thoroughly so it wouldn't stick to my chin. Fool me once.
The first bite was satisfying more because the Take 5s had long since taken five than because of the taste, but overall, I enjoyed the meal. In a strange way, it felt home cooked. It felt delivered with special care and attention. I heard the pots and pans clanking around making my dish. There was a human element added to the dining process that doesn't come with eating in a crowded restaurant. When you eat in a group, you discuss your food with everyone. Sometimes share. When you eat alone, you're the only critic.
Upon finishing my plate I sat back, sipped on my water and polished off the last few tortilla chips. The busboy watching Telemundo was gone. I somehow missed his departure. I was ready to pay and head to the game. Problem was, I didn't know whether I paid up front or if the check was brought to me. Having no other customers upon which to base my decision, I pushed away from the table and walked toward the counter. Risky, but (turns out) correct. The host showed me the bill and I then faced another interesting decision when considering the tip. The food wasn't anything special -- though I made a point to say I really enjoyed it multiple times when asked because, honestly, what else would I say in that situation? -- but the service was exclusively mine. The proper amount to tip occupied plenty of my thoughts at the table. Twenty-five percent seemed in order. And really, on a nine-dollar bill, what's the difference?
I grabbed my coat off the back of the chair, walked past the counter and asked, "Is this the way to the restroom?" knowing good-and-well it was based on the restaurant's design. My host kindly said yes and I rushed back, excited to finally relieve myself.
I scurried down what seemed like far too long a hallway given the size of the building and spotted the men's room on my right. Sensing the impending end of this unique experience, I pushed the door but was surprised to be met with resistance. It didn't budge. Not an inch.
Wouldn't you know it? Occupied.
11.17.2011
Victor Wooten
Given the amount of music I listen to and the amount of music I used to play, I haven't been to that many concerts. I guess my internal clock for when the top baseball teams are coming to town is far better synchronized than my similar clock pertaining to musicians.
Luckily, my roommate Matt has a knack for knowing when the good shows roll East/he has emails sent to him by a data congregation service, so I've started attending more performances in the past year. Mainly Bela Fleck and the Flecktones.
The Flecktones' bass player is Victor Wooten. Since May, I've seen Wooten live three times -- twice with the Flecktones and once with his own group. I walked away from all three of those concerts awestruck, firmly believing that I just witnessed the finest musical talent I ever had and, potentially, ever will.
While mentally drafting this post, I focused on the feeling or object to which I could compare Wooten. Writers love similes, and it seemed only natural that someone with Wooten's level of skill and ability deserved a good one. But brainstorm after brainstorm fell short. I was left only with the image of Wooten's fingers gliding across the fret, his other hand effortlessly plucking the heavy strings. It was at that point where I stopped trying to compare. Instead, Wooten, for me, had set a new standard -- "This certain thing is as beautiful as Victor Wooten's bass playing."
One of the concerts I attended was at Wolf Trap, an outdoor venue in the D.C. suburbs. During that concert, where the night sky was illuminated by thousands of distant stars, the Flecktones played a song called "Big Country."*
*This particular song is Matt's favorite. I've heard it upwards of 75 times since moving in with him in February. Matt, a man who claims to have Life's Playlist -- music for any moment, emotion or situation -- often forgoes variation for familiarity. In turn, that makes Big Country the apartment's go-to song for any moment where we're searching for some extra inspiration, joy or serenity.
The band started playing and I closed my eyes. I laid back on the sprawling lawn and tried as best I could to empty my brain -- which usually is a difficult task, especially given the random clamor of people packed like sardines surrounding me. That night, though, it proved remarkable easy. About two minutes into the piece, Wooten played a brief eight-bar solo. The low soothing tones he created had none of the so-often-heard metallic clang of the bass. The melody was warm and constant. Soon the only notes that existed in my mind were those from Wooten's fingers. His sound was a forceful boom, loud enough to shake my organs, but not so boisterous as to annoy me. It was like the music evaporated through my skin, not just through my ears. I imagined Wooten's notes traveling well beyond the reach of the amplifier stacks, beyond Virginia, beyond everything, to a place where they could join some of nature's other mystifying elements. The passage was that powerful.
Since that concert I've spent a lot of my time scouring YouTube, watching videos of Wooten play. And what stands out most to me isn't necessarily his remarkable technical ability (though that, in its own right, is amazing and clearly places him among the top five bass players of alltime). It's his emotion. The video below provides a good example:
After the brief interview at the beginning of the video, Wooten starts playing a piece from his album Show of Hands called "U Can't Hold No Groove... [if you ain't got no pocket]."*
*In music, playing "in the pocket" is generally accepted as the tightest form of performing. It's the period when the band members are most in sync. The pocket is created by the rhythm instruments (bass, drums, piano), so naturally, Wooten's pockets are extraordinarily deep.
When the interviewers leave the picture, Wooten's still smiling and laughing from their conversation. He dips his head as he laughs, the camera zooms in on the bass and Wooten beings playing. It's when the camera refocuses on Wooten's face (around 0:52) that struck me. His demeanor shifts in a remarkable way. His expression is such that he's no longer in the shallow world of interview pleasantries or corny jokes. He has inserted himself into his own realm, where the music and Wooten are one, his fingers dancing, moving in their own version of time and space. Forget his smile and his head-nodding. Plenty of artists do that well, and it almost always conveys a deeper connection with the music. What I couldn't stop looking at were his eyes. The instant he plucks those strings, his eyelids lower, and he slips into a trance. His gaze, for the most part, remains locked on his left hand. He looks into a lover's eyes. He stands awestruck by a moving piece of art (which, in this case, happens to be of his own creation). Hell, even his breathing appears to be in time with the groove. With that stare, he's not looking at his frets and wondering where to place his hand, he's simply lost in the moment. Seconds before that, he answered questions on camera. It's that instant ability to transform that makes Wooten so appealing to me. Makes him so unique. So magical.
In an interview for the website JazzTimes, Wooten said this:
As I left the most recent Flecktones concert, which was, sadly, a bit disappointing, I thought about Wooten and how I longed for another moment like the one I experienced at Wolf Trap. It seems, however, that for those experiences -- the most-meaningful-when-you-least-expect-it sort of things -- they can't be forced. They can't be recreated. Nor can they be manufactured. They're, simply, remembered.
Which is why, I guess, no matter where you are or what you're doing, sometimes you've just gotta sit back, close your eyes and listen.
Luckily, my roommate Matt has a knack for knowing when the good shows roll East/he has emails sent to him by a data congregation service, so I've started attending more performances in the past year. Mainly Bela Fleck and the Flecktones.
The Flecktones' bass player is Victor Wooten. Since May, I've seen Wooten live three times -- twice with the Flecktones and once with his own group. I walked away from all three of those concerts awestruck, firmly believing that I just witnessed the finest musical talent I ever had and, potentially, ever will.
While mentally drafting this post, I focused on the feeling or object to which I could compare Wooten. Writers love similes, and it seemed only natural that someone with Wooten's level of skill and ability deserved a good one. But brainstorm after brainstorm fell short. I was left only with the image of Wooten's fingers gliding across the fret, his other hand effortlessly plucking the heavy strings. It was at that point where I stopped trying to compare. Instead, Wooten, for me, had set a new standard -- "This certain thing is as beautiful as Victor Wooten's bass playing."
One of the concerts I attended was at Wolf Trap, an outdoor venue in the D.C. suburbs. During that concert, where the night sky was illuminated by thousands of distant stars, the Flecktones played a song called "Big Country."*
*This particular song is Matt's favorite. I've heard it upwards of 75 times since moving in with him in February. Matt, a man who claims to have Life's Playlist -- music for any moment, emotion or situation -- often forgoes variation for familiarity. In turn, that makes Big Country the apartment's go-to song for any moment where we're searching for some extra inspiration, joy or serenity.
The band started playing and I closed my eyes. I laid back on the sprawling lawn and tried as best I could to empty my brain -- which usually is a difficult task, especially given the random clamor of people packed like sardines surrounding me. That night, though, it proved remarkable easy. About two minutes into the piece, Wooten played a brief eight-bar solo. The low soothing tones he created had none of the so-often-heard metallic clang of the bass. The melody was warm and constant. Soon the only notes that existed in my mind were those from Wooten's fingers. His sound was a forceful boom, loud enough to shake my organs, but not so boisterous as to annoy me. It was like the music evaporated through my skin, not just through my ears. I imagined Wooten's notes traveling well beyond the reach of the amplifier stacks, beyond Virginia, beyond everything, to a place where they could join some of nature's other mystifying elements. The passage was that powerful.
Since that concert I've spent a lot of my time scouring YouTube, watching videos of Wooten play. And what stands out most to me isn't necessarily his remarkable technical ability (though that, in its own right, is amazing and clearly places him among the top five bass players of alltime). It's his emotion. The video below provides a good example:
After the brief interview at the beginning of the video, Wooten starts playing a piece from his album Show of Hands called "U Can't Hold No Groove... [if you ain't got no pocket]."*
*In music, playing "in the pocket" is generally accepted as the tightest form of performing. It's the period when the band members are most in sync. The pocket is created by the rhythm instruments (bass, drums, piano), so naturally, Wooten's pockets are extraordinarily deep.
When the interviewers leave the picture, Wooten's still smiling and laughing from their conversation. He dips his head as he laughs, the camera zooms in on the bass and Wooten beings playing. It's when the camera refocuses on Wooten's face (around 0:52) that struck me. His demeanor shifts in a remarkable way. His expression is such that he's no longer in the shallow world of interview pleasantries or corny jokes. He has inserted himself into his own realm, where the music and Wooten are one, his fingers dancing, moving in their own version of time and space. Forget his smile and his head-nodding. Plenty of artists do that well, and it almost always conveys a deeper connection with the music. What I couldn't stop looking at were his eyes. The instant he plucks those strings, his eyelids lower, and he slips into a trance. His gaze, for the most part, remains locked on his left hand. He looks into a lover's eyes. He stands awestruck by a moving piece of art (which, in this case, happens to be of his own creation). Hell, even his breathing appears to be in time with the groove. With that stare, he's not looking at his frets and wondering where to place his hand, he's simply lost in the moment. Seconds before that, he answered questions on camera. It's that instant ability to transform that makes Wooten so appealing to me. Makes him so unique. So magical.
In an interview for the website JazzTimes, Wooten said this:
"I’m not really doing my music for the crowd. I’m doing the music I want to do, and I’ll allow the crowd to think whatever they want to think about it. If they love it, great, if they hate it, great. That’s their choice. The way I can be the most truthful is by being me. If I’m just trying to please the public, then I might not be truthful to myself. For me, the way I’m going to produce the best music is to be really truthful to who I am, and then allow the public to believe or say whatever they want about the music."Matt and I often discuss the surreal nature of Wooten's style and I remember he once told me, "He is the bass. It's a part of him." Seems easy to be truthful to your being if you are the instrument itself...
As I left the most recent Flecktones concert, which was, sadly, a bit disappointing, I thought about Wooten and how I longed for another moment like the one I experienced at Wolf Trap. It seems, however, that for those experiences -- the most-meaningful-when-you-least-expect-it sort of things -- they can't be forced. They can't be recreated. Nor can they be manufactured. They're, simply, remembered.
Which is why, I guess, no matter where you are or what you're doing, sometimes you've just gotta sit back, close your eyes and listen.
11.13.2011
In search of Joe
I was sitting in the passenger seat of my friend Andrew's car on a particularly lengthy drive home from work when we began (as so often seems the case) to talk about writing.
I forget how exactly, but we arrived at a point in the conversation when I mentioned one of my favorite writers, Joe Posnanski. I told Andrew about his wildly-popular blog where the ever-cruel world of internet commenters seem never to have a bad thing to say about what Mr. Posnanski writes. I told Andrew that I feel as if I've known Mr. Posnanski for years by reading tales of his daughter's first rec league basketball game or his hatred of the intentional walk. I told Andrew that I aspire to reach his level. Not necessarily to work for Sports Illustrated -- because that's an astronomical longshot -- but to have someone read my writing and feel at ease. Feel as though their day is richer for having taken the time to read. Feel as though they need to tell someone about this writing, as I have done on multiple occasions with Mr. Posnanski.
Then, Andrew hit me with (as any good journalist does, I suppose) a question I had trouble answering.
"What makes you like his writing so much?"
I ran through the tired text-book responses. I liked his sentence structure. I enjoyed his narrative arc. It's neat how he has the ability to make me interested in any topic. The words he uses are seemingly always perfect.
I didn't feel I had offered up the best reasons for my loving his work, but I certainly wasn't prepared for what Andrew said next.
"That's not going to get you anywhere. You need to find out how and why he makes you feel the way you do. Why, exactly, do you keep coming back to read his stuff? Why do you feel like you've known him your whole life?"
I suppose that if all of us could figure that out, what Joe Posnanski does wouldn't be nearly as special or, in a way, sacred to me. That said, I think one of the main missions of this newly-renewed blog -- you don't want to know how many 'The Phillies are terrible/The Phillies are awesome' posts I had to delete -- will be to discover the answer to Andrew's deeper and poignant questions. Why is it that we enjoy anything we read, and what makes us keep coming back for more?
Along the way, I'll use this as an outlet for writing about life and to tell stories. Not always the easiest task, but one I'd like to at least attempt.
So it's without many more words (or else this really would become like a Posnanski post) that I restart this blog and begin a new journey that has no end in sight.
I forget how exactly, but we arrived at a point in the conversation when I mentioned one of my favorite writers, Joe Posnanski. I told Andrew about his wildly-popular blog where the ever-cruel world of internet commenters seem never to have a bad thing to say about what Mr. Posnanski writes. I told Andrew that I feel as if I've known Mr. Posnanski for years by reading tales of his daughter's first rec league basketball game or his hatred of the intentional walk. I told Andrew that I aspire to reach his level. Not necessarily to work for Sports Illustrated -- because that's an astronomical longshot -- but to have someone read my writing and feel at ease. Feel as though their day is richer for having taken the time to read. Feel as though they need to tell someone about this writing, as I have done on multiple occasions with Mr. Posnanski.
Then, Andrew hit me with (as any good journalist does, I suppose) a question I had trouble answering.
"What makes you like his writing so much?"
I ran through the tired text-book responses. I liked his sentence structure. I enjoyed his narrative arc. It's neat how he has the ability to make me interested in any topic. The words he uses are seemingly always perfect.
I didn't feel I had offered up the best reasons for my loving his work, but I certainly wasn't prepared for what Andrew said next.
"That's not going to get you anywhere. You need to find out how and why he makes you feel the way you do. Why, exactly, do you keep coming back to read his stuff? Why do you feel like you've known him your whole life?"
I suppose that if all of us could figure that out, what Joe Posnanski does wouldn't be nearly as special or, in a way, sacred to me. That said, I think one of the main missions of this newly-renewed blog -- you don't want to know how many 'The Phillies are terrible/The Phillies are awesome' posts I had to delete -- will be to discover the answer to Andrew's deeper and poignant questions. Why is it that we enjoy anything we read, and what makes us keep coming back for more?
Along the way, I'll use this as an outlet for writing about life and to tell stories. Not always the easiest task, but one I'd like to at least attempt.
So it's without many more words (or else this really would become like a Posnanski post) that I restart this blog and begin a new journey that has no end in sight.
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