Party's Over/Begun

Back in the spring of 2001, the Jaztronauts invited me to play a three-week gig with them in Zurich, CH. The quartet consisted of sax, piano, bass and drums, but because of this specific contract, they needed a fifth member, so I got the call. The club was a little room in the historic “old town” part of the city called the Casa Bar. They usually hosted bands for at least a week at a time, with local groups covering the off nights. We stayed in a suite of apartments on the second floor of the building, directly above the club. The daily schedule consisted of waking up sometime between 11:00am and 1:00pm, walking down the street for some espresso, heading out to stroll along the boardwalk, smoke, take a nap in the sun, practice, eat dinner, shower and change for the gig. Did you know when you buy a bratwurst by the sea in Zurich you get meat in one hand and your bread (roll) in another? We played for 5 ½ hours, 6 nights a week. There were 5 sets a night, 6 on the weekends. Man, that third set was weird, a real twilight zone. After the gig, we’d walk down to this German restaurant in the red light district and eat and drink until about 4:00am. I remember thinking about halfway through the third week, when the cigar smoke curled up past my head, “This is what I want to do with my life.” Jazz.

After the contract was over, the band traveled to Italy while I stayed in Zurich. I felt like exploring. So I sent my suitcase on with the guys (they had the car) and I kept my horn and headphones, that’s about it. I figured I could survive for a couple of days.

I hopped a train out of town to a friend’s house, who I had met a week or so earlier, and hung out with him and his girlfriend from South Africa that afternoon. His place was high up on the hill overlooking the sea, a gorgeous view. He mentioned a party back in town that night and asked if I wanted to tag along. Seemed like a great idea.

The Party

So we headed off to the party that night in the “bad” part of town, not that I knew any difference. It did look much newer than the neighborhood that I was used to, perhaps it was only 100 years old?!! We headed into a row house that was six or seven stories high, up the steps, all the way to the top floor. It was a comfortable place, not extravagant, but nice and artsy. There were about 12 people there from all over the world. I was the only American. It was a fun hang, lots of eating, drinking and talking. The usual.

Around 1:30am, we opened the trap door in the ceiling and went up into the attic. It was a big, open room, with hardwood floors, carpets and rugs, and a round window on the front wall overlooking the city. There were all kinds of pillows thrown about, and the incense seemed to already be burning somehow. Only 8 people had lasted this long…

“Late in a good party, there is a subtle change in the air. Some people feel it as a time to say goodbye. Some people have used up their energy and bow out, unable to continue. A select few remain. The mood is tangible; you can almost taste it. The senses heighten, intimate connections are made, life glows… This moment, when the party seems over, is when it has just begun.”

The party had moved to another level as well. There was a tray of cocaine (I abstained), various other stimulants, and smoke so dense you could barely see. Then came the music. There was this amazing musician playing something that looked like a mandolin as well as other people playing guitars, plus a variety of world percussion, and of course we all were singing. I grabbed a hand drum and joined right in. We were all singing and laughing. A man and woman disappeared around the curtain and two beautiful Brazilian women began to make out with each other. I sat in the center of this wonderful world and sang until morning.

The next day I found my way to a park bench on the boardwalk, put on my headphones, threw in a Maria Schneider’s Allegresse, and slept. The police didn’t bother me. That night I went to a small jazz club called the Garage. Another friend of mine had opened it a year or so earlier. A few blurry hours later, I ended up passing out on the floor sometime during the second set. I keep telling myself it was from exhaustion. I remember looking up to a circle of surprised and concern faces staring down at me, a strange experience to say the least. A few guys from the band and a few audience members helped me up into a chair. The woman behind the bar was kind enough to get me some orange juice. The cats guided me outside to the train and I somehow found my way to the airport and crashed on another bench. The following morning, the guys in the band showed up right on time and probably thought I was a wreck. Nothing could be further than the truth.

When I arrived back in Minneapolis, I rented a new apartment downtown, cut back heavily on my “freelance” playing, got together my own band, began laying the groundwork for my first CD, “Party’s Over/Begun.”

Ten years ago today, November 14, 2001… we started recording.

Band Camp

[May 2010] My upstairs neighbors finally convinced me to consider moving to another apartment at the end of our current lease. The 4:00am dumbbell drops just aren’t conducive to a good night’s sleep, and no matter how many times I talk to them, or how many times the super and/or the owners remind them, the noise continues. My only choice is to consider moving, again. Now I look around my apartment with the knowledge of how hard all of this stuff was to move the last time; I need to reduce the load. We’ll probably be moving into an even smaller place hopefully on the TOP floor of a building, so the first thing on my list is to finish archiving that box of old cassettes. (cue flashback music to ‘80s)

Band Camp

This is the time for kids to be out on their own for the first time, no parents. The teachers and dorm assistants are usually pretty cool, at least in the minds of the kids. Did you ever go? It was a grand time; you could eat whatever you wanted for breakfast, drink as many sodas as possible, even pour syrup on your hamburger if you’d like. We’d hang around friends making music all day, no English classes, no boring papers to write and no social studies teacher on your case! Camp was only the best parts of school.

The days are comprised of music classes, theory, instrumental sectionals, rehearsals, listening, and practice time. It is the dream vacation for any serious music geek.

But the best parts of camp are the girls. Whoops, I mean the Social Activities. This is really why kids should attend music camp. Face it, young musicians are rarely the most popular people in the social hierarchy of a high school. At music camp, the playing field is relatively level from a social status perspective. Looking at the larger picture, if you want to succeed in life, even musicians must learn how to relate to their peers, including those of the opposite sex. This is how humans are supposed to make friends, not by pressing a button on your computer! Ugh.

43^rd Annual Wayne State Music Camp

My band camp as a youth was in Nebraska. It was a week long, overnight camp on the campus of Wayne State College. We stayed in the school’s dorms, girls on one end and boys on the other with a lobby/lounge in the middle. We ate in their cafeterias and had classes and performances in their music building.

So this blue cassette tape on my desk is a recording of the 1987 final concert. I was in the top jazz band along with Woody Witt (tenor sax) and Ryan Kisor (trumpet). It was the summer after my junior year in high school. This was actually the third year I had attended the camp as a student. The previous year, my best friend (a Tuba player named Greg Swallow) and I had essentially ruled the camp, or at least we did in our minds. That’s when I picked up an odd habit of saying “Good Morning” as a greeting…

Listening to the tape of the concert, you can hear the burning intensity in Woody’s solo as well as his presence in the sax section. Woody and I both went to high school in Omaha, Nebraska. We would always run into each other at the only jam session in town, down at a place called Kilgore’s. Chuck Kilgore (trumpeter) owned this place with a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling and an old upright in the corner. Each Tuesday night at around 11:00pm jazz musicians would gather there to play. Even at that age, Woody had this intensity to his persona, he already had the heart and mind of a monster musician. I have been extremely lucky to call him my friend though the years.

There was another standout musician on the recording, who the %*^# is that trumpet player?? Ryan. Playing second trumpet, occasionally up an octave. He had just finished his 8^th grade year and was entering high school after that summer. Damn. Since we were both trumpet players, I was able to really grasp how good he was. It was like I was a mere mortal, capable, yes, but I could feel the wind blow by as this super hero of the horn flew past me with his talent. Yet at the same time, I was the senior, so I may have been the only guy at the entire camp to give this little genius some good-natured crap. I had been aware of his skills for a few years, since the first time I heard him play. He was going into 6^th grade (1985 Wayne State summer camp) and his dad, who was a teacher at the camp, had him perform on the faculty concert. He proceeded to nail Arban’s Carnival of Venice, a virtuosic cornet solo. This was my first experience of seeing someone younger than myself in a completely different league; at that age, although he was only a couple of years younger, it seemed like I was a decade older. I still feel that way when I listen to him play. Ryan is the most inspirational jazz trumpet player alive today. Yes, he really is.

Back to the concert. I was playing lead trumpet for that week’s final performance. The last song the director was pointing to the soloists and he skipped over my solo. My heart froze, that was my chance to shine, and it was gone. After the concert I was crushed emotionally because of missing that opportunity to play a solo. But it’s funny how life really works. Later that night, at the dance, all the students elected me “king” of the camp. Now that was a rush. Socially on top of the world, yet knowing I had just been schooled by a freshman. Life Lesson anyone?

If you don’t know the music of Woody Witt and Ryan Kisor, I humbly suggest you check them out.

43^rd Shell Lake Jazz Camp

I am fortunate to still be associated with a band camp these days; it’s the Shell Lake Jazz Camp in Shell Lake Wisconsin. Here’s a small bit of trivia, it is the longest consecutively running jazz camp in the country! Major props to the crew.

Shell Lake is the band camp of legend for today’s students. Full of raucous musical exploration accompanied by mild social anxiety, plus all of the candy and soda from the local small town grocery, truly everything a growing student needs. Joking aside, these camps are crucial to the development of young musicians across the United States. It’s beyond learning about music, it’s about developing as a independent thinker among a society of peers. The collaboration required for a musical performance cuts across all age appropriate social barriers of race, age and sex. If only adults were required to attend music camp for a week each summer, what a world this would be!

Plus, you never know who may be playing next to you at the final concert.

[July 2010] Post Camp note

Shell Lake was a blast again this year, great faculty, great students and beautiful weather! I’m hoping to see everyone back again for next year’s hang.

As the director of one of the ensembles, I realized the best way to order the soloists during the concert was to point at them right before each solo. Yes, you guessed it, I accidentally skipped a student’s solo on the final concert. I made sure to apologize to him immediately afterwards, although he didn’t seem as emotionally damaged as I was. Isn’t it strange how the universe works?!?

Gig From Hell

This is the best "gig-from-hell" story I have ever heard; and it happened to me. The story was big news for a while, I even remember reading about it in a regional dance band magazine. It’s been about 20 years since this gig and some of small details may be off, so if you happen to know any of the key dramatic figures, go ahead and ask them about the trip.

The Reflections Orchestra: 11-piece dance band based out of Lincoln, NE, owned and operated by five real life brothers whose father also led a dance band.

Mike: Lead Vocal and MC (brother no.1)

Dave: Drummer (brother no.2)

Bob: Bass (brother no.3)

John: Saxophone (brother no.4)

(The fifth brother, a pianist, had quit the band by this time, so he missed the fun)

Kristy: Vocals

Kelly: Trumpet

Bob: Trumpet

Dave: Sax

Trombone: Trombone (I can’t remember who was playing bone that night)

Freelance Kansas sax player: Sax (freelance player, small part in the production)

Freelance Kansas piano player: Piano (same situation as sax player above)

The set-up happened countless times before; arrive at a meeting spot, the tour bus picks up the band, we drive many hours to the gig, play, and drive back home, easy, right? The band was based out of Lincoln, NE and this particular gig was in or around Topeka, KS.

The temperature that day was a record high in Lincoln. It was probably upper 90's or more in the sun. I arrived at the truck stop, a.k.a. designated meeting place, 5 minutes before the scheduled departure time. Well, the bus didn't show for another hour, evidently the meeting time had been moved back. Of course, I didn't receive that message so I spent the time sitting on the hood of my ’72 light blue Duster enjoying (!?!) the weather.

Finally the bus arrives. This deluxe touring vehicle is a Greyhound from the 60's; it was a tank! It was wider than today's bus size regulations permit and the rear half had been transformed into a series of bunk beds and storage closets. Actually, it was a pretty sweet ride. As we get underway, we break out the deck of cards and sit at the table enjoying the air-conditioning and our usual game of poker.

Less than 30 minutes into the drive, the air-conditioning goes out. Aaargh. Ok, we're grown ups, we can handle this. So we propped the windows open with shoes and duct tape. After a couple of playing cards get sucked out the window, we abandoned the game. Nothing to do now but to sit and sweat.

Our first stop was in Nebraska City, straight south of Lincoln, to pick up one of the additional musicians for the night. We pull into the Wendy's parking lot and happily dive for the air-conditioned interior of the restaurant. Refreshed and well Frostied™, we head back out to the buss only to find that the keys were locked inside. No problem. I volunteer to scale the outside of the bus and climb in through the driver's open window. Once that was accomplished, I had to hit some makeshift electronic switch to open the main door; it was kind of like hot-wiring the lock. As we pulled out of the parking lot, we all felt lucky that we avoided a catastrophe.

The next hour or so was fairly uneventful, until the fateful moment happened. I was sitting near the bunks when I noticed quite a commotion amongst the brothers who owned the band. They were all up front by the driver, craning their necks to try and see behind the bus. I think someone was yelling something about the engine. We immediately (and fortunately) pulled off at a rest stop and streamed out of the bus. Trailing behind the bus, all the way back up the exit ramp, was a big black cloud of smoke. The engine had completely blown.

As us hired guns sat at a picnic bench, two of the brothers ran around the rest stop looking for rides into the nearest town. I remember this retired couple out walking their dog, turn and walk quickly back to their camper, then locking the doors when they saw these two scraggly musicians coming. Eventually, a trucker was kind enough to give them a lift… somewhere.

We had no idea what to do, or rather, what the owners of the band were going to do, so we just made the best of it an hung out in the shade of a few trees at this quaint little rest stop in northern Kansas. We assumed the gig would be scrapped and we'd just head home by car or something.

Much later, here comes this U-Haul truck blasting its horn, heading straight towards us. It's the guys! “Ok team, let's load up.” Being young and easily ordered around, I quickly helped to load ALL of our gear (amps, PA's, music boxes, fronts, light racks, power cables, drums and other instruments) into the back of this U-Haul. After we had everything in the truck it hit us – where do we sit? Yep, you guessed it. Up in the cab, one of the brothers drove, the female singer sat in the middle and the older trumpet player sat shotgun. The rest of us had to climb in the back of this thing and sit ON TOP of all of our gear!

Our first concern, while in the back of this U-Haul truck, was the amount of carbon monoxide that would get sucked into the compartment from the exhaust, so we shut the door tightly and headed out to the gig. Remember, the temperature was really, really hot and after loading all of that gear, we were some hot and sweaty dudes. Of course a couple of the guys lit up their cigs and pretty soon the compartment was full of sweat/steam/smoke… yuck. I only held out for about 25 minutes before banging on the cab to get the driver to pull over. We all laid down on the equipment cases and faked unconsciousness. When the driver opened the back door, smoke and sweat billowed out and he saw us all “dead” – of course his first response was to laugh. We immediately hit the next gas station and decided to tie the door open with a bent coat hanger, leaving a foot and a half gap, and just risk the exhaust.

We eventually pulled into the performance venue, which was some big dance hall, and one of the guys ran in to tell the story about the bus, and to explain to the crowd why the band arrived 70 minutes after the scheduled start time. After a lightning set-up, we hit, and the crowd gave us a wild round of applause, very impressed that we made it at all. After the first set, the singer was out in the audience talking with people and someone spilled a drink on her new dress, ruining it completely.

This is when somebody said, "Well, it can't get any worse," little did they know…

One thing that can always make a bad situation worse is alcohol. Up until now, the band has had only a few drinks during the gig, but since we were staring at a five plus hour ride home in the back of a U-Haul truck, we had to find something to drink. Thankfully, one of the brothers managed to convince the owner of the hall to get us a case of off-sale beer. He must have felt sorry for us.

What a party. Here we are, downing beers in the back of a U-Haul, telling dirty jokes and being generally rowdy. Kristy joined us in the back of the truck for some mixed company banter. Mike, the front man and singer, was a family man who seemed to be the most affected by the alcohol. The rest of us took it in stride.

About an hour into the trip, we needed a pit stop. The truck pulls over at a typical mid-western gas station, you know, the kind with rows of pumps out front between the street and the store. We parked the truck on the outside of the pumps, past a couple of cars and a pickup truck with a boat in tow. This is important because they all sat between the U-Haul and the entrance to the shop.

After acting like a bunch of obnoxious dufi (plural for dufus), we headed back out across the lane of pumps to the truck, now fully loaded with candy bars and bad burritos. Mike, who had too much to drink, jumped over the tongue of the boat trailer and landed badly. His ankle exploded to the size of a softball within seconds. Ouch.

So the next stop on this little tour was at the local hospital.

Although a couple of guys managed to get escorted out of the hospital for being overly rowdy, the party was beginning to wind down. Perhaps a good 50 minutes later, Mike comes hobbling out of the hospital on crutches. He had a severely sprained ankle.

Problem. What do you do with someone in this condition? Well, our only choice was to clear out a spot for him on the floor of the U-Haul, so he could lie flat on his back and keep his leg slightly up for the duration of the trip. We were pulling out of the parking lot and Mike's brother John was dinking around by the open door, inside of the back of the U-Haul. Speed Bump. The large back door, which is currently open about a foot and a half and still wired to keep it from opening all of the way, bounced hard and slams on John's foot. "@^%&!,” says John. So he heads up to the cab of the truck, biting his tongue because of the pain. Off we go.

I decided to stay awake since there was a guy laying on his back about five inches from an open door, flying along a highway at 85 miles per hour. I held the band's boom box stereo on my shoulder and turned up the tunes.

Later, not really sure how long we were on the road, I look out the back and see that we've turned into another parking lot. I figured it was another gas station. Since everyone else was asleep, I head out by myself to grab a soda.

Well, it was another HOSPITAL! I don't know where the hell we were, but it was a completely different hospital. I guess John couldn't take it anymore and had to check in. So a couple of us decided to indulge in some fine crap waiting room pseudo coffee flavored water. This time, the hospital was much faster, go figure; it's in the middle of the night. John had actually broken a bone on the arch of his foot. Yup, more crutches.

So here we are, two guys lying on their backs, on the floor of a rented U-Haul, with a pile of crutches, and the door wired open as we speed down a Nebraska highway in the middle of the night. Again, I was the guy to stay awake and watch over this bizarre scene.

Once we hit Nebraska City, I bailed and insisted on sitting up in the cab for the final leg of the trip back to Lincoln.

The rest of the trip was thankfully uneventful. But at least we got paid. The entire fiasco paid $80 per man!!!!

And YES, the above story is 100% true. Really.

The Move

Renting the apartment (July 24^th – August 12^th)

The strategy was simple: Suzanne would go to New York and find an apartment while I stayed in Minneapolis for the summer to finish teaching and to pack up our old place.

We decided to make the Inwood / Washington Heights neighborhood of Manhattan our focus for finding a place to live. We had both spent some time up there, beautiful green spaces, right off the A and 1 Trains, plus we have good friends already within shouting distance.

We were told that you must be fast when renting in NYC. Have all of your paperwork ready to go, because apartments get rented within hours of being vacated. It’s a very compressed period of time, and there are lots of moving van chasers. The paperwork that we were told to have on hand was: months of bank statements, pay stubs, years of tax returns, and reference letters from landlords.

So what’s an Apartment Broker? We’re still not sure exactly who they work for. Are they independent brokers? Do they work with a real estate agency? Are they just friends with the landlord? Their job is to find the potential renter an apartment for an exorbitant fee. Usually one month’s full rent on the apartment in question. Ouch.

Instead of a broker, Craigslist was our primary resource for finding apartments. The parameters were cost and location with a “No Fee Listing.” The fees were usually associated with the broker, so we tried to avoid that situation if possible. While looking at ads and apartments Suzanne learned to be wary of the bait and switch.

Some Examples of the bait and switch technique:

One apartment had a beautiful garden courtyard, nice interior spaces and had been advertised as no fee. While talking to the broker on a nice young man’s phone from the apartment (so who was this guy that was showing her the apartment?), he mentioned the security deposit PLUS the fee. He then went on to offer, “How about half a month’s rent for the fee?” Ha.

Another apartment listed for $1050, but upon inspection the super showed a different apartment that was in horrible condition (the ceiling was falling in) for $1350, with a cash fee of $600, payable to the super.

Some places had “issues” like this one bedroom apartment in Washington Heights. The kitchen was a strip of appliances along the living room wall (which is normal). The place was recently renovated, but the stove was behind the front door. Because of the new stove placement, the front door wouldn’t even open all of the way. Forget about loading in an amplifier.

Another apartment was just out of our price range with ample evidence of a severe roof leak. However, the realty company showing the apartment had no idea how to find out if the roof had been fixed.

There was another apartment with a nice interior, but the building itself was not in good shape. There was trash in lobby and a general disrespect of the property. This led us to believe that the condition of the building mattered a little more than the condition of the apartment itself. Oh yeah, it was also a fifth floor walk up.

Up until now, the apartment was great OR the building was great. Still waiting for a balance of the two.

Suzanne eventually saw the final apartment, and really liked it, but there was another applicant who had beaten us to the punch. The broker and the super were honest, up front people, and said not to put in an application. This was still a promising happenstance, because it proved that there are places that were clean both inside and out and in our price range.

About a week later, upon the urging of a friend, Suzanne called about this apartment again to see if the other person’s application had gone through. She found out that the application had been rejected!

We quickly began the application process, Fed Ex-ing about $200 worth of signed paper work back and forth from NYC to Minneapolis. Phew. We got it. It’s a newly renovated one bedroom on the third floor. The kitchen is so large that the dining room table fits in it, and there’s even a neighbor that delivers our paper to our apartment door.

The drive out (August 30 – September 1)

The truck we rented was a 16’ Penske, which was ironic since we lived right next door to the U-Haul lot on the corner of 36^th and Nicollet Avenue. It was quoted at $762.65, one-way from Minneapolis to New York City. When we returned to the truck to its Manhattan drop-off location, there were 6287 miles used on the truck out of a possible allowance of 9999, plus a $41.50 gas fee since it was returned 3/4 full.

The truck was packed over the course of three days; the ultimate game of real-life Tetris. There was absolutely no way to fit anything else into that vehicle. On Sunday morning, August 30, I loaded our two cat carriers into the cab of the truck and drove away.

Our cats were surprisingly chilled out during the ride. I had feared the worst, screaming and clawing for two solid days, but after a couple of hours, they had both relaxed enough for me to open the cages and let them roam. Pemba stayed put in his cage for a while, and Noodle went for the high ground. Eventually, they both found their spots, one up by my head on the right (on top of the cat carriers) and the other on the floor directly under my knees (not near the pedals, thankfully).

The drive was reminiscent of the many road trips I used to take during college. Back and forth from Denton, Texas and Lincoln, Nebraska; to and from Norfolk, Virginia and Omaha, Nebraska; and the occasional long haul from Houston, Texas to Minneapolis, Minnesota. This drive was no different, actually it was pretty comfortable and by far the most relaxing thing I had done in months. I even had four tins full of homemade cookies with me!

Our plan was for me to meet Suzanne in Milford, PA on the last night of my trip. I was in a little bit of a hurry to make our dinner date at 9:00pm because I hadn’t seen my wife in almost two months. I hadn’t realized that Milford was at the bottom of a monstrous hill. It was dark and I was going the speed limit, but the truck just wouldn’t slow down. The brakes weren’t up to the challenge of stopping that heavy load. The front end began to shake so I pumped the brakes (although this was a common method for stopping on ice, it also worked fairly well in the Colorado mountains while on ski trips), and barely managed not to careen into the ditch. Phew. We could keep the reservation.

Arrival (September 1)

Tuesday, September 1, 2009, Suzanne and I drove across the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan. With the help of some close friends, we unloaded the truck, up two flights of stairs, into our new apartment. That sounds easy, but that date will live in my memory as easily the most physically demanding day of my life.

Sometime during the mid-afternoon I witnessed my first “New York Moment.” This is defined as something that is completely out of your control, usually causing a major delay, and can really only happen in New York City. This incident happened at the foot of the ramp leading up to the back of our Penske truck. A woman was parked behind us, and had to leave. Right when she started the car and began to pull away, CRACK. It sounded like a big piece of plastic snapping, and she lost steering capability. She drove forward a couple of more feet, and we saw what the problem was. There was a HUGE dead rat lying on the pavement. We opened the hood of her car, and sure enough, the rat had gotten caught in the power steering belt, and snapped it in half (the belt, not the rat) when the belt started spinning. The rat was killed instantly, and so was the car! She ended up calling AAA and having it towed. She’s now our dry cleaner.

The next morning we drove the truck straight down Broadway to the drop-off location. What a ride. It was a good thing that I’d been driving that truck straight for a few days and knew how it handled. New York traffic is another story altogether!

We made it.

Roots

Minnesota is the land of giant metal animals. Customarily, fish, fowl and other woodland rodents seem to be deserving of this honor. Perhaps these massive critters are tributes to the strength needed to survive the harsh Minnesota wilderness. The winters can be downright cruel and these creatures not only endure but they thrive in this arctic wonderland. The folks who design these monuments have the utmost respect for nature; either that, or people up here are just nuts.

Although I didn’t become a resident until 1996, I’ve lived in Minneapolis longer than I’ve lived in any one city my entire life. It has brought me much closer to my roots than I’ve ever been. Of course I knew of my family’s history, but living in Minnesota really brought it home.

My mother’s father Realf was from Willmar, Minnesota. He was the band director for a short time in Hakinson, North Dakota before World War II. Of course, as all band directors know, you are required to play all of the instruments. It was probably even more important back then because of the lack of resources in rural areas. He had many, many different instruments around the house; I still have a C Melody saxophone of his. A talented and dedicated individual, he later became an optometrist and settled with his family in Albert Lea, Minnesota.

My other grandfather, Benny Rossum, was born in 1904 in the small town of Pelican Rapids, Minnesota. Like all small towns, they also have a metal beast; of course it’s the pelican pictured above. Benny was the town’s blacksmith. The shop was on the main street, just past the park with the pelican. He was the “go to” guy in a region filled with farmers and small business owners.

Music was a big part of my family’s life, and Benny himself played the fiddle, banjo and other instruments. At home, his sister Ethyle would accompany him on piano with the boom-chick left hand (similar to stride, but think Polka). Remember, this was before television and other home entertainment technology. He would play everywhere he could in and around Pelican. In the 1920’s he actually wore out a banjo (one of the loudest of all party instruments).

Jazz hadn’t really traveled to the northern plains at that time. The music primarily consisted of schottisches, waltzes and polkas and tunes like “Turkey in the Straw” and other hits from the Americana songbook. Music was, however, used like it was everywhere else in the country. Hard working people partying at the barn dance on Saturday night and then singing hymns with all of the Scandinavian Lutherans in church Sunday morning.

Today the residents of the area still play their instruments whenever possible. I was fortunate enough to be invited to play at this year’s Fourth of July celebration (2009). The big parade always happens in Erhard, just south of Pelican. My dad is a clarinetist in the Pelican Community Band and I was honored to sit in for the parade. I really do mean, “sit in for the parade,” because the band was seated concert style on a semi’s flatbed trailer! We rolled around the parade route twice that afternoon. This was easily the best way to march in a parade. For the most part, we played high school pep band music and waved to the crowd. They even called a feature for me, “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” (The Andrew Sisters were also from Minnesota) What a great time.

Looking out from the flatbed truck, while cruising through the neighborhoods of Erhard, I saw kids with the same roots as myself. What will they grow up to be? As a kid I would travel during summer vacation to this area of Minnesota to play stretch with knives and catch hammerheads with spoons. Waterskiing, S’mores and DDT were a part of life. Didn’t everyone grow up like this?

I am not from New Orleans, the birthplace of jazz; I am not from Chicago, the nursery of jazz; I am not from New York City, where jazz came to maturity. I am, however, from the global music community, with my own folk traditions and culture. My hope is that Jazz today remains truly inclusive of all ethnicities and cultures, including the unique culture and musical history specific to the northern heartland of America.

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July and August passed in a heartbeat. This was my last summer of teaching at MacPhail, and my last couple of months in Minneapolis. It was kind of a surreal experience; playing multiple “farewell” shows, finishing up a few Art projects, plus the business involved in releasing a new CD – all the while in a state of denial. Even through the final week of packing up my apartment, it didn’t seem real. Minneapolis is my home… until Sunday morning, August 30.

That morning it hit me. I’m leaving.

Giving Notice

2009.

Along with teaching trumpet and composition, I direct the jazz program at MacPhail Center for Music, one of the nation’s largest community music schools. MacPhail serves more than 7,500 students annually with 35 instruments taught by more than 165 teachers. The jazz program has over twenty faculty members and focuses primarily on small ensembles and private instruction.

MacPhail has partnered with the premier jazz venue in Minneapolis, the Dakota and the DFJE, to form an all-star high school jazz combo called the Dakota Combo. Each year, advanced high school students from around the state audition for participation in this group. They perform with a guest artist at the jazz club, tour metro area schools, and present additional concerts extending well into the summer. Guest artists have been (so far): Bobby Watson, Delfeayo Marsalis and Irvin Mayfield. Just this past year, the group recorded its first full length CD of original material. The success of this program is seen through the alumni’s scholarships and attendance at some of the most prestigious music schools in the country, including the Brubeck Institute, Berklee, Julliard, the New England Conservatory of Music, and many more.

MacPhail also presents Jazz Thursdays, a concert series focusing exclusively on small group jazz music. The list of musicians who have performed on this series in just the past three years reads like a who’s who of the Twin Cities jazz scene, and I’m not even counting the many years of MacPhail's stages at the regional jazz festivals.

Phew. That’s a lot. And there’s more, but you get the idea. Community music schools are becoming more and more important to our culture, especially during this economic crisis, and it’s a cause that I have given considerable energy to over the years. But I’m getting a little ahead of myself. Let me fill in some history here…

1996.

As I began my DMA studies at the University of Minnesota, I was looking to earn some extra cash by teaching private lessons to younger students. Since I was more or less coming from Texas at the time, where almost all high schools hire private instructors for their students, I figured I would be able to find a similar job here in Minneapolis. Within a couple of months I heard of an opening downtown at some place called MacPhail Center for the Arts. I had no idea what this place was, and frankly, I didn’t really care, I just wanted to teach kids on the side.

I called them up and sent in my resume and they scheduled an interview and an audition for the following week. I was wondering why they wanted me to come downtown for the interview process because wasn’t a large high school in the area. Upon arrival, the place was this old department store looking building that was pretty quiet (it was 1:00 or so in the afternoon during the week, not prime lesson time). They told me to come up to the 3rd floor of the center and to wait out in the hallway. After seeing another University graduate student come out of the room, I was asked to come in.

First I played a couple of solos and excerpts that I had under my belt. Then I taught two sample lessons, one with a beginning adult and another one with a high school student. I was of course very relaxed and calm, yet engaging and polite throughout the lessons. Then there was a 40-minute interview by committee, comprised of both faculty and administration. This was when I began to be suspicious of what this “Center” really was. The interview went well. I basically just answered their questions and was clear about my DMA studies being my priority as compared to teaching. They seemed OK with that and I shook their hands and left.

On the way out of the building, I noticed a large rack of catalogs/ brochures/ schedules downstairs in the lobby by a service counter. THIS ENTIRE BUILDING IS A MUSIC SCHOOL!! Shit, what have I gotten myself into?!?!

They offered me the trumpet instructor job and I accepted. I would take over the current studio of SIX students. No problem! That would fit in perfectly - one evening a week during my graduate studies. Great! It was about a month later that I discovered that my Grandmother took piano lessons at MacPhail in the 1920’s.

1999.

I’m ABD and digging deeper and deeper into a fascinating music scene here in Minneapolis. My studies were temporarily shelved and I began full time at the newly named MacPhail Center for Music. The trumpet studio was up to about 24 students and I was teaching all kinds of classes at MacPhail: music composition, general music, beginning theory, Jr. and Sr. High band, jazz combos, I even subbed as the teacher for a Choir rehearsal. I was at one point in time seeing around 75 students each week.

MacPhail is a community music school, I believe it's the second or third largest in the country and a leading member of the National Guild (link). As public schools continue to cut their funding for the arts, these community schools are helping to fill the need for quality music education. Since I was coming from a University (read: Ivory Tower) mindset, it wasn’t obvious to me how important these community schools are to the public. It was around this time that I began to understand the mission of  “transforming lives and enriching our community through music education.”

Music is much larger than I had initially imagined. University music programs expose students to music that they can “learn” from; artistically excellent, flawless performances by the best and brightest musicians in the world. But that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Music is made every day in countless venues across the nation; in the trenches of music education, in the sanctuaries of churches, the basements of homeless shelters and yes, even in the showers of our homes. There’s a big gap of knowledge between knowing this fact from an intellectual perspective, and actually participating in the guidance and training of these community musicians. There is such beautiful intent behind amateur music making, regardless of the students’ age or experience. That purity of intent is often missing from the ranks of professional musicians. This is a big deal. This is music at its most fundamental level as experienced throughout human history.

2003.

I started officially designing the Jazz Program at MacPhail. It was a perfect opportunity to bring this culturally rich music to MacPhail’s community.

“It is so disheartening to me that today our children have no idea of their country's cultural heritage. For example, last fall while I was in Seattle during the opening ceremony of the performance arts center at my alma mater Garfield High School, a group of students gathered around me and one young man said that he was a musician and wanted advice on how to further his career. I told him "that first he had to really learn and master his craft." Then I asked him, "Do you know who Louis Armstrong was?" He said, "I think I've heard of him." I asked, "Do you know who Duke Ellington was?" He said, "No." Again I asked, "Do you know who Dizzy Gillespie was?" Again he responded "No." "Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Thelonius Monk?" I asked, and again he said "No." It tore my heart apart that on this day that my alma mater was naming a building after me, that this young man had no idea who the men were that put me on their shoulders and helped shaped who I was as a young musician. Men who will forever stand at the foundation of popular music, and who I believe in years to come will be regarded as America's Chopins, Griegs and Tchaikovskys.” - Quincy Jones, Huffington Post

2009. January.

After making the decision to move to New York, I knew I would have to leave MacPhail. The organization means so much to me; I was filled with butterflies when the moment had finally come. I was in a meeting with the Executive Vice President (my good friend and colleague Paul Babcock), discussing the New Year’s jazz events when I told him of my decision. His reaction was representative of almost everyone else’s – we’re going to miss you around here. Some people had been expecting the move for years and were wondering why it had taken so long, and other people were shocked to hear of the exciting new plans. Of course, the administration as a whole was very thankful for the 8-month notice! As I said at the time, and as I say now, “There is still much to do.”

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Today.

A couple of weeks ago, I received word that Adam Linz has accepted the Jazz Coordinator position at MacPhail. Congratulations Adam!

I know I’ll be following MacPhail closely in the future. The jazz program at MacPhail is like a jazz composition, once you’ve written it and played it a few times, it stands by itself. If you’re lucky, other musicians may choose to play your music while adding their own taste and style; this is when the composition takes on a life of its own. In this case, the composer is sincerely honored to have contributed something to this fine art form.