In late January my wife and I were
summoned to the Homeland to await the arrival of our seventh
grandchild. Our function was to help feed, clothe and transport the
pre-existing grandsons, Benjamin 6, and William 4, during the
difficult period of adjustment to the arrival of a new competitor for
the family's attention.
Given the ever more truculent attitudes
of the Department of Homeland Security and its sister agencies, we
weren't thrilled by the prospects of the trip. However, to be fair,
most of the inconveniences we experienced were administered by the
private sector, i.e. the airlines, and the airline manufacturers, but
I'll save those details for another time. If you travel much these
days, you already know that story.
By a strange twist of fate, our
daughter Francesca and her husband Jim live in Glen Rock, New Jersey,
the same little suburban town that I grew up in. They went out of
their way to make us comfortable, even giving up their master bedroom
for six weeks so that we could have more quiet and privacy. We
certainly ate well and if my lack of exercise got me a bit out of
shape, that was my own doing. We were greeted by lots of snow on the
ground and a great deal more fell over the next couple of weeks.
Temperatures remained mostly between 10 and 25°F so the snow never
went away; it just turned into a brittle crust with rock hard mounds
of ice where the snow had been plowed along the edges of the roads.
I prefer to use metric units but these are temperatures I can't
relate to in Celsius because we just don't experience them. We didn't
get out much in these conditions but besides being a visit to our
young family, this trip was a nostalgic and possibly ultimate return
to my hometown. I enjoyed wandering around those old familiar
streets. Toward the end, my brother came up from NC for a few days,
until seeing us off at the airport, and we had a very pleasant visit
with the Crolands, our parents' next door neighbors from forty years
ago. Ironically, they had just visited Umbria, not far from us.
They still live next to “my” old house. We also got to see my
cousin Bev, up from Florida with her daughter Linda to clear out her
mother's house. Aunt Ruth died a few weeks before our arrival, just
a week short of her 104th birthday and only a few months
after the demise of our stepmother, just short of her 99th
birthday. Most people in Glen Rock go to Florida when the children
leave but the ones who remain seem to thrive.
the six week norm |
Our wonderful daughter Francesca has a
few quirks. How could she be our daughter otherwise? We adapted
easily to the idea of not wearing shoes in the house. It's not like
Umbria, where we're in and out of the house all the time and doors
and windows are open as much as they're closed. Alternating slippers
with boots works just fine in the New Jersey winter. The idea of
absolute silence in the house, except for child generated sounds, was
a little more difficult to adjust to. Once I resorted to my ipod to
get a little refreshing jolt of music but when told that the music
leaking out of my earplugs was audible, I gave up further attempts.
I alleviated my radio withdrawal symptoms by staying in the car a
little longer after my school and shopping runs, and new hearing aids
allowed me to hear the occasional TV feature at a volume acceptable
to everyone else. At the other end of the aural spectrum, I warned
the boys that they might never be able to to get a job as a spy for
the CIA or NSA (the only sources of job growth on the horizon) if
they couldn't learn to move around without anyone hearing them. For
a moment it worked as Benjamin showed that he could tiptoe as quietly
as a mouse. They do learn well, and their mother teaches them well.
Both boys are not only bilingual but they have the skill and sense of
humor enough to mimic and ridicule Americans saying spagèdy for
spaghetti. When his grandmother suggested to Benjamin that some of
his preferred foods were not the best, he replied “but Nonna, de
gustibus non disputandus est”. Another time, hearing something
described as “awesome”, his little brother Willie calmly said
“but that word is overused”. Good boys!
Francesca also went on a fanatical
cleaning spree in the two days before the birth of the baby, but I'm
told that's perfectly normal. He was born more or less on schedule.
My wife and I have always wanted a Tiberio. Our three children were
all girls but decades later we pleaded in vain with them all for one
of our grandchildren to be named Tiberio. Alas, the new baby is
Alexander Tiberius! That was an even kinder and more generous
gesture by Jim and Francesca than giving up their bedroom. The baby
will hereafter be known by three names: (maybe four after he gets to
school) He'll be Alexander to his father, Alessandro to his mother,
and Tiberio to his grandfather. To resist the depredations of his
lively siblings, who see him as a new toy, he'll need some of the
qualities of his famous namesake, a victorious Roman general, who
later became emperor following the early deaths of Augustus Caesar's
intended successors, and then had the good sense to leave the power
struggles of Rome to settle in Capri, where he reigned until his
death at 77.
Pamachapura |
The rock which gave Glen Rock its name
still sits in the glen, although it was called “Pamachapura” or
“stone from heaven” by the local Lenape tribes long before white
flight from Paterson and Brooklyn established Glen Rock as a suburban
community a century ago. The other rock of stability in town is the
Glen Rock Inn, not really an inn but a restaurant and bar. It's
almost as old as I am and as a kid I remember going there for their
sliced steak sandwiches. The menu has been embellished but they
still serve them. The Quinn family is doing a fine job of keeping
tradition alive. They even have an occasional jazz concert, a clear
upgrade from the old days. Our second meal back in the US was a
Sunday brunch there. Several weeks into our visit, when the sidewalks
had been cleared sufficiently for me to brave the typical 20°F
temperatures for the mile walk past the rock into midtown, upon
entering, I was greeted by a lovely young woman behind the bar who
introduced herself as Kimberly. Beyond serving the beer she helped
me select, Kimberly saw to it that the closest of the many TVs was
turned to an event I was interested in watching, and later brought
out very good complimentary pizza to make my drinking experience more
rewarding. Soon I was engaged in conversation with Pat Quinn, one of
the senior members of the Quinn family. After I mentioned that I
live in Italy, Pat revealed that while the Quinn side of the family
is Irish, the maternal side is Italian, with Ligurian roots.
Irish/Italian! What better combination could you ask for to run a
drinking/eating institution?
The back room, mostly devoted to family
dining, has several murals on the walls depicting local scenes. One
is of the rock, which hasn't changed much over the past century.
Another is of the Municipal Building, which sadly, hasn't fared as
well as the rock. The surge in population from the 7000 of my youth
to the current 11,000 necessitated a vast expansion of the police and
fire department facilities. Funds were found for the construction
but apparently not for design. The only other imaginable explanation
for its appearance is that Glen Rock wanted to symbolically reflect
the status of the US as the world's leading incarcerator of its own
citizens.
The Municipal Building |
Ackerman & Maple Avenues |
Elsewhere in town I noted that despite
Glen Rock being a pocket of affluence in the richest per capita state
in the union (although some claim that it's second to Connecticut),
its main streets, such as Maple Avenue, now sport monster phone poles
to carry all the new telecommunications stuff. If Glen Rock can't
bury its utility lines, who in the world can? The intersection of
Maple and Ackerman Avenues, shown in the photo above, is where many years
ago, when we were in the sixth grade, my old friend Bobby Alther and
I donned our white shoulder stripes four times a day and served as
crossing guards. We couldn't stop traffic but just made sure that
the little kids crossed only when the traffic light was green. The
present day crossing guards are roughly my age. I don't know if they're
volunteers or are paid. Of course, we were volunteers, but I suppose
that our not being paid would constitute child exploitation today, or
worse, taking jobs away from old people in need. More importantly,
there really is no need for crossing guards now. The kids are are
driven to and from school.
Learning to drive the family school bus
did take a bit of time. There's nothing to the actual driving, but
to avoid confusion, I made a little chart of all the controls for
opening windows and doors, locking mechanisms, HVAC and sound
systems, about thirty in all. The front seat alone has four beverage
holders, possibly useful for mobile wine tastings. Sequence is
important. Neither windows nor doors can be opened until the
transmission is put into park and an unlock button is pushed prior to
the doors being opened. Nevertheless, despite all the fail/safe
procedures I was startled on several occasions by my young charges
reminding me with a tone of
mild rebuke that I'd driven off without
closing the big rear doors. These ubiquitous vehicles are officially
called mini-vans, although as a former owner of a European Mini, the
significance of “mini” is lost on me. They are useful however,
given today's requirements for children's car seats. We did see one
man in the neighborhood, a former Marine and throwback to an earliertime, who actually walked his kids to school.
child pick-up/delivery at Byrd School |
We met several old friends from New
York who braved the traffic to come out to the Glen Rock Inn, and we
talked to many, many more on the phone but sadly, we missed seeing
most of the people we'd hoped to see. We'll await their visits to
Italy. I did manage to spend one pleasant afternoon at Minerva's
drawing studio in Soho and on the way back stopped to see the
restaurant of the son of the Widmanns, our Umbrian neighbors. Their
son, Sebastian, wasn't there and among my other organizational
failings, I never managed to get together with friends for a meal
there, although the place is appealing and seems to be staffed by
young Italians. If you happen to be in New York, try it, Malaparte
on Washington St and Bethune in the West Village.
Since the Constitution was rescinded,
my enthusiasm for life in the United States has waned but my two
great American passions, football and jazz, remain. I'll get to
football in a future post on bread and circuses. The motive for this
trip was simply grandchildren, but jazz did furnish a secondary
theme.
I've known Bruce Lundvall since I was
about 14 years old. He hung out with my friend, Don Dewar who lived
just across the street. They were both a year older so I wasn't
among their tight circle of friends. Despite a few ill-considered
trips with my own high school classmates to hear the likes of Henry
Red Allen and Peanuts Hucko and drink too much beer at the Central
Plaza, my enthusiasm for jazz didn't really take off until we were
all away in college, so I didn't realize what an obsessive jazz nut
Bruce was until I ran into him a few times at jazz clubs in New York,
and even once in Stuttgart after a 1959 JATP concert. I kept up with
Bruce's progress through Don (as well as reading LP liner notes) and
when I returned to NY in 1997 to work for a few years, I was
determined to reconnect with him. It turns out we worked in the same
building. Bruce's passion for music had served him well. He had
risen to become president of Columbia Records, then founder and
president of the Electra Musician label, and finally in 1984, was
brought in to preside over the resurrection of the legendary Blue
Note label as its president. He spent his career working with people
I thought of as gods.
Shortly before our arrival, Bruce's
biography, Bruce Lundvall, Playing By Ear, came out.
Fast delivery of merchandise is one other good thing about the US so
I got a copy and arranged to visit Bruce. I failed to coordinate
that with his wife Kay so when I got there, cleaning ladies were
cleaning and Bruce was about to be whisked away for a doctor visit.
Bruce has some health problems and gets around in a wheelchair these
days. We just had time to exchange a few words and for him to sign
my book but it was good to see him again, however briefly. The book
is a fascinating study of the musicians Bruce worked with and the
Byzantine workings of the music business.
A few days later I went to New York for
some jazz. The PATH station at the World Trade Center was closed for
the weekend to allow construction so I missed my chance to see what
had become of the area where I had worked until September 11th
2001. Having plenty of time, I stopped at another old haunt, the
White Horse Tavern, just around the corner from where I once lived on
West 11Th Street. The White Horse hasn't changed much
since Dylan Thomas drank himself to death there but it's now
surrounded by boutique bars filled with yuppies drinking exotic,
overpriced cocktails. I decided to walk uptown, taking the
opportunity to walk the length of the Highline, the new park created
on the abandoned, elevated railway line running up the west side
through Chelsea. It's scenic and pleasant, an interesting idea well
executed.
Dizzy's |
Around New Years I spoke with
vibraphonist Joe Locke in Orvieto where he was playing at Umbria Jazz
Winter. When I mentioned that I'd be in the New York area soon, he
said he'd be playing at Dizzy's Club Coca Cola and I could
come as his guest. I took him at his word. He was playing for three
nights with the Dexter Gordon Legacy Band, organized by pianist
George Cables, who played with Dexter during his return to the US
from Europe in the 80's. Dizzy's Club is a splendid jazz room in the
sleek Time Warner Center on Columbus Circle, spacious but not too
big, with the musicians performing in front of a two story glass wall
overlooking Central Park. The staff is pleasant and efficient and
the patrons friendly and appreciative. Doors open 90 minutes before
the first set so there's time to eat and drink before the music
starts. Maxine Gordon, who had been Dexter's wife and agent, was in
the audience, as were Angela Davis and the French director or
producer of Round Midnight, the film for which Dexter won an Oscar
nomination as best actor. The music was wonderful, with Joe Locke as
brilliant as ever in a context a bit different from his own groups.
Jimmy Heath appeared for that one night as guest artist. Among the
tunes they played was Ginger Bread Boy, which I'd
forgotten was one
of his many great compositions, since I mostly associate it with the
Miles Davis rendition. After the set I spoke briefly with Joe Locke
who told me that Bruce had been in the Club a couple of nights
before. That surprised me at first but it shouldn't have. Dexter
Gordon was probably the musician that Bruce had been closest to. I
shared the ride back to NJ with a trainful of sad-faced NY Rangers
fans. The conductor and I were the only ones on the train not
wearing Rangers shirts. I've always been a Rangers fan myself but it
just heightened my sense of pleasure that I was coming from Dizzy's
and not the Garden on this particular night.
Jimmy Heath & George Cables |
The third round of my jazz adventures
came on a visit to my radio station in Newark, WBGO. I say my
station because it's a Public Radio Station and I've been a member
for years. WBGO, while operating in Newark, is effectively the
24 hour jazz station for the New York metropolitan area, and through
its webcasting, the entire world. I got to the station just after
10:00 AM and Gary Walker, who had just finished his stint on the air,
was walking out the door. I stopped him and told him that while he
didn't know me, I felt like he was one of my best friends since I've
listened to him nearly every day for many years. We had a nice talk.
I had a longer talk with Dorthaan Kirk, who does know me. She's in
charge of various community events at the station, including the
exhibits in the station's art gallery. I'd talked to her ten years
ago about having a show there but before it could happen, I was back
in Italy. The current show is by an artist from LA named Ramsess.
He works in various media but his ink drawings of musicians are
particularly beautiful. I believe Dorthaan has been at the station
since its start thirty-five years ago. Besides her work there, she
organizes concerts at Dorthaan's Place in the NJPAC down the street,
and other monthly concerts at her church. She's the widow of Rahsaan
Roland Kirk and was about to leave for Austin, Texas where a
documentary film on Rahsaan, The Case of the Three-Sided Dream
was going to have its premier at the SXSW festival. It will then go
to various major cities. It may be difficult to find in Umbria, but
one way or another I will get to see that film.
WBGO runs a Kids Jazz Spring
Concert Series in various venues in Newark.
They're free for whoever brings a kid. Joe Locke will appear with
his quartet, Force of Four, at one of these concerts on
Saturday April 12 at 12:30 (be there at 12:00!) in the Victoria
Theater at NJPAC. I've always been grateful that I've had the
opportunity to hear nearly all of the jazz greats of the second half
of the twentieth century. Most of them are no longer with us.
Fortunately, we do have many great musicians in the twenty-first
century. Joe Locke is one of them. If you're in the area, take your
kid to this concert. S/he'll always be able to look back and say “I
saw Joe Locke perform in 2014”.