Alan Shorter I was playing at the Tin Palace, long defunct and much lamented club on the Bowery, just above CBGB. Paul Pines, the owner, had instituted a mostly-jazz policy. It was second-tier stuff, but good, solid, blue-collar grease-under-the-fingernails second-tier stuff, steak and potatoes, rice and beans. You wouldn't catch Sonny or Miles, but you would catch Richie Coles, Monty Waters, Atilla Zoller, and a young Charnette Moffet. I had just finished playing a set with David Lahm and Billy Ward, and walked over to the bar to get a drink. An intense and concentrated black man looked up from his drink. "I like that song, 'Invitation'", he said. I had just played a solo on the great Bronislaw Kapers melody. "Yeah, thanks," I said. "I'm Jon Albrink." "I'm Alan Shorter." "Oh, yeah, man, you're Wayne's brother," I said, happily surprised. He made a face like I had stubbed out a cigarette on his hand, and made a sound to match. What had I done? Alan was a trumpet player, and had played on one of Wayne's albums for Blue Note, "The All Seeing Eye". This had to be a bad case of sibling rivalry, after years of being compared to his genius brother. Then he recovered, and looked intently at me. He raised his index finger and started singing to me, stabbing the air with his finger to spell out the notes. His voice was raspy, but I recognized it as the melody to "Invitation." "Dee-deet-dee-dee, deet-dee-dee-dee-deet-deeee-deee." Looking at me. "Dee-deet-de-deee, dee-deet-de-dee, dee-DAHHHHH..." I nodded in agreement. "Dee-deet-dee-dee, deet-dee-dee-dee-deet-deeee-deee, Dee-deet-de-deee, dee-deet-de-dee, dee-DAHHHHH..." I nodded helplessly. I was trapped in Bronislaw Kaper's deadly downward spiral of the cycle of fifths. "Dee-deet-dee-dee, dee-dee-dee-dee-de-deeeee," pointing at the air. "Dee-deet-dee-dee, dee-deet-dee-dee-de-deeeee." "Dee-dee-de-dee, dwee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dweee-deeee." Thank God, the first ending. "Dee-dee-dee-dee, dee-dee-dee-deee, de-DAHHHH." A pause. What a strange, beautiful melody, from the movie with Lana Turner. Were we going to get the whole thing? "Dee-dee-dee-deeeh, dee-dee-dee-deet-dee-deee-deee, dee-deet-dee-dee, dee-deet-dee-dee, dee deeeehhhh..." We were. "Dee-deeet-deee-deee,dee-dee-dee-deet-dee-dee-deee, dee-dee-dee-deeeh, dee-dee-dee-deee, deee-DEEEEHHH." "Yeah, man. Yeah, Alan. All right," was all I could muster. Evidently satisfied, he turned away from me on his bar stool and went back to his drink. |