Seventeen. Borrowed loafers, tie too long. Shirt, hanging from his wiry frame, mustache trimmed, mouth wide. Counting, as he was taught. Pack up all my care and woe—. To the beat. It’s not one two three four, but one two-and-three four-and-one. Don’t think, listen, and become part of it. Transcend what you think, or know, or understand—it’s feeling, bodies intersecting, harmonizing, co-working. Sine, cosine.
Quietly, tapping, 5Ds rattling to the beat of his stepping. Left, right, left, right. Chick, chick, chick, chick. A chilling touch makes contact, like a scream in the theater. Butterflies take flight into space, an air only imagined, put into existence by our minds.
Smoke. Lights in the dark. Sickness, ad nauseam, just a state of mind. Get rid of it, throw it, dump it. Meditate. Pray, to your god, my god. Then releasing, like a fountain splashing an aura of melodies, harmonies, tones all around. Here I-go-Sing-ing-low—. What was it? One two? One two? Two one? Listen. Feel it.
Can he really play? Played with Sam. Jackie too. He a junkie? Too young to be. The lights flicker on, glistening off the gold, the silver, the brass, the lacquer, soaked up by the strands of off-white, the circular coats of dull white. Fmaj7. F6. Gm7. Fmaj7. Lay off the snare, switch to brushes. Semi-circles, swish, two, swish, four. Right, left, right, left. Hi-hat on two, swish, four. Bye, bye, bl-ack-bird.
Don’t listen to them. Pa-ra, pa-ra, pa-ra, did-dle. Waiter, vodka tonic here. One for the drummer boy too. You gotta keep it laid back. You know what they call it now? They call it the coooool. You hear that? Listen. Where somebody waits for me—. Do a little something like this. Swish—ta–ta swish—ta–ta. Hear that? Take a drink and cool it. Warmth cuts through the body like a jitte, piercing through flesh and blood. Just a state of mind. Come here, hear this. Pa-ta, pa-ta, pa-ta, fla-fla. Sugar’s sweet-, so is she-, bye, bye, bl-ack-bird. The run, merging with the walk of the bass, a million miles per hour, anchored by F#, C, F. Go heavy on the ride, ping it, ting—ting-ting-ting, light on the snare.
Bright lights, clanks, laughs. Round glasses, Mr. Smiles, running, crawling, pounding. Mr. Gone, smooth, spacing out in a melody-world of his own. The Professor, plucking, each note a delicate, precise act that influenced history, life, and death. The legendary Cool, minimal, playing low.
Then silence. All eyes on him. Sticks and brow, sweat-covered, traditional grip. Switch. Matched. Accelerate, decelerate. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Pa-ra-flam-a-cue-pa-ta-tri-p-let-ta-ta-di-did-dle. And one- two- three- four.
The blue note fades, thinning, into silence. All that’s left is smiles, memory, and it goes … Blackbird, Bye, Bye.
People don’t think that the drums can speak and sing and whisper.
–Tony Williams
Wayne Mok is a writer originally from Hong Kong, now based in Sydney, Australia.
Note: “Bye Bye Blackbird” (Ray Henderson/Mort Dixon) was published in 1926 and is now in the public domain.
The Disappointed Housewife 