Wallace, Ellis, Bucky….

La nostra attuale presenza in rete vorrebbe portare lontano, almeno per qualche istante,  i pensieri dei nostri visitatori dalla stringente, lugubre attualità che stringe il mondo. Cercheremo di continuare in questa vena, a suggerire film, concerti, podcast, vecchi e nuovissimi dischi, “razioni k” dello spirito come dice qualcuno, senza smettere un istante di sperare in un veloce miglioramento della situazione che ci attanaglia.

Oggi però non possiamo che celebrare la memoria di tre grandi jazzisti che ci hanno lasciato in queste ore per “complicanze da Covid-19“, ovvero il trombettista Wallace Roney (59 anni) , il pianista Ellis Marsalis (85) e il chitarrista Bucky Pizzarelli (94), tre uomini che lasciano una generosa scia di grande jazz alle loro spalle, musica senza scadenza, che intercetteremo con rinnovata e grata emozione.

Con Wallace Roney, la scomparsa più  improvvisa,  se ne va un maestro della tromba Jazz, uomo di punta della cosiddetta generazione dei “Giovani Leoni” che avevano saputo innervare il linguaggio jazzistico con il recupero della tradizione, nel suo caso portando avanti il lascito diretto di Miles Davis, anche se la sua sensibilità musicale era sfaccettata ed assai personale.  Lo ricorderemo tra poco con un pezzo interamente dedicato alla sua figura, qui riproponiamo una nostra recensione di “A Place in Time”, uscito nel 2017, con due clip da youtube da quell’album.

“My daddy passed away last night. We now join the worldwide family who are mourning grandfathers and grandmothers, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers— kinfolk, friends, neighbors, colleagues, acquaintances and others.

What can one possibly say about loss in a time when there are many people losing folks that mean so much to them? One of my friends lost both her mother AND father just last week. We all grieve and experience things differently, and I’m sure each of my five brothers are feeling and dealing in their own way.

My daddy was a humble man with a lyrical sound that captured the spirit of place–New Orleans, the Crescent City, The Big Easy, the Curve. He was a stone-cold believer without extravagant tastes.
Like many parents, he sacrificed for us and made so much possible. Not only material things, but things of substance and beauty like the ability to hear complicated music and to read books; to see and to contemplate art; to be philosophical and kind, but to also understand that a time and place may require a pugilistic-minded expression of ignorance.

His example for all of us who were his students (a big extended family from everywhere), showed us to be patient and to want to learn and to respect teaching and thinking and to embrace the joy of seriousness. He taught us that you could be conscious and stand your ground with an opinion rooted ‘in something’ even if it was overwhelmingly unfashionable. And that if it mattered to someone, it mattered.

I haven’t cried because the pain is so deep….it doesn’t even hurt. He was absolutely my man. He knew how much I loved him, and I knew he loved me (though he was not given to any type of demonstrative expression of it). As a boy, I followed him on so many underpopulated gigs in unglamorous places, and there, in the passing years, learned what it meant to believe in the substance of a fundamental idea whose only verification was your belief.

I only ever wanted to do better things to impress HIM. He was my North Star and the only opinion that really deep down mattered to me was his because I grew up seeing how much he struggled and sacrificed to represent and teach vital human values that floated far above the stifling segregation and prejudice that defined his youth but, strangely enough, also imbued his art with an even more pungent and biting accuracy.

But for all of that, I guess he was like all of us; he did the best he could, did great things, had blind spots and made mistakes, fought with his spouse, had problems paying bills, worried about his kids and other people’s, rooted for losing teams, loved gumbo and red beans, and my momma’s pecan pie.

But unlike a healthy portion of us, he really didn’t complain about stuff. No matter how bad it was.

A most fair-minded, large-spirited, generous, philanthropic (with whatever he had), open-minded person is gone. Ironically, when we spoke just 5 or 6 days ago about this precarious moment in the world and the many warnings he received ‘to be careful, because it wasn’t his time to pass from COVID’, he told me,” Man, I don’t determine the time. A lot of people are losing loved ones. Yours will be no more painful or significant than anybody else’s”.
That was him, “in a nutshell”, (as he would say before talking for another 15 minutes without pause).

In that conversation, we didn’t know that we were prophesying. But he went out soon after as he lived—-without complaint or complication. The nurse asked him, “Are you breathing ok?” as the oxygen was being steadily increased from 3 to 8, to too late, he replied, ”Yeah. I’m fine.”

For me, there is no sorrow only joy. He went on down the Good Kings Highway as was his way, a jazz man, with grace and gratitude. And I am grateful to have known him.”