Tonal Warriors

New York City, July, 1983

"Man, it's like walking with lead shoes on," I complained.

Roger, our drummer, smiled, shook his head and muttered, "I may just take off in a minute."

Eddie said to me, "You're a miserable motherfucker sometimes, Phil. You know that?"

The three of us sat on the stone steps of the waterless fountain outside the Plaza Hotel. We were dog-legged across from a horde of street vendors by Central Park, and Eddie kept glancing over to where we'd put our instruments. Reassuring himself. We had to protect them from the heat, so we'd set them in the shade of a couple of slender, adolescent trees sprouting from the sidewalk nearby. It was casual, but clear enough—somebody was watching over them.

"Look at this," Eddie went on. He swung an arm wide to take in the scene around us. "Sunny day, chillin' scene, lots of people, playin' the music you love, making money . . ." He waved at Roger's snare drum case a few yards away, open with a few dollar bills inside and a couple of twenties prominently on top. Enough said. He sipped through a straw at a beer in a paper bag.

I looked at the small patch of shade. My tenor saxophone was in its case at the base of the trees. Next to it, lying on its side in a blue zip-up bag was Andy's double bass. And near it, the snare drum case. Lunchtime was at an end and the crowd on Fifth Avenue had diminished to a steady trickle of tourists. I stared down at my sneakers, seeing swirls of sixteenth notes in the stains on the concrete.

All three of us agreed, the main problem was Andy.

Roger raised himself up, focusing on a rolling paper. He teased out and lay down strands of tobacco from his packet of Drum.

"Ah, he's not so bad," Eddie said out of nowhere, as if to convince himself as much as us. He scratched at his pasty cheeks, blotchy from the sticky heat, then wiped a hand over his close-cropped, pale ginger hair. "You just got to adapt to the feel, is all."

Roger lit up. "Bullshit." He blew away a stream of tobacco smoke. "Cat sounds like Richard Davis on acid, getting paid by the note!"

"You're never satisfied, Rog, you know dat?" Eddie's faint West Indian accent surfaced for a moment, learned from his mom. He sighed. "But he does get gigs."

Eddie looked at Roger, who had resumed lazing on the steps with eyes closed, dragging on his cigarette and blowing smoke at the sky. Eddie turned to me. "Where that hippie-dippie motherfucker at anyway?"

"Andy? Went to get something to eat, I think," I replied. "There's a falafel stand he likes a couple blocks down." We sat in the sun, comfortably silent as the world went about its business.

"Hey, Phil," Roger shaded his eyes as he sat up and looked at me. "You could tell him: Just play four. He likes you, man, he'd listen."

"Fuck you," I said quietly. I shook my head and stared into the shadows under the skinny trees. "I might just take off as well."

"Aw, don't do that. Without you or a drummer it really isn't worth it," Eddie said.

"You can maybe do a duo with Andy or something if you want," I suggested. "We're not making that much anyway. Be more for you guys then." I lit a cigarette, inhaling the tobacco smoke and the oddly sweetish smell of its burning.

Eddie nattered on, "We've been playin' since eleven. What's the time now?" He looked at his watch. "Three twenty. Got 'bout forty bucks each already, not counting the change. Not bad for a Tuesday. There's still the going-home crowd. We can hit again from maybe four to seven. What d'you think? We could get maybe another forty, fifty bucks each? Shit, that's half my rent this month."

"Come on, Phil," Roger said, apparently forgetting he was the one who had started this conversation. "Don't be a drag, man. You know we can't make shit with just a guitar trio."

"Fuck you," Eddie said to the world.

We were again silent for a while. Finally, Roger asked me, "How long you been here anyway?"

I knew what he meant. In New York. "Seven years, man." I was thinking, I should just walk over to those trees, grab my ax and split.

"Where you from?"

"L.A."

"Go to school there?"

I shook my head, faking the accent. "Baah-ston."

He paused, then asked, "How old're you anyway?"

"You're getting pretty fucking personal all of sudden. But anyway, Roger, I'm thirty-one. What about you?" I challenged.

"Twenty-seven."

Nobody asked, but Eddie said, "Twenty-five, man."

I looked at him. "I'm thinking I should get a day job. Teaching or something."

Eddie said, "Well, this sure as hell ain't no long-term career option."

"Tell me." I smiled. Placate and go, that was the way to do it.

"What else we gonna do?" There was an air of fatalism in the way Roger spoke that vaguely disturbed me. He crushed out his cigarette on the step. "I'm only really happy when I'm playing. It's all I want to do and I've spent a long time working at it."

"How old were you when you first picked up sticks?"

"I don't know, five, six, maybe younger. I don't really remember. It feels like I've always been banging on things. I'm just better at it now. My mom says I have a hard-head. Some say stubborn. I like to think of it as determined."

Eddie said, "I remember getting my first guitar when I was, what? Eight, I guess." He paused then asked me, "You gigging much at the moment?" It was his standard question when he wasn't. Depending on his mood it could be either plaintive or slightly aggressive. Which was pretty fucked up as he had to be one of the best young guitar players in the city at the moment, besides that kid Bernstein everyone was starting to talk about. But Eddie wasn't great on networking. Sure, we all have our own shit to deal with, but he'd gotten mad at some dipshit band leader on a club date and the agency hadn't been booking him since.

I turned down the corners of my mouth and told him, "Couple of Latin gigs on the weekends, some R&B. Not too much jazz."

"But you're making the rent, right?" Eddie could be like a dog with a bone, sometimes.

"Yeah."

"City's changing, man," Eddie went on. "I'm, like, up in the Heights, man, and this crack shit's fucked up. I go walking in my hood to get milk or some shit these days, theys whacked out motherfuckers lying on stoops and shit, dudes freebasing out in the open, babies cryin' while they mommas turning tricks in doorways. Fucked up, man."

We all knew his view of the world would soften when he started working again. I asked him, "How long you been living up there?"

"Most of my life. We moved from Trinidad to one-fifty-eight Street when I was like, three or four or something." There was a long pause. "I remember, I used to sneak down to fourteenth Street when I was like, I dunno, thirteen, fourteen maybe, something like that. I knew the guy on the door at the Vanguard because my dad played there sometimes, so the guy would let me in. I think he figured, better the kid's in the club listening to music than roaming the streets at night getting into trouble. I'd hang out in the back near the kitchen. No one really noticed me. Or I'd go by Bradley's over on University Place. They didn't care how old I was either. There was always great musicians going in and out of that place, for all sorts of reasons not always directly to do with music, if you know what I mean. Never sure who would turn up. And when I was in the back room, guys would sometimes show me bits and pieces to practice on the guitar . . ."

"Your dad was, like, famous or something wasn't he?" I asked.

"Yeah, he was a drummer. Played with Bird a few times, even recorded with him, I think." Eddie's dad had been in jail for a bunch of years now for putting a guy in the hospital because he tried to steal his stash.

"Eddie and me, we've known each other for years." Roger deftly turned the dial. "He was the first real musician I ever gigged with." His eyes were still closed.

Eddie nodded, pleased. Slouching back, he went on, "Yeah. If it wasn't the Vanguard or the Gate, Pops would play in some basement joint round the corner from the old Blue Note. It was great when he subbed with Bill. That was something to hear, particularly when they played with Eddie Gomez. Other times Pops would play in one club and Bill would be in another, nearby. Sometimes he'd take me home if Pops was busy, like after the gig. Bill was pretty cool." He stopped talking, deep in thought. Then he looked up, and gently shook his head. "Funny as all shit when he wanted to be. Though it was a real laidback kind of humor. We'd be driving along, and he'd say something out of the blue, and it would sneak up on you he'd just made a joke. Then you couldn't stop giggling. Every once in a while, we'd talk about harmony and stuff. A lot about listening, trusting your ear, training your ear, listening to that inner voice saying stuff like 'ok, here's the time, try some triplets, let's double time it now, h-o-l-d it,' you know, stuff like that. Learning to hear and trust that voice while you play. You know, your fingers are like puppies, he'd say. You gotta train them, show them who's boss. Though he never ever actually spelled it out to me like that, of course. He was big on being methodical, and exploring. How he learned a new tune was four bars at a time. Then he'd take those four bars through the keys, try out different voicings before moving on to the next four bars . . . "

"And you were how old?"

"Thirteen, fourteen."

"Shit man, that's out." I bobbed my head in admiration.

"Yeah, it was pretty cool, I guess."

"Eddie's dad was The Man," Roger said. He meant it both as a great drummer, and as a pusher.

"Yeah," Eddie agreed, though not sounding too happy about it. "Anyone bring some weed?"

Roger shook his head.

"I stopped," I said.

Heat-induced sloth kept me on those warm steps. What the hell. Waiting for Andy. How many falafels could that skinny motherfucker eat anyway? I stood up to stretch my legs. The late afternoon traffic was starting to pick up, and I wondered how we'd fumbled into this annoying state. Trouble was, Andy was a nice guy. He had technical knowledge, knew a bunch of tunes, but just couldn't swing to save his life. I stamped on a couple of ants crawling up the steps, then methodically scraped the ant mess off my sneaker.

Roger glanced at his watch. Eddie again used his hand to wipe sweat off his face, drying it on his jeans. We watched some girls strut by. I glanced at my watch. Five minutes to four. Still no Andy.

"Motherfucker's late," Roger muttered half into the sleeve of his cheesecloth shirt. "It's your fault," he told Eddie, pushing him. "Why'd you ask him to play?"

In a strangled voice, Eddie objected. "He asked me, man, not the other way about. I just recommended you guys when he said he wanted to get a band together. For the street. He thinks everything's great, I guess. He was talking about hustling gigs for us the other day."

"God forbid," said Roger. He looked at me. "Would you want to play with him again? Inside?"

I shrugged and hunched down between my raised knees. "Bread's bread."

Pushing back with a dig, Eddie asked Roger, "How's your love life?"

"Fuck you," Roger said. "What I want to know is what happened to all those chicks who use to hang out with jazz musicians ready to jump in the sack because of how they played."

Eddie rolled his eyes. "Are you serious?! I knew one guy claimed this chick wanted to ball him after a gig, turned out she was so batshit she set his fucking closet on fire at four in the morning. There he was, stark naked, stompin' on his burning clothes and shit, cursing her out. And she gets up and leaves, taking his Walkman with her."

"It's all right for you," Roger said. "You've been hanging with the same chick for years. You two ever getting married?"

"No way, man. It would ruin everything." There was a pause. Eddie asked me, "You ever been married?"

"For a while," I said.

"Chicks is tough with this business," Roger said. "If you're not working they get pissed, because they reckon they're supporting you while you do nothing but sit at home and practice. And if you're working, or on the road, it's always 'You're ignoring me.'"

I smiled. "It always seems to come down to being jealous of your horn." There was a long silence, and I was aware of the July sunshine drying up our energy. My hands and face felt grubby.

Roger stared out at the street. "It's all a question of knowing how to listen, I suppose."

I was momentarily confused. "What?"

Eddie got up, looked to check on the instruments, plainly bored with the turn in the conversation. He was restless and I was sluggish. Great pairing.

Roger didn't seem to notice. "When you practice you're working on your ears, not just your fingers. I mean, I was like a perfectionist for years. Even as a kid. And it really fucked me up. I had to stop playing for like months after I finished college. Chops are great, but it's all about your ears, not your head. I got that from Eddie, first."

Eddie had pretty much had it. "Mixolydian this, Locrian that . . . it's all just bullshit, man. Make-work, emotional Chinese screens to help you avoid really getting in touch with what's important. Looking to take the music somewhere, man. If you're not trying to do that, why bother? What was that thing Bird said? Learn your scales, then forget all that shit and just play. What sounds right is right, man. That's it. Fuck all that college stuff."

"But you finished college anyway, didn't you." Roger, at his true, needling best.

Eddie rose and shambled towards the hotel. As he left he said, "I need a piss."

We watched his tall, chubby figure a moment, and then Roger said, "I think this thing with his dad really messed him up. He hardly ever talks about him, you know. Surprised he said as much as he did today."

"Where's his mom?"

Roger shook his head. "Cancer. A few years ago."

Just to kill more time, I needled Roger with, "So we're supposed to somehow reveal ourselves when we play? What about all those guys with the sweetest sounds being the meanest motherfuckers on the bandstand? Anyone think about the meaning of that?"

"I guess the music doesn't judge. "

I watched a Latina, with long hair held back in that magic way women have with these things, strike a pose in ass-hugging white pants as she bought a hotdog from a stand a few feet south of us. I took the bait. "So why is Kenny G more popular than Warne Marsh? Why do I have to start playing funk and shit? Herbie and Chick and those guys are starting to take the music to somewhere I'm not sure I want go. Maybe visit, for sure, but not have it be the main thing, if you know what I mean. It isn't what I hear."

Roger looked hard at me and smiled disarmingly. "No-one likes things to change. I fucking hate it. But that doesn't mean you're wrong or they're wrong. Take what you can from what they're doing, and don't bother with the rest. It's about your thing anyway, man. Not anyone else's. It takes more than a little stubbornness to get to play well, and you know that."

"I guess I'm a slow learner, " I said.

We watched Eddie shamble back. Roger shielded his eyes from the sun, pushing back long, dark hair. "You two should get laid," Eddie announced.

I looked away.

Roger said, "You're an obnoxious motherfucker sometimes, you know that?"

Despite himself, Eddie chuckled and dropped into his place beside Roger. "You guys think too much." He looked at Roger. "Always got your nose in some book you don't quite understand. Then you try quoting from it . . ."

Roger rolled a cigarette and took a deep drag. "Jung said he was only going to die when he was complete."

"There's a choice? See what I mean?"

Roger shook his head. He had a slight smile. Ever the Straight-Man.

Still no Andy. I couldn't yet face returning to my hot, empty studio apartment down in Alphabet City. So I stayed there in the hot, stuffy outdoors with the noise of the cars and trucks and the front wave of the commuter-rush home beginning to wash over us.

Eddie looked again at his watch. "This sucks, man." He rose, pulled his jeans up, and stalked off to our shaded instruments. He took his L5 out of its case and sat down on his little Mouse street amplifier, playing without any volume. Directing his restless energy. Roger and I continued to sit on the steps.

Roger turned to me. "You're not seriously going to split, are you?"

"I'd rather be home practicing than sitting here doing nothing."

"Isn't this what you practice for?"

I looked around at the dead fountain, a couple of despondent-looking pigeons, stained paving slabs and asphalt. "Not exactly."

"Man, I know it's not perfect. But you've got to make the best of it. Just ignore him." We were back on Andy again. Jesus.

Roger flicked some ash. "I hate practicing. I'd much rather play."

"You're one of those guys who practices on the stand. You're lucky. You're good enough you can get away with it."

"I can only use a practice pad at my place. The only time I get to play a halfway decent kit is out here at the moment."

I felt we were slowly spiraling towards some far-out place. I said, "A friend of mine used to talk about being a Tonal Warrior."

"What the fuck?"

"You know, kind of like martial arts. Some kind of musical warrior." I shook my head, frustrated that I couldn't find the right words. "It's not magic. It's practice. It's like, practicing, playing, becomes a sort of meditation almost. What ball players call being 'in The Zone' I guess. Those moments of certainty that come over us on the stand, or while you're practicing when, for a while, everything suddenly makes complete sense. And you don't regret it later on."

I looked up. There he was at last, his grungy, skinny Sid Vicious-looking Andy-ness striding confidently toward us. Beside him was a guy in his forties in a baggy grey suit, jacket over his shoulder like Frank on stage in Vegas, tie knot pulled away from his open collar. Roger and I left the steps to meet them. I guess we'd be playing another set after all.

I unlocked my sax case and took out my horn, fitted the mouthpiece carefully. Trying to ignore everything else; I was still feeling aggravated. Eddie, who I loved to play with, had been struggling with Andy's time today, not knowing what to do on occasion. Roger just steamed ahead steadfastly certain where the time should be. His idols weren't Elvin, Billy Higgins and Art Blakey for nothing. I couldn't adjust my reed properly, adding to my sweaty irritation.

Andy pulled his bass out of the bag, set it upright and began tuning up. Suit-Guy stood to one side, waiting patiently. Roger and I exchanged glances. With his back to Andy, Eddie leaned over his guitar towards us with a quizzical w-t-f expression.

"Who's that, your agent?" Roger asked. He clumsily straddled the line between teasing and being a jerk.

Andy chuckled. "He might be for all of us if you start playing."

"Excuse us," Eddie said. He looked at the guy curiously, though.

Trying out his kit, Roger said under his breath to me, "That motherfucker could sell snow to Eskimos." He adjusted one or two things until he was happy with his sound. I tested my sax sling, counted off the time, and we launched crisply into a song. Diving straight into the cold pool. Andy was playing a little more predictably than usual which was refreshing, but with flashes of his habit of avoiding playing anything slower than an eighth note in odd places.

It occurred to me, Andy's showing off for this new guy. Without introducing him. Fucking nice. Asshole. Andy had a knack of making tricky moments harder. He called "Conception" fast. We took up the challenge, navigating the swiftly moving chords, spinning spontaneous stories, somehow plaiting them into something larger. Being a band. By the time we finished we'd drawn a decent sized crowd. Now the problem would be if too many people gathered for too long it might attract the attention of the cops.

There's something in the power of live music, something that catches people walking by who had no intention of stopping, and without a word, convince them to stay for a moment longer and keep listening. And those moments become minutes, and those minutes become another tune. And on top of all that, they'll voluntarily give you money besides. It's just different from other kinds of musical experiences. Playing indoor gigs was a breeze by comparison. I mean, the audience had already decided to pay to come inside and hear you.

"Days of Wine and Roses," I called, thinking to play something the audience knew.

"Sure," Eddie said. "F and A-flat?" No need to add "like Bill" who first played it that way. I thought of Eddie as a young teen, riding home with Bill Evans, one of the greatest jazz musicians of the late twentieth century, soaking up whatever insight Bill had to offer like some kind of mother's milk.

The set seemed to build itself. Someone in the crowd dropped fifty bucks in the snare drum case, asked for "In a Sentimental Mood." No ballads in the streets. Energy, energy. Roger set up a Latin rhythm and we launched into the Ellington tune.

Next, "Grand Central!" Andy shouted, counting off the tempo way too fast for my liking. How the hell had we embraced him as a leader? My anger pushed me ahead of the beat. Chorus after chorus I played, with Roger driving us on. I spun a phrase, Roger embellished it. Suggested something else to me. I heard it, and on we went, Andy pretty oblivious to what was going on around him, but at least sticking with the changes, more or less. I felt lifted by some rhythmic tidal swell.

When I finally stepped aside, I was exhilarated. Eddie's guitar solo became a stream of eighth notes and triplets, like swift water somehow skipping before swirling away, following the groove of its banks. It brought another wave of applause from the crowd. During Roger's drum solo, a young black guy began break dancing for his friends. They cheered him on. Roger kept imaginative time for him. Then we slammed to a finish, a final flourish of drums. Nailed it.

After we ended the set, the crowd slowly dispersed. I made the rounds with the snare case. People smiled and dropped ones and fives and change as they left.

Andy's new pal waited until the last. "Very nice," he said. The guy looked at me. "Very nice," he repeated, then nodded, smiled, and dropped a twenty. To Andy he said, "Give me a call later this week and we'll set something up." Then he glanced at his watch, walked off from us. I thought, for no real reason, school's out. He stopped at the corner of Fifth and Central Park South like he had suddenly remembered something. He shouted back, "Hey, what's the band called?"

Before Andy could answer, Roger shouted back, "Tonal Warriors!" He rolled the snare drum and finished with a rim shot. Then he looked at me and Eddie, and grinned.

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