One of the good things about living in Tel Aviv is that there always seems to be good music around. Anything you can imagine - we've got it. You can even find a live band playing at your local ice cream joint! But what I really used to dig in the summer was heading over to my favorite cafe on Friday before Shabbat started and checking out my favorite jazz band. I don't know their names, I don't know their ages, but I do know that I couldn't go a week without hearing them play. It's how I knew Shabbat was coming. They gave me the energy to carry myself into the next week. They made me feel like Dean Moriarty from On the Road.
Well, like most things with no explanation, Gordon 17 closed...and there went Friday afternoon jazz...until one night at a little jazz club in the namal (port) I was outside on the phone minding my own business when two sets of eyes met mine in surprise. My bassist and saxophonist. We had reunited.
That night was a bit of sickness (much like last night was) and talented music (also like last night), mixed in with good people, poetry and good energy. Once again I felt like Dean Moriarty...
I like to go back there whenever I can with as little people as possible to try and control the talking over the music. Last night was great. Five of us feeling lovely and I was feeling jazzy. While the musicians last night all seemed a little young, they were just as talented and were able to lift my spirits. Despite the constant coughing and refraining from booze, with every good chord of the piano I would jump up with a "yassss," and when my saxophonist came on like any proud mom, sister, supporter, I couldn't help but whisper a "blow, kid, blow."
I know last night was a Monday. And I know Shabbat isn't coming for a few days. But what I also know is that despite all the parties and heart-to-hearts, I haven't felt this good in weeks. There's something about the jazzman that, without fail, manages to energize me for the week ahead and leave me feeling jazzy.
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2 comments:
ur such a hippie!
on the back of an envelope i quickly scribed down my bets, no hedges so the losses can flow straight through and i can feel every centimeter of it gash across, the feeling was so real and so coarse old poets in books offerred to read it A loud on east 3rd street, 1979 New York was not ready, Warhol enthusiasts could not interpret it, i imagined Malibu hills driving along the Pacific Coast Highway 1 and the kind of life that felt like, i imagined for route 66, i imagined for the California coast sunshine and the night i drove through the Big Sur on a trip of redemption when all i found was an empty jar to exonerate my guilt in, it hurt like swallowing stones and wishing for the tomorrow of it all...
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