Tag Archives: jazz

Slang for my father

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Now here comes the latest song from my band The Metrocenter. We recorded this as part of the MWB Semi-Live series at their studio in downtown Jackson — Sergio Fernandez’s old studio for the true JXN heads out there. This was nostalgically gratifying for me because the last time I’d been in that space working on music was with Sergio when I was recording a demo of my sensitive little college sophomore tunes. Think Ben Folds without the anger or the piano. Those scratch takes live somewhere on a cassette. But now I’ve come back, armed with equipment and friends, and have done this. 

Here’s the tune on Spotify and Bandcamp.

I wrote the tune, which turned out to be a kind of homage or sequel to (or desperate imitation of) the Horace Silver classic “Song for My Father,” which I played a kajillion times with my own father and Scott Turner. For you Steely Dan Quiz Bowl geeks, you will also recognize the Silver original as the prompt for the bass riff in the Dan’s “Rikki Don’t Lose that Number.” 

Liner notes: 
Denny Burkes: drums
Jakob Clark: bass and vocals
Drew McKercher: guitar and trombone
Barrett Hathcock: Rhodes and composition
Tyler Kemp: engineering and trumpet

Thanks to TK for engineering. Thanks to John Scanlon for letting me borrow his Fender Twin at a moment’s notice. Thanks to Marc Leffler for having us in his studio. And thanks to Horace Silver. 

Sometimes I try to think through what I’m doing in this group, what I’m trying to do writing these tunes, what I’m shooting for. When we put out our first single, I joked that it was like jazz, except without the annoying parts. I still think that’s true basically, and I actually like jazz. I mean, it’s complicated. Jazz is gigantic as a category and historically fraught as a term and also implies a certain approach to the music. Mostly what it means is a commitment to improvisation over a form, if there is a form, variation upon a theme, with the proportion heavily weighted toward variation. What this song doesn’t have, both general for The Metrocenter tunes but also other instrumental tunes I tend to write, is that they don’t have the variation. They don’t have any solos over the form. They’re almost completely theme. Yes, there is some variation, but it’s not the current standard practice of jazz improvisation, which is: some kind of intro, head of the tune, everyone solos over the form, head out. When I see a big jazz band with lots of horns or other instrumentation, it’s exciting, but I also realize: everyone of these fellas is going to take a solo. We’re gonna be here for 15 minutes. It gets boring. I tend to like the heads better than the solos. Are there transcendent solos? Sure. All of these generalizations are wafer thin. I write as if I have any idea what I am doing regarding writing a tune, as if it’s deliberate practice, when in fact I’m driving backwards in the dark, with no cameras, in the fog, hoping I don’t hit anything too substantial. 

(Other details I dislike about modern jazz in particular since I’m being honest: Often I can’t tell what the theme even is. The drummer is messing with the time, fracturing it, problematizing the grid, and I can’t tap my foot. The horn players, having explored all available notes in their long solos, resort to exploring the uppermost register of their instrument, also known as kicking the cat. Bands recording yet another version of a jazz standard that’s been done unto death — music for zombies. And finally, the music often feels annoying on purpose.)

Also, part of the reason there aren’t any solos is because I can’t solo on piano. It’s the old aesthetic-choice-by-way-of-personal-limitation path. 

Perhaps this is not jazz at all, not as we’ve come to understand it. In a long profile of Khruangbin in the New York Times Magazine last year, David Byrne was quoted describing the band as “instrumental pop,” a long tradition, though now somewhat obscured. I found that phrase clarifyingly unpretentious. I suppose pop music simply means music that’s meant to be enjoyed by people, or the people, music not meant for religious procedures, or as background to some other activity such as a movie or a TikTok, though of course we know that music, once recorded, gets repurposed for all manner of distraction; nor is it music that’s intentionally fenced off via genre, like death metal or bluegrass, speaking primarily to the requirements of its selected category rather than the uninitiated strangers who might encounter it. One of the problems I have with contemporary jazz is that it feels like walking into a higher level math class, both in terms of composition and presentation, a private language clothed in the haughtiness of art. Whereas I suppose pop music is just music to listen to, to enjoy. Music that wants to be liked, perhaps too desperately. That enjoyment is primary over representing the artistic bonafides of the musicians. The late Steve Albini, when asked his opinion of jazz, said he didn’t like it because he found it to be “vain music.” I do like jazz, but I think that’s a challenging adjective. He’s not wrong. 

Perhaps the reason I even think of the term jazz when writing these short instrumental tunes is that jazz is synonymous with short form instrumental tunes and also it’s considered artistically superior. I just want to be taken seriously! And also liked! I am fun at parties.

The question then becomes if you’re not going to have solos, if you’re not going to introduce variation that way, then how are you going to keep the songs from being boring. If you’re writing a tune with vocals, then you have different verses. The words, the whole linguistic channel of information, changes the meaning of the song, an arc over time. But if it’s just the sound, then what changes? Do you just repeat yourself forever? You could change the sound, either through texture or through new instrumentation, but I find this dissatisfying. There’s too much emphasis on texture in pop music. Between the synths and the guitar pedals, which really are the same thing, there’s too much sound, and not enough emphasis on changing the rhythm or the harmony. I am mostly against distortion as a goal, which becomes a kind of aural filler. The Yiddish word for the stuffing they put inside coats is schlock.

So far then it seems that the solution is to keep things brief and introduce more themes, more melody. Most jazz standards are AABA form. I find myself searching for C and D and maybe even E sections to keep things interesting. But then again, all of this implies I am in some mode of control. Like I said above, I have no idea what I am actually doing. I did not go to music school. I did not study composition. I am mostly trying to relieve boredom, and whatever else lives deep down below boredom.

The days of wine and roses

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In general I find the “Days” that cycle through the calendar to be overwrought, commercialized, too much but not enough. Along with occasions for commerce and brunch, they seem to be occasions for disappointment. If you love someone, nothing you do on Valentine’s Day will ever be commensurate with that love. Likewise, if you appreciate your mother or your father, no amount of cards ever does them justice. Perhaps the notion of doing justice, that kind of rigorous accounting, is a foolish idea. I shouldn’t be so literal. It’s the gesture that’s important. It’s a synecdoche for all that gratitude, a gesture toward their storm of support and devotion, roiling constantly over the plains. 

For the record, I do still give and receive cards and flowers, etc. I am not that much of a bummer. I’m just working through some ideas. 

Parenthood is one of those totalizing experiences that’s hard to appreciate until you’ve entered it, and even then it’s mystifying. All my pre-parenthood thoughts on what it must be like seem inadequate for the actual lived experience, its mixture of obligation and emotion. The grip and slog of it, Raymond Carver called it. “Slog” is a little harsh and doesn’t apply universally, except for perhaps daily school lunch prep. I imagine that parenthood is like war; you don’t know what it’s like, and how you’ll handle it, until you’re actually in it. I say this as someone who has never served in war, would likely draft dodge as fast as humanly possible, and failing this, get shot within a half an hour of combat. Welcome home, kids!

There are two pertinent parenthood related statements that I think are useful to keep in mind. The first is from Jenny Holzer’s Truisms series, here rendered in project-appropriate all caps: 

FATHERS OFTEN USE TOO MUCH FORCE

I didn’t read this statement until I was already a father of several years, and I was chastened. It’s one of those statements I’ve thought of Sharpieing onto my forearm for daily reference. 

My internet friend Tom MacWright has created a site where you can download these Truisms to use as iPhone backgrounds. Plus, it’s a great resource to scroll through Holzer’s series of provocative statements. 

The second statement was something I overheard. I don’t remember the source. “What all parents want for their children is safety and happiness — in that order.”

I repeat this to my children often. I don’t mean to imply that all parent/child conflict springs from this chronology, but it’s surely the source of most of it. 

Finally, you’re a parent every day. It’s nice to have a day of rest and relaxation, of communal appreciation, but the condition is permanent. There are no days off. That’s what makes it so difficult, so different. What constitutes actual good parenting or bad parenting is too diffuse and complicated to think about here, and besides, everyone’s family is different. What strikes some people as charmingly eccentric might strike me as threateningly unstable. In between the peaks and valleys, the manias and doldrums, is the glue of the mundane, footsteps through the hall, how one comes into the house after work, the emotional temperature of the soccer commute, humming in the kitchen, the homework of domesticity. Like glue, it’s invisible when dry, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there, holding everything together. I feel — at least today I feel — that this glue is what truly defines parenthood, in both directions, coming and going.

That’s the other bit about becoming a parent: you step into the river.

Are these statements a kind of advice? I’m afraid so. I am a father after all. If you talk with me long enough, even if you’re a grown-up stranger, I’ll nudge a plate of vegetables in your direction and check the reliability of your seatbelt. See, once you cross over, there’s no going back. 

What is this thing called lunch?

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I am in an abusive relationship with a food truck. Okay, that’s not completely true. It’s not fully abusive. I don’t want to cheapen that word, but what is it when you are in a relationship, and you have a good thing going, and the food truck simply will not text you back? What is going on with the food truck? Doesn’t the food truck recognize that you have something special? 

I am of course referring to the El Peyo food truck that exists sometimes at the entrance of a decommissioned car wash behind the Valero gas station, approximately two klicks from my office. At some point in T’s relentless campaign of doom he warned that if Biden got elected we would have food trucks on every corner. I am still awaiting that horrible, wonderful prediction. 

First, some service journalism: if you’re driving through the Land of Progress and need the specific intersection of said food truck, hit me up. 

Moving on, the food is wonderful. Obviously? Twelve dollars and the best burrito in town since that place next to the Mazda dealership closed. What makes this burrito special is that they fry it just a little bit after wrapping everything up in its little portable poncho, so that the exterior gets wonderfully crisp. This is combined with their sinus-clearing orange salsa and a little side of sliced cucumbers. So innocent! So refreshing! 

But they’re not always there. After becoming slightly infatuated (I am not obsessed), I have finally learned that they aren’t there on Mondays. Fine. My doctor says I need a burrito break anyway. But sometimes they aren’t there on Tuesdays. And then, one day they weren’t there on a Friday, and then last Wednesday evening when I drove by on a lark because the kids were gone and I needed a quick bite, so why not treat myself? Not there. The unpredictability is what makes it so psychologically damaging. Sometimes they are there and open, and it’s wonderful, but randomly they are not, and I am left to U-turn in the parking lot and come up with a Plan B, which is another word for disappointment. I suppose I could just ask them when they’re open and when they’re not, if there is any kind of schedule, but that seems pushy, and when they are open, we have such a lovely time. I pay in cash and they call me “boss.” One lesson of middle age is that I love it when strangers, out of a sense of politeness or joie de vivre, call me “boss.” I had a lady call me “sugar” last week for no reason at all. I mean, I was about to buy a pizza, but “sir” or “mister” or “jackass” or whatever would have been fine. But sugar? Good lord. I would have changed that lady’s tires.

This reminds me of the classic “hon,” which is how the waitresses at the Elite often addressed customers. The Elite was itself a classic Land of Progress restaurant downtown, now closed and boarded up, another victim of the progress. Back in the glory days men would line up on the street in their shirt sleeves to get at those rolls. Sometimes a change is not an improvement. 

Plus I think part of the problem is that the food truck isn’t simply closed. Shut. Whatever. It’s that the black-paneled trailer is completely gone. But you have to pull into the Valero gas station and wheel around the dispensers to discover that it’s not there. There’s only the pitiful remnants of the car wash and the reticulated tracks that lead your car inside, Pied Piper-like, rusted from disuse. 

They say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day but lunch is the happiest. I live for lunch. I’ve already done a few hours of work. I have somewhat justified my existence. The kids are off at school. I am free briefly to pig out. And it comes without the theatrical complications of dinner. Dinner has to be made, or chosen, or you have to go to the restaurant and sit through the tiresome theater of it all. Dinner is work. Lunch is a holiday. Dinner is marriage. Lunch is a fling. I can have lunch with a friend, or I can go solo and try to catch up on all these goddamned Substacks. I can read my Henry James or listen to a podcast. Note: the burrito obsession does not comport well with Henry James. 

There are no drinks at lunch, no appetizers to decision tree, no dessert foolishness. If it’s quick, fine. Sometimes I have to get back to work. Sometimes my lunch buddy has other stuff to do. Sometimes it goes long, it’s a Friday, we’re playing hooky, we can lounge on the patio and make fun of the pick-up trucks. Dinner is getting everyone fed, but lunch is civilization. For a while whenever I proposed going to lunch with a friend I did it with the name of some jazz standard, but I would substitute the word “lunch” for “love.” So a friend would get texts such as: 

A lunch supreme? 
I can give you anything but lunch? 
There is no greater lunch? 
I fall in lunch too easily? 

This began as a way to be a smart ass over text. For some reason it pains me to communicate straight. But as time went on and I ran out of standards I realized I did find lunch to be a form of love, comradeship, communion, the mutual breaking of bread, pick your Platonic euphemism. But of course, we don’t acknowledge that. If we did, it would break the spell. It’s nothing special. It’s just lunch. The important exchanges are like turtles, startled into the creek if confronted head on. We must lunch with our gaze averted. 

Now I’m hungry. But it’s a Monday, and I know my lover isn’t there.

And now for something different

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I’ve been playing music on the side, in a semi-professional, AAA-ball type manner for a while now, but I have never recorded original music and released it. I’ve recorded lots of little bits, back in my four-track days, and more recently via my beloved Voice Memos app. But I’ve never packaged it up and been part of any kind of release, any kind of music “publishing,” if we stretch that phrase to mean making that music publicly consumable. 

But now that’s changed. I’m 1/3 of a new band here in Jackson, MS named The Metrocenter, and we have released our first single, “Transcontinental Breakfast.” Here it is on Spotify. Here it is on Bandcamp. The robots tell me that it is available on many other online platforms, but I won’t do the tedious work of linking to all of those. 

I’d rather not classify or attempt to explain this music. I find most music criticism overdetermined, and I find almost all self-explanations by the artists themselves distracting at best, actively detrimental to the listening experience at worst. (They sell the same self-mythologies as the author profile.) I’ll only say these are instrumental songs. 

Okay, I’ll allow myself one attempt: “It’s like jazz, but without the annoying parts.” 

More to come (he said hopefully, optimistically, trying to will it into being). 

Credits: Denny Burkes on drums and engineering; Jakob Clark on bass and electric guitar. I’m playing Fender Rhodes and a Mellotron sample. 

Is it possible to hear the Mellotron and not think distantly of the Beatles? I think not. The way a Hammond organ always connotes the church, even if obliquely, I think the Beatles “own” that primary sound reference.

p.s. Of course you can follow us on Facebook and Instagram, too.