Jose
Pacheco
The
Night Charlie Parker Played Tenor at Montmartre Café in Greenwich Village
Like
I knew when it was happening
that fifty years after
I could still tell
you about it
and you still wouldn't really believe me:
It's one 'clock
in the morning
and I wander into Montmartre looking
for Tom and Rod so
that we can go over
to the White Horse, play chess and drink 'arf n arf',
the
half-stout, half-lager house special they serve
that's ten times stronger than
the watered down rotgut
they are serving here in Montmartre
because the
place is backed and being run by the local dons
who can't run anything strictly
legit,
even when they are trying to cash in
on the bohemian craze
and
the success of the coffee houses
like Rienzi's and Pandora's Box
and the
jazz places like Vanguard
who every night pack in tourists
coming to look
at us locals
dressed like bums with our long hair, jeans and sandals,
our
uniforms of art and protest,
nursing the cappuccino or the stein of beer
while
we carry on our business
of bull----ing each other up and down
the Kierkegaard,
Sartre and Zen Buddhist block,
Rienzi's,
Pandora's and the Van are making money
like no one was supposed to,
including
Tom's place, which is the Café Figaro,
but the guys running the Montmartre
don't
like the locals because they dress "sloppy,"
can nurse a drink all
night
and try to smoke joints disguised as cigarettes,
which they call "bombers",
so
they stop letting the locals sit at tables,
institute (would you believe) a
dress code
and now every night
there are fewer tourists to stare
at
the handful of better dressed locals
who have bothered to try to make it past
Ruffino
the bouncer maitre d' at the door,
who is also my childhood buddy
and who tells me,
"it's slower than Ernie Lombardi tonight,
but
something's happening with the jazz guys
in the front." Tom and Rod wave
at me,
bursting with excitement like kids
watching the neighbor's wife undress
with the shade up, and I know
it's not a chess move but something real
cool and unusual coming down.
Tom points to the musicians, a jazz quartet
Montmartre
hired on the cheap,
and they are moving an extra chair onto the stand
and
the tenor sax player is handing
his horn and strap to a fat guy in a rumpled
suit
who looks just like and is
CHARLIE PARKER!
YARDBIRD!
Here at
Montmartre!
And he is going to blow tenor, not alto.
He
warms up for a minute with runs and arpeggios
that any sax player would die
for
but as a former tenor man
I can tell his tone
is no threat to
Byas or the Hawk
and he will thin the tenor into an alto
with his first
blow.
The other musicians wait in reverence,
as if they are standing before
St. Peter
waiting to be admitted to heaven,
the leader and the Bird nod
at each other
and off they fly into Ornithology,
with the Bird trying to
teach everyone
just how high the moon was, is, and will ever be
and how
high he is now.
He zigs and zags through ins and outs of chords
in quantum
leaps of invention,
he follows a two-note "mop mop"
with a five-hundred-notes-a-minute-
run-lasting-for-what-almost-seems-
all-of-jazz-eternity,
leaving
us breathless from listening,
segueing back to the melody
and to the other
musicians
who have been happy just to listen,
keep the beat and play the
chords
but now
with encouraging nods from Bird
they try their own tentative solos
which
get more confident as they go along
for now they can tell everybody,
agents,
other musicians, their children
and their children's children
fifty years
after, just like I'm doing now
that they played with Charlie Parker...
Bird
grabs the tenor again
and the room bursts into one great haze
of waitresses
pushing drinks,
tourists not knowing just where they're at
or what they're
listening to,
management and stoned locals wondering
what's the big deal
with this Fatso
and when can we close up,
but Tom and Rod and I and just
a few others
inhaling and savoring this hippest
of puffy fat black dying
junkie miracles
glowing and blowing at the center of the haze
like Orpheus
unbound,
know as we gaze at each other
in the coolest of surmises
that
we are living in a moment
like no other in jazz and human history
and which
most of you won't believe
even fifty years after:
Charlie Parker playing
a
borrowed tenor sax for free
in Montmartre Café in Greenwich Village,
a
few weeks before he died.
New
& Of Note! On
September 6, 2007, The Bowery Poetry
Club hosted "Diamonds In The
Sidewalks" with David Amram and his quartet celebrating
the 50th Anniversary of the publishing of Jack Kerouac's "On
The Road."
Joining
David in this celebration of sounds and sooth was Tim Moran, John Ventimiglia,
Adira Amram, Russell Brand, Casey Cyr, Ron Whitehead, Frank Messina, Katinka Klein
and Jose Pacheco.
Insom
contributing journalist, Jeremy Hogan was there snapping stills and rolling
video. Click
Here to view David, the quartet with saxophonist, Eric Lawerence
sitting in to swing with author, poet, Jose Pacheco and his tale of "The
Night Charlie Parker Played Tenor at Montmartre Café in Greenwich Village."
Joseph
Pacheco is a 76 year old Nuyorican, retired NYC school superintendent
living on Sanibel Island, Florida. He began writing poetry at 70. He has published
two books of poetry: The First of the Nuyoricans
/ Sailing to Sanibel and
Alligator in the Sky.