The sun's just getting started but I am already on my second cup of coffee. I haven’t gotten more than four hours of sleep on any given night during the past week. Last night I managed to get two hours. If I should spontaneously combust at any point today, you'll be able to read what happened by the coffee grounds that you find scorched into the wood of this desk.
On Saturday I saw the Al Corey band in Augusta with my grandfather. He hinted several times that he was worried about the music boring me. There was no need to worry. I wasn't humoring him; I really love that music. Every morning over breakfast I listen to jazz that my grandfather would consider old-fashioned.
I did happen to mention Miles Davis and it was interesting to see his reaction. To my 88-year-old gramps, Miles is still just a kid and a newcomer: his work registers on the radar, but only as an unidentified blip. How great is that?
Anyway. Al Corey Band. The music was great. At one point I opened my eyes to look around between songs and realized with a sinking sensation that out of an audience of 150 or 200 people, I was the only one who had yet to earn his first white hair. Where were all the young people? Too busy digging their pop radio, I suppose. The church venue was gorgeous and cold; husbands and wives huddled together for warmth. For about two or three full songs during the second set I retreated to the hallway to be a radiator barnacle.
I hung around after the concert for coffee and home-made baked goods and chatted with my fellow concert-goers. It made me a bit self-conscious to realize how conspicuous I'd been while listening. I close my eyes at concerts and keep time with my foot, see. And my body moves. Not dramatically, but apparently enough to be comical to others. I don't know how to dance and I articulate the music awkwardly. The women seated behind me got a kick out of it.
My former music teacher, John Foss, was in the band playing trumpet. It was a great surprise to see him and to briefly catch up on his life between sets. The man looked great. He's seventy-five years old, and he's building beautiful stone walls and man-made waterfalls on his own property. By hand. Right on, man. Look at you go.
My ear has been all over the place this week. I spin early jazz in the mornings, then I blast punk and dark ambient music depending on what I'm doing throughout the day. By evening I've switched to jazz or Debussy or Chopin nocturnes.
Lately the electric guitar is never far away. I've been drilling myself hard on jazz arpeggios, melodic phrases, and chord voicings. There's pleasure in the discipline. It is difficult and time-consuming and I hope it continues to bat me around for a while yet.
There's more on my mind but I think this entry is long enough. I hope your week is going well.
-Tozier
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