Read Online A Thousand Miles from Nowhere by John Gregory Brown - Free Book Online
Authors: John Gregory Brown
Ads: Link
I Were a Bell,” Davis’s fluttering trumpet speeding through the melody, somehow managing to suggest both uncertainty and resolve. A young girl, a teenager, her hair pulled tight behind her head, smiled at Henry, picked up a laminated menu, and led him to an open table.
“The music?” Henry said as he sat down.
“Not me.” The girl laughed, shaking her head. “That’s my grandfather. He’s crazy for this stuff.”
“You don’t like it?” Henry said.
The girl glanced behind her and shook her head again. “No words to it.”
“It’s Miles Davis,” Henry said, and the girl looked at him as though trying to figure out something, whether he was dangerous, maybe, or what kind of accent he had. “I like it,” Henry said.
“Most people don’t. They just want it turned down,” the girl said. “Papa can’t hear so well, so all day he turns it up bit by bit until it’s blaring.”
“It’s meant to be loud,” Henry said.
“Well, I’ll tell Papa someone finally likes it.”
“Wait,” Henry said as the girl started to go. “Listen,” he said, and he was surprised by the pleading tone in his voice. The girl stopped and turned her head to the side as though she was indeed listening. She had a small scar on the bottom of her chin, a thin pale line against the brown skin, and she raised a hand to cover it. Maybe she had noticed Henry looking. And that moment, as if Henry had orchestrated it, the trumpet fell away just as the tenor sax took over, a spiraling line of exquisite power and grace. “That’s Wayne Shorter,” Henry said, surprised that he knew this. “In 1965,” he said. “Live at the Plugged Nickel.” He shook his head. “It’s a crazy thing to know,” he said. “It’s just—”
The girl looked at him, her hand still at her chin.
What was he trying to say? He couldn’t explain that it was this kind of thing—insignificant, useless—that always popped into his head.
“Well, you sound just like Papa,” the girl said, stepping away now, hurrying toward a table where a man was holding his check in the air.
What he truly sounded like, Henry knew, was his own father, leaning near their old Philips stereo, the receiver’s tubes casting a faint green light onto the wall behind the stereo’s wooden cabinet. Henry sat and listened now, in this crowded restaurant, as he had sat next to his father, both of them absolutely still, Henry standing up only when one record ended and the next one dropped into place. He’d liked to watch the records spinning around, liked to try to decipher the label as the disk spun and spun. “Listen,” his father would tell him, a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Listen to this.” And now, though for the life of him he couldn’t say why, Henry felt as though he were hearing this music, truly hearing it, for the very first time, as though he could finally detect what he had never been able to before—the distinct pattern that all the instruments, weaving this way and that, had stitched together.
Though Henry had listened, through the years, to nearly all of the music his father had left behind, he’d never understood it the way his father had. Henry had made his way through his father’s reel-to-reel and cassette tapes and dusty 78s, through the recordings of Algerian rai and Ethiopian jazz, Cuban son and Congolese rumba and Andalusian flamenco, Caribbean gospel and Texas and Delta and Memphis blues. He tried to listen to the scratchy Folkways’ recordings of slaves’ sorrow songs and Baptist hymns and prison chants and sea chanteys and Appalachian ballads. Henry could usually distinguish one style from another, could sometimes name the particular artist who was playing, but he lacked whatever talent his father possessed that allowed him to perceive the way all of the world’s music was, as his father had explained it, a single song.
Henry could even remember how once, on a world map laid out across the kitchen table, his father had
“The music?” Henry said as he sat down.
“Not me.” The girl laughed, shaking her head. “That’s my grandfather. He’s crazy for this stuff.”
“You don’t like it?” Henry said.
The girl glanced behind her and shook her head again. “No words to it.”
“It’s Miles Davis,” Henry said, and the girl looked at him as though trying to figure out something, whether he was dangerous, maybe, or what kind of accent he had. “I like it,” Henry said.
“Most people don’t. They just want it turned down,” the girl said. “Papa can’t hear so well, so all day he turns it up bit by bit until it’s blaring.”
“It’s meant to be loud,” Henry said.
“Well, I’ll tell Papa someone finally likes it.”
“Wait,” Henry said as the girl started to go. “Listen,” he said, and he was surprised by the pleading tone in his voice. The girl stopped and turned her head to the side as though she was indeed listening. She had a small scar on the bottom of her chin, a thin pale line against the brown skin, and she raised a hand to cover it. Maybe she had noticed Henry looking. And that moment, as if Henry had orchestrated it, the trumpet fell away just as the tenor sax took over, a spiraling line of exquisite power and grace. “That’s Wayne Shorter,” Henry said, surprised that he knew this. “In 1965,” he said. “Live at the Plugged Nickel.” He shook his head. “It’s a crazy thing to know,” he said. “It’s just—”
The girl looked at him, her hand still at her chin.
What was he trying to say? He couldn’t explain that it was this kind of thing—insignificant, useless—that always popped into his head.
“Well, you sound just like Papa,” the girl said, stepping away now, hurrying toward a table where a man was holding his check in the air.
What he truly sounded like, Henry knew, was his own father, leaning near their old Philips stereo, the receiver’s tubes casting a faint green light onto the wall behind the stereo’s wooden cabinet. Henry sat and listened now, in this crowded restaurant, as he had sat next to his father, both of them absolutely still, Henry standing up only when one record ended and the next one dropped into place. He’d liked to watch the records spinning around, liked to try to decipher the label as the disk spun and spun. “Listen,” his father would tell him, a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Listen to this.” And now, though for the life of him he couldn’t say why, Henry felt as though he were hearing this music, truly hearing it, for the very first time, as though he could finally detect what he had never been able to before—the distinct pattern that all the instruments, weaving this way and that, had stitched together.
Though Henry had listened, through the years, to nearly all of the music his father had left behind, he’d never understood it the way his father had. Henry had made his way through his father’s reel-to-reel and cassette tapes and dusty 78s, through the recordings of Algerian rai and Ethiopian jazz, Cuban son and Congolese rumba and Andalusian flamenco, Caribbean gospel and Texas and Delta and Memphis blues. He tried to listen to the scratchy Folkways’ recordings of slaves’ sorrow songs and Baptist hymns and prison chants and sea chanteys and Appalachian ballads. Henry could usually distinguish one style from another, could sometimes name the particular artist who was playing, but he lacked whatever talent his father possessed that allowed him to perceive the way all of the world’s music was, as his father had explained it, a single song.
Henry could even remember how once, on a world map laid out across the kitchen table, his father had
Similar Books
