music clip of the day

voices I miss

Von Freeman (1923-2012, MCOTD Hall of Fame), “Dig” (J. McLean), live (with Mike Allemana, guitar), Chicago, 2002

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lagniappe

reading table

Von Freeman
By John Koethe (The Swimmer)

I was a rock and roll child. I saw Elvis

Truncated by Ed Sullivan, listened to Fats Domino

Sing “Blueberry Hill” and loved “Sixteen Tons,”

Which was proto-rock and roll. I still love it,

But since you can’t remain a child forever,

I cast my net wider, and thanks to my Japanese

Integrated amp, saxophones wash over me each night.

It started with Paul Desmond, who aspired to sound

“Like a dry martini,” and went on to bring to life

The celebrated and the obscure alike: Spike Robinson,

Whom I heard at the Jazz Estate a few blocks away

In 1992; Frank Morgan, who had Milwaukee ties

And whom I wanted to nominate for an honorary degree,

A scam set up for local businessmen; and Coltrane

Of course, that endless aural rope that curls upon itself

And then uncoils. And it wasn’t simply saxophones: Chet

Baker’s trumpet, plangent and permanent as he fell from

Young and beautiful to wrecked and toothless; and Bill Evans,

Still perfecting “Autumn Leaves” at Top of the Gate,

While downstairs in the streets the ’60s boiled. Von Freeman

Died last week at 88. I hadn’t heard of him until he died,

And now here he is, filling up my room with “Time after Time.”

He believed in roughness, and on leaving imperfections in

So his songs wouldn’t lose their souls, which is how I think of poems.

Philip Larkin loved jazz too—a great poet, though disagreeable—

But I don’t know if many other poets on my radar do. Perhaps they

Think it’s easy, I say to myself as I put on a record of Mal Waldron’s,

To whom Billie Holiday once whispered a song along a keyboard

In the 5 Spot and Frank O’Hara and everyone there stopped breathing.