Giant Steps

It was a cold November night. The fog had just settled knee-high and was rummaging through the air. It was cold and wet and the streets glistened and the cars sliced through them as if on ice. The moon hid behind translucent clouds and tried to peer through onto the earth. But she was not quite ready yet.

The tribute band to John Coltrane was playing tonight. The place was packed with important jazz players. It seemed that everybody had gathered to hear and see this spectacular event.

His hands were clutching one another and he was sweating. His breath came in shorter and shorter until he puffed greedily on some ventolin. She took his hands and gently squeezed them. He knew he would be okay, just not right now.

He looked around some more. Most people he recognized from other gigs around town some had come from other parts of the world. Other people he didn’t know, and those were the ones that made him nervous. Who were they and why were they here? Why tonight? Why this club?

He couldn’t answer his own questions and his mind wandered and blurred and ran away from this place. But his eyes constantly came back to it and reminded him of the upcoming show. He would have to go on soon. The players would choose a tune. They would choose possibly the most dreaded of all tenor saxophone players. He was not so sure if he was ready to make those Giant Steps tonight. He felt tired and wheezy.

He closed his eyes and focused on the chords. So many changes in so little time. It was all so fast. The chords escaped his grasp and floated away in to space. He could not follow them, they were gone. He tried one more time from the beginning; but they kept floating.

He knew they were making fun of him. They were laughing at him those little devils. He wanted to grab them and chose them until they could no longer breathe. Ironically, they were doing that to him.

“And now, let us call upon our special guest star for tonight. Please give a hand to our spectacular tenor saxophone player, Mr. Jazzman himself!”

A roar of applause shot through the room like poisonous arrows. They hit him in the heart. He bled and would not stop.
His horn shone like a dreadful gem on stage and his hands shook when he picked it up. His lips were chapped and bloody and his breath was stuck in his stomach. He couldn’t even look at the crow yet glanced at the piano player with a questioning look. He was searching for a salvation; maybe they would pick a different tune.

“So, whaddya say? Let’s do Giant Steps?”

The crowd went wild. Shouts of cheer bounced off the walls, glasses were hurled against one another in support of the band, but mostly of the tenor player. Glances were expectantly drawn upon the stage with the small man who closed his eyes and gently caressed his mouthpiece. His fingers were already playing through the first few changes.

After all this commotion, a suddenly terrifying hush glided over the entire room and nobody moved. No breath was taken, no hair adjusted, no leg unburdened, and nor drink sipped. All eyes, shiny and glossy, were upon the band and the tenor player.
The Jazzman kept his eyes closed and focused on the opening changes. In another dimension he heard the drummer and bass player agreeing upon a tempo. The piano player gave a soft ‘yes’ and adjusted his seat.

The air was still. Nothing stirred. Nobody dared to move. It was quiet. Utterly quiet. He could hear his heart pounding in his chest. His temples were exploding. His veins were bulging. His fingers were shaking. A cold breeze flew across his damp neck. He could feel the rush of his blood being drained out of his mortal body. He felt the slight sensation of faint but resisted it was all his perishing might.

He took a deep breath.

He blew.

Here we go and on they went.

The opening was solid like a brick wall. The melody clicked with all the instruments. The drummer sped up ever so slightly. They sped through the sections like horses on fire. Nothing could stop them now.

He imagined some guy in the front row dropping his lighter. It would hit the ground and he would miss a beat. His solo was about to come up. Two more chords.

Where was he?

Which chord came next?

He forgot. In his mind all the tunes he had ever played in his entire life as a jazz musician floated around and sang through his mind like tempting sirens. He would not leave his boat. He would continue his journey. Yet his mind remained a bloated blank.

Two bard into his solo and he had no clue where he was. Chords, scales, licks, all disappeared and he was left alone with only the music to hold him up.

Four bars gone. Still no idea of changes. He blew like a madman and looked in all the hidden places of his music-mind.
Nothing.

His mind was a hollow space that re-sounded only the eternal question.

Where am I?

Six bars in. The first section was almost done. At least he knew that much.

Eight bard. Gone. Blasted off like a time bomb. He was at a loss. With all his might he blew and finally blew out the last note of this world.

The piano player hit an unexpected sharp four. And it clicked. He understood.

He knew of no changes, no chords, no scales no notes. He only heard the sound. The tune was embedded into his soul and he could fully let it loose in his jazz universe.

He traveled with it and reached the fat corners of the dimensions. He glided over them and swam through walls of colours, sounds, feelings, textures. He drank from the crisp fountain of music that purified his soul. He breathed the air of higher powers and felt rejuvenated by their wholesomeness and perfection. He filled himself with the endless fertility that music had to offer and embraced it like a hungry child.

“More, more!” his soul cried and yeaned. And mother music gave. And sang. And screamed. And laughed and cried with every sound he produced through his horn. He twirled through oceans of clarity and forests of mystery. He opened himself to the experience and opportunity of endless possibilities that music had to offer, and he felt good.

The crowd was stunned and amazed. Still, nobody breathed or let out a single noise. For a few moments the entire room watched and listened as the man on stage let out his soul.

He had his eyes closed shit. He started to move every so slightly with his solo until he had moved in a semi-circle. His back was now to the audience. The rest of the band had long ago stopped playing. That had happened a million years ago, the dinosaurs were now all dead and dried up.

He completed the circle and crescendoed to a climax. The stage light shone on him, illuminated him to a god, to an ancient Greek statue. He was Bacchus, Apollo, and Zeus all at once.

Flurries of notes were stilled by pianissimo eighths that rapidly swam across the sphere. Each note touched the heart and swept through it leaving only its smoky trace behind. Then the next one flew in and was immediately out of reach. Trying to grasp one would destroy the moment, the illusion of a note and bring the phrase to a catastrophic halt. The world would shake and all would die in the final earthquake that would swallow the eareth whole.

The tension was unbearably excellent; it was painful and it was beautiful. The release never came, but the audience knew it had to come. Just, nobody wanted it to come. Then this miracle would end. Then this breath would end. Then this world would collapse.

Now the notes came slower and slower still. The lights were dimmed and the man on stage was almost a silhouette shaping each diminishing phrase as if it were the last one. Eight more bars to the solo, five notes per bar. Three more bars, four notes. They slowly died away. They caressed the last breaths of the player one more time and faded into the eternity where they came from. One bar. One note. Sharp four. Long it was held ever so quietly. It faded fast. Almost like a whispering angel in a child’s ear. Almost the last twinkle of the evening star, the last gleam of the moon before she went to bed and daybreak called for an awakening.

The moon was gone, as was the twinkle. A hushed awe remained. Still, no one stirred. All eyes were fixated on the man with the saxophone glued to his shiny lips. They were one instrument blended into the other, two being stuck together never to be separated again.

A sigh of anguished relief hushed through the audience. A cloud of wonder lifted above the heads and eyes and ears and hands struggled to clap. They were careful not to break the fragility of the recently faded music. Fragile thins always seem so beautiful.

But hands grew stronger, mightier, and were soon accompanied by awestricken and amazed cheers of joyed sadness and sad joy. Roaring voices rumbled in throats and mouths and shouted bellows of praise and wonder.

The Jazzman opened his eyes and looked just above the rim of his glasses. Two blue gems peered out of dark sockets and squinted. The lips released the mouthpiece and curved into a gentle and fragile smile.

He bowed softly still in shock of his own self while the tumult of the crowd overwhelmed itself with joy and laughter.
*******
Now he was walking down the steps with her hand in his with the roaring crowd reverberating in the back of his mind. Tenderly she pulled him on the final step and looked into his blue gems. She smiled and said, looking up to him, “A miracle happened tonight. It’s been fulfilled. Fear has left and faith has replaced it. And you should definitely never play that tune again!”

He stepped down, smiled and kissed her soft lips. Then he said with a thankful nod, “That is the best compliment I have ever received.”

The steps of their shoes echoed through the foggy night. Up above the moon’s full gleam shone like a bright jewel in the dark-blue night sky. She lighted the way and revealed her full beauty and might. She smiled its crooked and kind smile and guided the two walking silhouettes on the ground. She knew that nobody would ever hear him play Giant Steps again and was pleased.