A Cool Breeze Blows
It was at Hawk’s apartment that the skinny young trumpet player from Illinois heard the words that made him sink into the overstuffed sofa. Hawk liked the kid, he liked the way he played, but he played a different kind of horn. Hawk was open-minded about new sounds; having been one of the few swing players that transitioned to the new bebop movement. Already well established in the swing world, it was a risk. Because of Hawk’s fascination with the new sound, it was a risk he was willing to take.
Hiring the kid would push such risk beyond its limit.
“Slim, you and him are two different birds, your styles are like oil and vinegar; they just don’t congelate. I can get you a session with Monk if you want. Monk is lookin’ for a horn player”
Having played with the biggest names in bebop at the biggest clubs, Hawk knew what he was talking about. He had played with Bird on many occasions; his words stung the young trumpet player from Illinois.
“Thanks Hawk, but Monk doesn’t fly off the riffs like Bird does. Bird blows like mayonnaise on bread. You can’t get me a session with Bird?”
“I would if I could son, and you knows I tried. He axed me, ‘If if this boy can blow a horn that good then why ain’t I heard of him?’ I told him you blow a different kinda beat, that you got soul in your riffs. He tells me that if you got so much soul then why don’t you hook up with Billy Holidays band. Slim, you know you ain’t into the hook. Why do you want to congelate with a junky who riffs off of the jingles?”
“Hawk, Bird was the one who got me to first pick up my horn.”
“Sorry, Slim, if you’re wantin’ to jam with the Bird, you gotta show him what you got. Bird’s like that, he wants to see it for himself.”
Coleman’s words resonated with the young trumpet player but it did not change his determination. He sat himself on the stoop outside of Coleman’s apartment and reminisced of the time in St. Louis when Billy Eckstine’s band hired the young trumpet player to fill in as third trumpet.
Though the gig only lasted 2 weeks, the sound of Parker’s dizzying fast arpeggios never left him. They buzzed in his head as he sat on the stoop. He pulled out his trumpet from its case and exercised the keys. He could hear the sound of Parker’s soloing to “Stormy Monday Blues” buzzing in his head, and when the solo ceased, he put the trumpet to his lips and played the trumpet solo. When he had finished, he slowly pulled his horn from his lips, and held the trumpet between his knees. He felt the cool breeze of his playing and reflected.
Hawk was right, bebop just ain’t in me. Maybe that’s why Bird never gave me no mind in St. Louis
He placed his horn back in his case, walked to the subway along 8th avenue and boarded the A train to Minton’s playhouse on W. 118th Street. He made up his mind that tonight he was going to get his session with the Bird.
****
It was late and the young trumpet player , waiting for his opportunity, sat in the recesses of a dark corner of the playhouse, watching Bird play his last set. Bird closed with a new tune called “Orinthology.” He savored Bird’s solo like a hot sun beating down on his face, his skin prickled from its stinging rays. Dizzy’s horn solo was more of the same, all sun and no breeze.
When the band ended their last set, he grabbed his trumpet and approached Bird.
“Mister Parker, you were great tonight. I play a pretty good trumpet and was hoping …”
As Bird was breaking down his saxophone he glanced at the skinny trumpet player clutching the brown leather trumpet case.
“Sorry kid, I got a trumpet player.”
“Oh, yeah, I know, I just thought … you were great.”
Parker didn’t say a word as he continued to put away his saxophone.
The skinny trumpet player stood motionless for a moment not knowing what to do or say. He needed to be alone with himself, and the stall in Minton’s bathroom seemed like as good a place as any. He began playing his solo version to “Orinthology”, oblivious to the world around him. He did not hear that someone had entered and sat in the stall next to him until the sound of the flush of a toilet quieted him.
“Not bad.” came the voice from the next stall. (The young trumpet player recognized the voice.) “Who are you playing with?”
“Right now, no one, Mister Parker. … Well, sometimes, I sit in with Coleman Hawkins’s band, but he’s got no room for me.”
He can see Bird’s leather shoes from underneath the stall as they exited.
“Now where have I heard that sound before? It’s different, kinda cool, really out there. It don’t play around no hook, but you’re still puttin’ it down. You tell me where I know that sound.”
“I gigged with you in St. Louis a few years ago when you were playin’ with Billy Eckstine’s band”
“Yeah, that’s where I remember you. I called you ‘Stick’. I told Billy you got a sound and that he should hire you, but he said he can’t afford to put a third trumpet on the books.”
The kid hears the sound of running water as Parker washes his hands, then the sound of a paper towel being pulled from its dispenser.
“What’s your name boy?”
“It’s Davis, Mister Parker … Miles Davis” the kid tells Bird from his seat in the stall.
Then the sound of a door opening, “Well Mister Miles Davis, if you ain’t doin’ anything tomorrow night, stop by the club … and bring your horn with you.”
The door closes.
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