it where itâs comfortable for you. You ainât Paul Mares yet.â
So I started off a little slower, and by the time I got through the first few bars I knew I could do it if I didnât lose my concentration. So I banged away at it, right on through to the end of the second chorus. I quit playing and looked at him, waggling the valves and feeling mighty nervous.
âIâll be damned,â he said softly. âIâll be go to hell.â He gave me a look. âHow old did you say you was?â
Well, now I was glad as could be that Mr. Sylvester had put me through the mill the way he did. âThirteen,â I said.
âThirteen? Jesus.â He picked up his horn. âGimme a B-flat.â I hit the note and he tuned to it. Then he said, âYouâre banging the beat right on the head too much. It ainât no march. You donât want to hit the beat right on the head. Listen.â He lifted up the cornet and played the first eight bars of âThe Stars and Stripes Forever.â âNow thatâs the way Sousa plays itâhits the beats right on the head. To play jazz you got to hit the notes off the beat. Like this.â
He started playing it again with the jazz in it. Now the music had that lightness to it, like it was dancing, leaping up and down. There was glory in it.
He stopped. âSee what I mean? You got to get over hitting the beat right on the head.â
I didnât really get it. I could hear the difference all right, it was plain as day to me. But I couldnât hear what he was doing that made the difference. âHow do you know where the beat is if you donât play on it?â
âThatâs what you got a rhythm section for. Tap your foot, whatever. Listen,â He tapped a slow tempo with his foot, and played along. Once again there was the floating feeling to it. He stopped. âSee, itâs more in between the beatsâ
âLike syncopation?â
âThatâs what a lot of them writers say in the magazines, but it ainât. Them writers donât know nothing about it. Who the hell told them they could explain jazz to everybody when most of âem donât know the difference between a tuning fork and a basketball? It ainât just syncopation. You got to take the beats by surpriseâget in there a little quicker than they expect or wait until itâs just about too late and then jump in.â
I shook my head. âI donât see how you can figure all that out when the notes are flying by you so fast.â
He laughed. âHell, kid, you canât think about it. You got to feel it. You got to let it happen of its own accord.â
âWhat if you canât feel it?â
âYou will. You stick to it and one day itâll come to you and you wonât ever have to think about it again.â He opened the spit valve and shook a little water out. âAll right, come on, weâll try âFarewell Bluesâ once and then I got to go see my girl so she donât get salty with me. You take the lead. Just play it like you did before.â He stomped four beats and off we went. Well, I tell you, I never felt anything like that in my life. I played it the way Iâd learned it, and he played along with me, circling around me, weaving through my line, up and down and around. I couldnât believe it was me; I couldnât believe it was me playing jazz.
Then we stopped. He stood up. âI gotta go. Sheâs probably already sore at me.â
âCan I come back, Tommy?â I wasnât sure if I was supposed to call him by his first name, but I wanted to.
âSure,â he said. âI donât mind.â
I T CAME OUT the way I figured. Pa never said anything more about taking lessons from Tommy Hurd. I donât know if it was his idea, or Maâs; probably both of them, for different reasons. I figured he just threw Tommyâs card away and let the whole