BeBop Vertigo

In my last blog (the one about "other horns") I mentioned the legendary flugelhornist Johnny Coles. I actually had the honor of playing with Johnny Coles once. Mentioning his name got me thinking about that gig and about a phenomenon that I call "BeBop Vertigo."

Before I proceed, I should qualify this business about playing with Johnny Coles. I am by no means in the same league with Johnny Coles. It was simply one of those things where I was in the right place at the right time and I got to play with a true world-class musician. There have been a few such instances in my life. For me, such occasions are always exciting and scary at the same time.

The gig took place in the mid-80s at this hotel lounge in Santa Cruz, CA. The leader of the band, Bob, was this rich old guitar player who put together a band as a kind of retirement hobby. He was an ok musician. But his angle was to get a bunch of young, talented (and naive) guys to play for peanuts, then he'd use his business shtick to drum up a bunch of gigs. I have no idea what Bob himself got paid.

Bob was also connected with a lot of the local entertainment folk. One of his connections was Johnny Coles' wife, who did a radio show. He managed to talk her into having Johnny come and sit in with us. That's how the gig happened.

I don't remember the tune that was called, but it was one of those balls-out, 300 beats per minute, tunes from hell, like Just Friends or Cherokee. 1, 2...1-2-3-4, and we were off.

There were a couple of very good musicians in the rhythm section with me: Kenny Wollesen on drums and John Dryden on piano. (Bob opted to sit out.) Both of these guys have since gone on to become career players. At the time Kenny and John were both in high school, but they were still way better players than me, who was in my mid-20s.

Before Coles even got to the second chorus, the experimentation began. John was going off, throwing in substitutions for every other chord change. Kenny was spanking out polyrhythmic shit all over the place, three over four, seven over four, bridging over downbeats. And over it all, there was this incredible be-bop trumpet solo ripping away ...it was wild.

In the meantime, I was hanging on for dear life. For a while, I thought I knew where we were, but it wasn't long before I was adrift in the form. It was like going on some modern amusement park ride and all your buddies are enjoying the hell out themselves and you feel like you're going to puke. Everyone was beaming, just having a gas, while I had a look of terror on my face. "Oh my God, I have no idea where we are. I have no idea where one is."

A friend of mine who had done ski patrol duty described being in a snowstorm as not being able to discern the sky from the ground. That's how I felt musically. I knew what key we were in, and I knew where the pulse was (I think I knew my own name) but that was about it.

Finally, I let go and gave myself over to the vertigo. I played what notes I wanted. I listened to what the others were doing and tried to answer harmonically and rhythmically, but it was all done without roadmap. I was spinning into a psychedelic mandala of sound.

Finally, John did something on the piano that brought me back in. Suddenly, I knew where we were. RELIEF! I was saved. A few bars later, Coles started playing the head again.

Afterward, the legendary horn player turned around, beamed at me, and said. "Far out, man! That was far out."

Little did he know how right he was.

Steve Ackley
Let's Play Jazz