for joanne brakeen (7)

for joanne brakeen

1938 --

do they call you the picasso of jazz piano
because u boldly paint yr musical ideas from
different aural points, independently? because
u pendulum from brilliantly colored, loosely
structured tonal poems of intense emotion
to the monochromatic, faceted abstractions that
whimsically hint of melody. or perhaps like
picasso, u had yr own époque negre which
vitalizes u still, yr amazing chops, the crystalline
geometry in yr virtuosic & unpredictable playing.
u must have been one bold white girl to beaugarde
yr way into art blakey’s jazz messengers in ’69
& u have certainly come a long way from the
self-taught slip of a girl imitating frankie carle,
bud powell & charlie parker. when i listen to u
i run the gamut from being buffeted like a ship-
wrecked sailor on a flimsy fragment of raft by
towering tidal swells & torrential winds driving
yr keyboard attack that strains my faith to its
limits [that inspite of all u will bring me safely
to shore] to a magical depiction of sound that
eschews the aural replication of nature, but
exaggerates & distorts notes, forms, & colors

that massage my soul like a forty-fingered
masseuse. the greatest among today’s players
acknowledge u peer; the tyners, the jarretts,
the hancocks, brubecks & matsui’s. even
tatum were he alive would throw you a
respectful nod. here are my heartfelt flowers,
joanne, the kind that won/t wilt or fade on
paper. impress them, please, on yr heart so
that like yr trills & figures on mine, they will
remain eternally fresh.

©Joseph McNair; 2010

for shirley scott (6)

for shirley scott

1934-2002

miss shirley, mambo asogwe
of the hammond b-3, oh how
u loved to preserve the rituals
& songs linking the spirits &
our people; blending in yr
m'bugi cauldron an aggressive,
deftly rhythmic attack steeped
in triplet related swing, intricate
bebop harmonies minus post-
coltrane modal voicings. with
bluesy melody lines undergirded
by a gospel worship chord or
two, to let the spirits flow.

u rocked us & hard bopped us,
shirley, scored our lives between
the commercials with jazz, crisp
but relaxed in tempo & full of
diverse spirits, like miles who
came clean in ’54, walkin’ in out
of a deep jones into the arms of
his shapeshifting muse. but u,
shirley, unsullied & singleminded,
fused exquisite harmonic conception
with funky lufuki sensibility, just
outside of mainstream jazz but
ever true to yr blue loas/muses.

©Joseph McNair;2010

for toshiko akiyoshi (5)

for toshiko akiyoshi

1929 --

in the spring sea

waves undulating & undulating

all day long

yosa buson

to swing like teddy wilson, the whimsical
go-between to fatha hines (who lively lurked
in impenetrable lounges of negro)
was one of a few jazzy thoughts a gifted,
piano loving japanese girl, late from
manchuria, might hold fast while seeking to
fashion out of her own sound & style a jazz
orchestra made in her image & steeped in
mirin, soy sauce & fresh ginger, dry rubbed &
marinated in coarse ellington spices,
boppish lines, bluesy seasonings…& cooking!


©Joseph McNair;2010

for turiyasangitananda (4)

for turiyasangitananda

aka alice coltrane
1937-2007

why hang'st thou lonely on yon withered bough?

unstrung for ever, must thou there remain…

henry louis vivian derozio

does it really matter who u were
before, swamini? before everything
turned saffron, when the very air
bore the fragrant scent of god’s
anointed mercy & no less than u
found yrself on a fated journey,
in a glorious galaxy -- in satchidananda,
in the energetic state of non-duality.
does it matter that yr music, even
then, yoked life, mind & matter
with sublime states -- in & thru yr
piano’s ten thousand moving parts?
in & thru yr harp’s neck, sound
board & strings? in & thru yr raw,
blistered & calloused virtuosity. no,
it matters not at all, for u are with
that, turiyasangitananda, in the
supreme abode of the adorable,
the formless, passionless & unborn;
swimming in that existence, in that
consciousness & bliss -- in that sea of
milk. & should your beloved harp
hang on some withered bough,
unstrung, fear not. yr music, yr sacred
selfsong, yr chaitya purusha will
incarnate again in new bodies;
resonate in new harps & hearts!

©Joseph McNair;2010

for dorothy ashby (3)

for dorothy ashby
1932-1986

u coaxed a syncretic hard bop out
of the perpendicular positioning of a
plane of strings; in a love object/
instrument squeezed between yr
knees, in a long, graceful wooden
neck resting lightly on yr shoulder.
yr austere, imposingly fleet fingertips
pushed by pistoning arms & hands
picked & plucked strings of silver,gold
nylon & gut. a glissando flourish here, an
infectious groove there, that cut right
into the flesh of blues that bled
buddhist—that bumped & skipped
a peripatetic meditation, opening &
extending bebop to let the gospel in,
to let the boogie in, to let the hemistech,
quatrain & the spirit of khayyámi in.
to become radiant & reveal the
heavenly perfection in yr soul.

©Joseph McNair;2010

for dorothy donegan (2)

for dorothy donegan

1922-1998

“her reputation as a lounge entertainer has virtually buried the fact that she is potentially the greatest jazz pianist playing today."
john s. wilson

u, lady dynamite, not peterson, was tatum’s
true protégé. yr stride left hand played a four-beat life
pulse with a single bass note, a shrill octave, sassy
seventh or tentative tenth interval on yr first
& third beats; an orchestral chord on yr second &
fourth. we all knew that this "baby got bach! ” when u dressed
a standard in polyphonic structures,when u struck

the notes in that melody & listened to their long

decay, when u placed yr uncommon accents in strange
& unusual places, often before the down,
& then swung gently like marylou, bringing the halves

of yr genius, like tatum & williams together –

we witnessed adroitness never again to be seen .

©Joseph McNair;2010

for marylou williams (1)

for marylou williams

1910-1981

jamming with mckinney's cotton pickers at harlem's
rhythm club, u caught the eye of no less than satchmo.
he heard u out, then picked yr skinny fifteen year old
butt up & kissed you. the rest is unrevisionist
herstory. who’d a thought that mary elfrieda scruggs
from buttermilk-bottom, the little piano girl
smuggled into pittsburg’s juke joints & gambling houses
under her stepdaddy’s overcoat & who played for
pittsburg’s sporting man coin, would not only go on to
write for goodman, dorsey & lunceford, play with the duke
but mentor the likes of diz & monk; pass bebop thru
her birth canal, all the time swinging, writing as she
played, showing us what real jazz comping was all about.

©Joseph McNair;2010