Blue Notes

By Patrick Welch

11:30 on a Tuesday night and the customers in the club were well into inebriation. Tim Wallace, my bass player, was deep in conversation with one of the barmaids. A college student, like so many infatuated with jazz and jazz musicians. I suppressed a grin as she played up to Tim's advances. She would learn.

Jeff Atkins was watching as well. "What do you think, Gary?" he nudged me. "Score tonight?"

"Most likely." I set down my empty glass and signaled the bartender for another. "When do you want to start?"

"Hell." The keyboardist surveyed the room. "Nobody here. Who would notice?"

I nodded toward the back of the room, where the owner was holding court. "She would."

"I suppose. Let's do it." He walked off to round up Wallace while I went to the small stage, grabbed my Guild archtop and turned on my amp. "Something easy," I said when my band mates joined me. "Misty.'" Seconds later Jeff threw out an Eb arpeggio and we loped into the song.

I watched the crowd through half-closed eyelids as we negotiated the tune. Typical Tuesday night, no real crowd, no one to play to or play off of. Oh, we would get a smattering of applause after a solo or the song ended, but this was just another gig to pay the bills, not the soul.

We were into our fourth number when he entered. He walked straight to one of the many empty tables in front and set his instrument case on the table. Hed it and started putting his soprano sax together without one glance at us, even going so far as to blow a few notes while I was in the middle of a solo. Then he set his horn down and stared at the stage.

"What do you think?" Atkins asked after we finished the song. "Should we cut him?"

"Probably deserves it," I said. "Ever see him before?"

"Nope."

"If he starts playing Kenny G, he's out like Al Gore," and I motioned him onstage.

It wasn't until he was standing beside me that I realized how old he was. Even on the poorly lit stage I could see the age and experience around his eyes even though his bearing suggested a man just stepping into middle age. His voice was deep and quiet, yet it cut easily through the din of conversation that floated our way. "Anything you want," he said when I asked.

"'Blue Bossa' in C minor okay?"

He blew a few tentative notes. "Fine."

Probably not the best choice, I realized as soon as I started it, our drummer having called in sick and no one in the crowd willing to sit in. But Wallace and I were able to lay down a steady groove and Atkins added punctuations as he sidled in.

I've played the song hundreds of time, but this was different. I caught it immediately, and even the most oblivious of the audience soon turned their attention to us. Rather, him. The tone that came out of his sax was as round and bright as the full moon. He didn't need a mic; his notes carried throughout every corner of the club, penetrating but not loud, demanding total attention. I almost missed my cue for my solo and stumbled over theng notes, so enraptured and excited I was by his playing. I glanced at him and offered an apologetic smile, but he wasn't looking at me or anything. He had his head back and eyes closed, swaying slightly to the music as if there was nothing else in the world.

No thought of cutting him now, selecting unusual chord substitutions or awkward keys in order to embarrass him. The remainder of the set we let him take us anywhere he wanted to go; we had no choice and didn't even want one. We finished a good twenty minutes beyond our normal set to thunderous applause and I was sweating when I set my guitar down. "That was beautiful," I said and offered my hand. "A true pleasure. I'm Gary Heinzel."

A faint smile played at the corner of his mouth. "Thank you. Just call me Pete."

Wallace and Atkins joined us, both fighting to get his attention like children in a classroom. I made the required introductions and we all joined him at his table. "I've never heard you play before, Pete. You new in town?" I asked.

"Yes. Just this week."

"Incredible stuff, just incredible," Atkins said.

"Thank you again."

I motioned the waitress over and within a few minutes we were all served. Several in the crowd were trying to get our attention as well, but we managed to ignore them and they finally took the hint. "You have the most incredible tone I've ever heard. Where have you played before?" I asked when the throng had left.

"Many places," he said after some consideration.

"I mean, New York? Chicago? Las Vegas?"

"No. Not there."

"Ever do any recording?" Wallace butted in.

"No."

Getting this guy toup was as difficult as seducing a nun. But if he didn't want to talk, he certainly didn't have to, I thought. I glanced at my band mates, then decided. "Look, we're playing here Saturday night. Pay isn't the greatest but we would sure love to have you with us." I watched out of the corner of my eye to see their reactions. It would mean less money for each of us, but their smiles told me it wouldn't matter.

"Saturday? For pay?"

"Absolutely. Best I can do tonight is get you a drink or two, I'm afraid."

"What time?"

"We start at ten."

He nodded as he started putting his instrument away. "I'll be here." He finished packing, downed his drink and walked out without another word.

"Strange dude, man. I know trees with more personality," Atkins said.

"Yep, but he can play. Should be interesting."

When I arrived not much after nine that Saturday, the club was already half-filled. We had announced that the sax player would join us during our sets that week and the word had spread. I saw the owner in the corner and she gave me a satisfied smile.

My drummer, DuJuan Jamieson, intercepted me at the bar. "What's this I hear about some cat sitting in tonight?"

"Soprano sax. Name's Pete. Never gave me his last name."

"He's costing me twenty bucks. He that good?"

"He's that good."

"He better be." But Jamieson was grinning when he walked away to talk with some friends. He knew I wouldn't jeopardize this gig with some stiff. That's what Tuesday nights were for.

We were already tuned up and planning our play list when Pete sauntered in. I glanced at my watch and shook my head; typical horn player, arriving for the gig at the last second. Only vocalists are worse, since all they have to carry is their voice. He set his battered case down by the corner of the stage and started putting together his soprano. I noticed for the first time how tarnished and old it was; pre-WWII without a doubt. I gave him a Bb and he tuned quickly.

I sat down. "'Stolen Moments,' C minor okay?" I asked Pete. He nodded, Jamieson counted out and we were off.

Literally. The difference between this night and the previous Tuesday was like Dixieland and hip-hop. Oh, that tone was still there, a tone any sax player would die for. But Pete's heart wasn't, he was playing the notes, not the music. Suitable for an elevator, perhaps, but not for a jazz club filled with ears which could hear the difference. In one sense his lack of effort inspired the rest of us; I ripped out a savage solo to "Caravan" and Jeff did his best Oscar Peterson imitation on "They Can't Take That Away From Me." But the point of having him join us was for mutual support and stimulation, not just to fill the spaces between the real playing. I was seething when we ended the set and I could tell the others were equally upset.

I pulled him aside as soon as we got off-stage. "What the hell was that?"

He was startled by my question. "What do you mean?"

"If you're not going to play, then leave."

"I don't understand. Was I making mistakes?"

"Everything you played was a mistake! What's wrong with you?" I tapped my chest. "Play from here, not from your head."

He frowned. "I don't know if I can."

"Can?" I felt like grabbing him. "What you played Tuesday was some of the most moving and enthralling music I have ever heard. You've got to play what you feel. I don't care about mistakes, play what you feel. Make me feel!"

"Play what I feel." I saw a flash of anger in his eyes. "That is what you want."

"Yes. Or stay off the stage."

"Then that is what I shall do."

I nodded and walked away, still seething. I joined the rest of the band, who were huddled by the stage. "What did you tell him?" Atkins asked.

"He plays like he did Tuesday or we're a quartet. Sorry, DuJuan," I nodded at my drummer.

He frowned. "Maybe he can't take the pressure. But I'm not taking a pay cut for this crap."

"You won't. He gets two songs."

Pete only needed one. In some ways I wish we were recording that night. Yet I doubt I could have ever listened to it. He didn't even wait for us to call out a song; he blew one long note that hung in the air like a cloud of smoke before falling in a crescendo that brought a shiver up my spine. We tried to support him as he led us into uncharted territory, but it was soon apparent he didn't need us. One by one we dropped out, becoming just additional members of the audience as he told us a story of overwhelming despair and pain, of loss and loneliness, of dreams abandoned and talent wasted. I was afraid to close my eyes, afraid to imagine what I would see without the distraction of the stage lights and the astonished patrons in front of me. His melody reached into me, probing for my heart, my very soul, first promising, then threatening to rip out my very essence and condemn me to some unimaginable, unbearable hell.

I don't know how long he played, just that it was nearly beyond my endurance to listen. Yet I had no choice. No one had a choice. There was no conversation, no bustle of the waitresses or clink of glasses. Just an unnatural stillness that focused us even more on the music he was subjecting us to. Until, with one final, wailing note, he deigned to release us.

Only then did he turn and look at me. I was drenched in sweat, my guitar nearly falling from my numb fingers. I forced myself to look at my fellow musicians. Wallace was standing next to his bass as if it was supporting him, Atkins was slumped over the piano, Jamieson just staring mutely ahead at nothing. "That's what I feel," he said and walked off the stage.

I tried to rouse myself but I couldn't move, still overwhelmed by the dread and hopelessness his song had wrought. Through half-closed eyes I saw the crowd slowly stirring, donning their coats and stumbling from the club. There would be no more music that night, no one to play to, no desire to play at all. I finally staggered from my chair, set down my guitar and nearly fell off the stage as I walked over to him. "What..." I managed to croak, then gave up. Speaking was now as difficult as thinking.

He gave me a smile of resignation. "It doesn't stop. It never stops. I had hoped, after all these years..." He faded off and looked at me with tears in his eyes. "Never again. I should have known. I can't ever play again."

I knew the pain I saw in his face. He had just played it for me. "Why?"

He had already packed his instrument and donned his jacket. "Hamelin," he said and walked away.

He never came back. To have that much power and talent and not be able to share it; the thought still terrifies me. Later I searched the Internet for his obscure reference, but all I found related to the fairy tale of the Pied Piper, so I still don't understand why and probably never will. Still, every time I see a stranger enter the club I watch closely just in case. Although I don't know if I could ever invite Pete to share the stage again.

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