The Jazz Life of Dr. Billy Taylor

7. Reflections

187 Ilisten to those old records and I can’t believe that there was a time that I could play that fast! I miss the dexterity of my youth. And I miss those old days, that affirming sense of camaraderie we had when jazz was our gathering place. I even miss those smoke-filled, hot, and crowded clubs, the happy sounds of chattering people, clinking glasses, toasting the night that always seemed young, people that were there to hear us, to actually stop and listen to the band play. I have never been a smoker, and I’ve always hated the smell of cigarette smoke even though I’ve played in many different places, in various kinds of atmospheres. But somehow, whenever I was in the moment, whenever I played, the music made me forget about the nicotine. Music sometimes induces a temporary amnesia that I welcome. It makes me forget that I’m supposedly a senior citizen and that each day now I need a few minutes to steady myself when I get out of bed in the morning. Sometimes I misplace things and need help finding my glasses or keeping track of my schedule. But whenever I sit down and place my fingers on the piano keys—whether on a shiny, well-maintained Steinway, or on a less-thanpristine instrument with a key or two sticking or missing—somehow, music answers me, meets me right where I am, enlivens and rejuvenates me.Thereisaloveaffairtherethatalwaysmakesmeforgetwhatiswrong and draws my attention to all that is right. A few years ago, I started using more of my left hand than I ever did in my earlier days. I had to do that out of necessity. Music didn’t scold me, question me, or ask me to explain; it just welcomed the change and said, “Here, I’ve got some seven Reflections 188 The Jazz Life of Dr. Billy Taylor marvelous things for your lefthand to do.” I think my right handbecame envious!! The music made us forget that society said people should be separate ,madeusforget—temporarily,atleast—thethreateninganddivisive signs that labeled us and confined us to places that were either “White Only” or “Colored Only.” Long before there were marches and sit-ins, protests and demonstrations, long before there were people yelling and screaming and shooting and killing each other because of their differences , there we were, united around our music, stomping at the Savoy, at the Apollo, at Small’s Paradise, dancing and swaying to America’s Classical Music, jazz! We were a democracy offering equal rights to all who could swing. That was the question—the only question—Can you swing? It didn’t matter if you were as white as Carl Kress on guitar, or Al Haigonpiano,orMartyMarsalaontrumpet,orasCubanasCandidoon percussion, or as African American as one of us; it didn’t matter if your skin was light or dark, or if your lips were thick or thin, or if your hair was straight or curly or kinky; didn’t matter whether you spoke with an accent or talked jive; didn’t even matter whether you could read music, or if you played only by ear. Didn’t matter which part of the bus you rode on or which side of the street you walked on or who you loved when you left the club or who was beside you when you woke up in the morning. Jazz made those differences irrelevant, pushed all of that nonsense to the background. The only thing that mattered was the sound and the feel you produced, what happened when you placed your fingers on the piano, or your mouth on your horn, or when you plucked the string on your upright bass. Can you swing? That’s all anyone wanted to know, whether you were young or old, whether you were a woman or a man. Women never got their fair shake in jazz, and we are still working to correct that inequity. But despite that unfairness, there were women who could hold their own, who could swing so powerfully that they shamed the men into conceding defeat. While the music played, your swing was all that mattered. Music can teach us a lot about getting along with each other. Jazz is a perfect expression of the democracy, the equality, the freedom, and the individualism that this country values. Jazz is what America is supposed to be. If only we could live the way that jazz sounds, blending [13.58.150.59] Project MUSE...