Sex and the Jazz Musician: The Brutal Truth!

About a year before, while I was driving a Yellow cab around Hollywood at night, I met another driver on the same shift who was an ex-soldier of fortune, as is said about the wild geese that ply the hot spots of the world selling their military skills to those to whom their (shall we say) talents seem attractive. This fellow was a combat infantryman, on the point most of the time during the Korean debacle. Having survived that, he went to Cuba and joined Fidel Castro in the jungles as he was training and amassing a viable army with which to overthrow the Batista regime and to bring some sort of, in his mind, decent government to the peoples of Cuba. We all know how that turned out.

After the coup was completed, my to-be chum went to North Africa and joined up with the French Foreign Legion, losing his American citizenship in the doing of such. During his tour of duty, the truck he was riding in hit a mine destroying the truck and killing everyone in and on it except him. He was severely hurt, with deep and penetrating injuries including the spiting open of his head. When I met him the hundreds of stitch laced scars were clearly visible on his face and neck. I used to refer to him as the Mad Legionnaire; It was shortened to Mad as we became more acquainted.

Mad was married and lived with his wife and newborn baby in the town Of Burbank, California, just over the hill from Hollywood and across from the N.B. C. studios where the Tonight Show was televised. Mad was a sculptor and mural painter of some talent, make that a lot of talent! The first time I went to his pad, he had told me that he had something that he wanted me to see. We went there one night after work about 3am and he took me into this room I'll never forget, turned on the light and there on a podium was a statue of arms from the elbows up about five times the size of real ones carved out of a huge piece of gray granite reaching up out of the ground, no mistaking that they were reaching for and towards the sky, complete with carved out finger nails with real barbed wire wrapped around the whole work digging into the granite flesh with real—looking red blood running back downward to the earth from whence it came.

Oh yeah! It seemed that Mad had a thing about hands and had numerous works smaller size all over the place also paintings of the same. Mad has become somewhat of a well-known personality in the arts so he shall remain anonymous, also. We, he and I did some serious weird shit during the time that we hung together back in the day.

Here's a little taste. The landlord of my Hollywood pad didn't live anywhere near the place. I use the term my, as Igor had moved out and gone on with his life and I resided in this double everything place alone. I had since been let go from the Yellow Cab Company (I drove for one year) and Mad and I seldom saw each other at the time. I don't remember the circumstances, but one day he was there visiting me. Yes, day, as in the sun was shining. I vaguely remember the series of events that led up to the idea, but I'm sure that we did up a few— yeah, a few. Back in the day the shit was so weak that sometimes all one got for their efforts was a sore throat and an "I think I'm high" mindset. I had noticed earlier that Mad seemed to be intrigued with the wall space that I had at the ol' double everything pad and his body language was not unlike that of the Alex Guinness' character, Gulley Jimson, from the movie The Horse's Mouth.

This man was born to paint! Ol' Mad said "I have an Idea"; everything always starts that way, as in Hannibal's march over the Alps with freakin' elephants or Hillary's ascent of Mt. Everest or Joshua Slocum's first day sail. Always "I have an idea." Even though my alter ego shrunk from the question formulating in my temporal lobe I asked, "What is it?" He then proceeded to regale me with plans, verbally and with pen and paper, showing me what he had in mind which was a Michelangelo-esque Sistine Chapel type thing from the floor up the walls to the ceiling and all over the ceiling down the opposite walls and into the next room, displaying huge paintings of naked men and women (using many different colors—paint, that is) engaged in all kind of erotic sexual acts imaginable as to make Parvati envious. It took three or four days to complete, as I recall, when I voiced a little concern, ol' Mad reminded me that I had told him that the owner said that "I could paint it any color that I wished." Seemed to make sense to me at the time, so he dropped a 25grm bennie, knocked off a half pint of Kamasutra, put about 15 peyote buttons in the blender with a mix and got it on. Oh yeah!

Exit the Mad Legionnaire and enter all of the musicians, actors, painters and wannabees of the Hollywood scene at that time, as the word spread among the hip community about this house of doubles that, in a way, was a monument to the creative and sensory perceptions of a free man in an oppressed world making his statement before God and all the world to see. Don't forget, this was the '60s for $55.00 a month. Hell, I took the dartboard down and put it somewhere. Talk about some rockin' and rollin' and non-stop parties, oh man! But that was back in the day.

As I have indicated, this was doing my AFUPP, and things we're getting worse for me as my life, was on a downhill spiral on its way to greater and greater depths of despair and regret. The electricity had been turned off for lack of payment, also the gas for the same reason. No lights or hot water, although it seemed that I always came up with enough money to get fucked up on.

One night I came (almost said home) back to the pad. I don't remember what started it (in my head) or triggered it off, but there was a hammer—a ball-peen hammer to be exact—and I took hold of it and started in systematically smashing it in to the walls. I was quiet, quite focused on what I was doing. After period of time (doing this physical and mental demolition) had passed I increased the intensity of the act, mumbling and semi-moaning with a low guttural incoherent yelling. Then the first window went with a loud crash accompanied by a quadruple forti yell of satisfaction, lacking any remorse or piety. These descriptions of the deed were in part told to me at a later date by the police and some of the poor terrified people that lived nearby.

After a bit, the intensity of what I was doing picked up and swelled to rougher more powerful swings and kicks at the dry wall that was coming down, showering everything including me with its whitish dust and debris. Yes, I could hear the sirens and distant voices some imagined some real which, as I can remember, only increased the fury and anger within and added fuel to whatever fires were burning at the time. When they came—oh hell yes, they came and there were many that did—what they found laying in the ruble, was a spent, half conscious being that had just finished laying to rest and extinguishing the fires that had almost consumed him. I used a hammer. Some of these people today use a saxophone, voice and a microphone.

A thought: if we knew that something beautiful and wonderful would never change or go Away, would it seem as wonderful and beautiful in the moment?

A passage. God it hurts!—Beauty often does.

A reflection. I've lived my life dedicated to the learning of—and the playing of—the music, and I must tell you that the rewards did not outnumber the heartbreaks, the failures and the earning of a decent living and all that Madison Avenue tells us of the good life that lies just over the distant horizon.

An observation. Free music is here. Not here to stay, but as the last vestige to communicate something of harmonic interest to another person using the human voice and or a traditional musical instrument to convey a story of beauty, heartfelt sorrow or to give someone the wings of joy to soar over the playing field of love, hate envy and fear.

In the not too distant future, all of the aforementioned feelings won't have any place within the business or the goings on of the brave new world yet to come. If needed or desired, all the emotions of times past will be brought into play by merely the touching of a button of sorts allowing one's entry to dangerous places, experiencing all of the feelings in imagery that brought those yet to come to the brink of realization and thought of a another step upward for all of mankind.

Summation. Looking back at the beginning of this essay one notices that I started out in my usual Mort Weiss manner tossing in amusing tidbits here and there—actually some funnier 'n shit! But as I started turning back the pages of my life you can see a darkening of the realities that I spoke of, a virtual This is Your Life, Mort Weiss in reverse. A very unsettling feeling started to make its presence known, and I would find myself thinking more and more about what might have been—a sad and futile exercise at best. If one senses that I've used a inordinate amount of descriptive words and innuendo, Please, just sit back and enjoy the ride; ahh, read, as we Jews of Russian and Hungarian decent are known to wallow in the dark and sad vestiges of life, but a great fuckin' sunset knocks us out too!

A chum of mine is heavily into free form sound and action (OK, music). You pretty much know by now, how and what I feel about the genre. In reality I know, and have always known about it and how to do it—how to communicate it—how to negotiate its avenues and climb its mountains and to shout of its virtues and authenticities to yell and scream—to yell and scream to scream and shout to make to maketomaketomaketttoooommaaaaaakkkkkee—all, know, that I'm here, that I'm here, that I'm here and that I exist and that I have the right of existence bequeathed to me by the totality of the generally accepted paradigm of a universal conflux.

Sunday, May 21, 2013. I leave (once more) for Los Angeles to record my 11th album at the Voice of the Arts studio. This album will be a departure from this matrix to the next and beyond. The title of the work will be A Step Outside. This work will be looked upon as a musically significant historical thesis. The release will be sometime in July or August of this year, and cats like Mats Gustafsson, Phil Minton, John Russell, the Brötz and all the others will be hearing about the new fast gun in town! What I'm going to do will be another Mort Weiss first, only this time a much more significant first than the others in that no-one has ever excelled in two such remotely different styles of music. Yes, music.

No-one could and would try to do it on the clarinet and voice. And no-one 78 years old would or could do it physically and mentally, that being what I'm going to pull off. On this one you will not hear any of the usual people that I have worked and recorded with in the past. The work will consist of five or six explorations each about ten minutes in length. I've started work on the construction and modes of sound that will not only be prevalent but a dominant prevailing presence of sound and emotion that will open doors of thought and generate salient waves of emotion from within the listener's total body and soul.

Several days ago, when I started to write, this I had no idea that I would be telling you about a free jazz CD that I was going to do in the near future. If you're surprised, well, think how I felt when the idea first visited me, oh yeah! Now, let me categorically state that my decision to make this CD in no way weakens any of my shit that I have put in this or any other articles, quotes or interviews that I have had in the past; I remain steadfast and firm in all of my convictions re: the music.

Parting Shot. If you have come this far with me on this little trip of thought and story, I would hope that you have also noticed that I'm not the hardcore musical luddite, SOB American Gothic with a clarinet instead of a pitch fork, saying that nothing should be done for the first time—although...hmm.

Be kind to one another—we are all so very special, and I love you, all my brothers and sisters in this, no penny opera, even if you are the dude throwing his sunglasses into the audience. With respect and best wishes, I remain Mort Weiss

An afterthought: for the last few years I have been experiencing a gradual loss of hearing in both ears and have worked around and through the situation. During the last three months it has worsened enough as to be untenable and is affecting my playing. That being the case I have called off the recording date mentioned earlier in the article for the time being, until my hearing is restored. Since all my records are self-produced, there is a money factor that dictates the doing of such things. My health insurance does not cover the purchase of good hearing aids, so the money that would have gone for the free jazz CD will have to be used for the hearing aids. Thanks to all of you for your understanding.

Photo Credits

Page 3: Stan Levy

All Other Photos: Courtesy of Mort Weiss

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