He picked up his tenor saxophone and played from memory Coltrane’s Naima. The style was not the usual hard bop. It had an overly intense feel, filled with staccato punches as if Blakey in his prime was teaching an Art class, pure drums and no cymbal. Most critics would have said he played like an amateur whilst the ones who consistently feign some form of enlightenment would have said he was borrowing heavily from bebop. It reminded him of his many struggles, most of them hidden under his eve...read more
He picked up his tenor saxophone and played from memory Coltrane’s Naima. The style was not the usual hard bop. It had an overly intense feel, filled with staccato punches as if Blakey in his prime was teaching an Art class, pure drums and no cymbal. Most critics would have said he played like an amateur whilst the ones who consistently feign some form of enlightenment would have said he was borrowing heavily from bebop. It reminded him of his many struggles, most of them hidden under his ever so cool demeanor and the social expectations that arose with his manhood without even the pretense of his consultation or training. He could hardly remember when he became a man, not in that sense at the very least. He was no fool. However, he somehow seemed to have missed an important lesson over the years. The indications were there: deep husky voice that took him away from soloist roles, stubby chin with inconsistently sprouting hairs, broad shoulders that made his life a nightmare in an overcrowded city and that very tuft of not-so-public hair that he still didn’t understand the purpose it was meant to serve and whether or not his newly acquired manly status called on him to groom it or not.