Jazz Class Awakenings
As I stand in the grocery line at 1:50 AM, I glance down at the bag of vegetable chips and the power-fu sandwich in my hand. Perhaps I could half-consciously ask myself whether I could afford this, or tell myself it is simply too late to eat anything. I could glance at an over-lit isle shelf, or wander lazily around the store. I could find myself unable to make a simple choice due to a sneaky-crept up feeling of general overwhelm with life’s various insanities, only perceived as such because of a desperate trust-less feeling of a need to control everything. Thankfully, though, standing in that grocery line, I felt grounded. I felt gratitude. I had just come from a Tuesday night master class session, six hours of hardcore musical training near the Lincoln Center with Barry Harris. At 81 years young, Barry wasn’t taking any punches. Expectations were presented as perfection. There was no room given for soft feelings and fear-drizzled pats-of-backs, those co-dependent illusionary partnerships almost automatically endorsed in politicized society. At the class, there was a song distributed to everyone to sing together, and then those who felt ready, could sing at the mic in front of