Coltrane

By David Harrison

Our minds made New York City
come alive
in the lifeless museum.
We boarded the “A” train heading north.
We swayed, we hummed.
We felt the rush of movement
‘til we stepped off in Harlem.

Ghostly sounds were everywhere-
the voices of Langston and DuBois,
the clattering of the ‘el’,
the music of Cab and the Duke.

Outside the Cotton Club,
I knelt with a radio in my hands,
a circle of children around me.
We talked about jazz,
the uniqueness,
the passion
born in this first free place.

Billie Holiday did not touch them.
They giggled at her airy voice,
and glanced away
as the muted music yielded to it.

Every song failed.

Until Coltrane,
an afterthought.

As the disjointed piano came up,
tinkling like glass,
and the drums rattled an almost rhythm,
they swiveled towards the song.
With a harsh child’s eye,
they judged if this was worth their time.
The saxophone sold them.
It surfaced like a porpoise,
high-pitched and squelching,
alive with shocking intelligence.

They leaned into the music.
They strained towards every note
of “My Favorite Things.”
This was whiteness made black,
and black made even blacker.

One boy,
troubled and alone,
came to life beside me.
I could feel his heated fascination,
the joy that comes
with his seldom smiles.
He snatched the case away from me,
and asked excitedly,
“What is this?”
He devoured the liner notes,
rocking to the music,
stealing all he could
from those tiny cramped words.

Imagine.
Twelve years old and black,
hearing jazz for the first time.
His father gone,
his mother in jail,
his aged grandfather too old to care.

He drank in Coltrane like wine.

Today,
when it was time to go,
there were no long speeches to endure,
no talk of responsibility and discipline.
Today,
he was free
from the stern confusion of his guardians.
For once he went home glowing.
With new-found music
still pulsing through him,
he held on to something
that an hour before
he hadn’t known he loved.

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