Holographic Universe I 1/2

Trumpet Today

Holographic Universe  I 1/2 

Does anyone know how to write 1/2 in Roman numerals?

Trumpet Today

As a side bar, an illustrative story. Adapted as a once and out show playing in the Universal Theater. Here and Now. 

Those of you who have read ACTING HUMAN from jump street, as we beboppers call ‘the start,’ will surely remember that a life changing trumpet fell into my hands, seemingly by accident, when cousin Ronnie of Coney Island exhibited disturbing ‘episodes’ related to forced lessons from Uncle Willie, his trumpet playing, short on cash, newly immigrated uncle from Poland. 

We now know how intricately entwined in implicate order Willie’s arrival, fires, fear, and the flow of urine under Ronnie’s bed are buried, until evinced as explicate in story.

“The universe is made of stories, not of atoms.”~Muriel Rukeyser

Life is like a movie. It is like an unfolding story that we read and interpret, while identifying with the stars (i.e., gods) and immersing ourselves in the drama. When we start to notice this, life becomes lighter. The monotony fades and the magic begins. For when we turn our attention to our bodies, feelings, perceptions, impulses, and consciousness, we find that we are woven of the quixotic threads of ongoing stories. For only such a self can create and be created. A fixed, intractable one is as good as dead. ~Stephan Batchelor 

I awaited these explicate events (Ronnie/Willie - Coney Island/Poland), unknowingly, ever since Louis Armstrong popped out of an 8” Garod television in the Bronx, and I was struck with a feeling/sense of ONE with ‘Pops.’

Life led me to Pauly Cohen and Clark Terry. 

If memory serves, this photo has appeared here along the way, in any case, here it is (maybe again) as if for the first time.

From their teachings and mentoring I learned much about music, trumpet playing, and life. I now see that the connections are seamless. 

I’ve had dozens of trumpets during my time on Earth. Martins, Selmers, Bachs, Bessons, Conns, and a hand crafted nameless one made in France. 

Today I am passing along the last trumpet left in the house. Out of trumpets. All gone.

There were two for a while. When Pauly died, at 98, in Tamarac, Florida (where else do Jews go to die?) he bequeathed to me a near and dear Bach Stradivarius. The one he played in the Count Basie band.

That very trumpet now graces a glass case, at J. Landress Brass, THE NYC shop for brass instrumentalists in the know. Pauly’s horn is in the company of instuments played by truly legendary players who plied the trumpet playing trade.

When I inherited Pauly’s Stradivarius, my first thought was to find a young player who would appreciate the horn’s provenance and continue to blow air through it. I searched diligently. Alas, to my amazement and slight chagrin, I found not a soul.

Today I prepared the King trumpet pictured up top for its next home. It’s a student model that I’ve kept around to oil and blow from time to time.

The oiling was kinda fun. The blowing, not so much. 

No practice. No play. If you want to play trumpet or live life alive, practice is of the essence.

Letting a perfectly playable trumpet sit unused feels wrong. Some kid needs that horn. I know how she feels.

I bought it years ago for my son, Max, when he was ten-ish. He took three lessons and put it down. He, through twists and turns, wound up practicing oral surgery. So, he’s embouchure adjacent. Nobody’s perfect.

Recently I discovered a ’Trumpet Lessons’ program sponsored by the Louis Armstrong House and Museum in Queens, NY. That’s where the King goes tomorrow.

LAHM Education

Pops’ simple house is now an expansive museum, a repository of all things Louis. A ton of it is online. He kept reel-to-reel tapes, copious notes, letters, diaries, photos, and maybe a forgotten joint or two. He was a daily pot smoker -  

A Swiss Kriss laxative user, and endorser -

Pops loved the trumpet and kids.

There is now a proper exhibition building in addition to the original house.

I’ve, inexplicably, never been to the LAHM. 

I have been in the original house. 

One fine day in the 60s I was driving in Queens with passengers Clark Terry and Dizzy Gillespie. I was far from the best player among us, but I was far and away the best driver. These guys spent their entire lives ‘on the road.’ No need to drive.

I actually taught CT to drive when I was fourteen. No license but plenty of experience behind the wheel. A precocious child was I.

Terry came off the road to settle in NYC and integrate the NBC musical staff. 

Having bought a Ford Falcon before he knew how to drive, I became the designated teacher. He never really got the hang of it. He managed.

On that day in Queens, we were passing near Pops’ house. Dizzy wondered nonchalantly what Pops was doing. CT said, “let’s see.”

We drove to his house like we were calling on a friend to come out ’n play. Something kids did back in the day.

Pops was home! We sat in his living room. Talked and laughed. Dizzy and Clark got some advice. He told them both to sing and entertain more. “It saves your chops, boys.” I mostly sat silent. I’m still flabbergasted.

Today, I cleared the King case of unnecessary stuff, leaving only a pristine and freshly oiled horn, mouthpieces, a harmon mute, and a full bottle of valve oil. 

Shoved into the corner of the case I found a piece of folded paper. I was ready to toss it, preoccupied with an undercurrent of emotion. Curiosity took hold. I unfolded the enfolded. A copy of Pauly Cohen’s death certificate. 

It’s all story. We’re all story. A WHOLE STORY for us to see and live together.

Music to play.

Accident. Coincidence. Synchronicity. What’s the difference? Language.

Enjoy the fun in us.

"It's fun if you are, if you're not fun, nothing's fun." ~Dubin

Live Life Alive - ACT HUMAN

Until Next time,

Lights Up!

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