Free The Jazz Kid by James Lincoln Collier Page A

it where it’s comfortable for you. You ain’t Paul Mares yet.”
    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 didn’t 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.
    â€œI’ll be damned,” he said softly. “I’ll be go to hell.” He gave me a look. “How old did you say you was?”
    Well, now I was glad as could be that Mr. Sylvester had put me through the mill the way he did. “Thirteen,” I said.
    â€œThirteen? Jesus.” He picked up his horn. “Gimme a B-flat.” I hit the note and he tuned to it. Then he said, “You’re banging the beat right on the head too much. It ain’t no march. You don’t want to hit the beat right on the head. Listen.” He lifted up the cornet and played the first eight bars of ‘The Stars and Stripes Forever.’ “Now that’s the way Sousa plays it—hits the beats right on the head. To play jazz you got to hit the notes off the beat. Like this.”
    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. “See what I mean? You got to get over hitting the beat right on the head.”
    I didn’t really get it. I could hear the difference all right, it was plain as day to me. But I couldn’t hear what he was doing that made the difference. “How do you know where the beat is if you don’t play on it?”
    â€œThat’s what you got a rhythm section for. Tap your foot, whatever. Listen,” He tapped a slow tempo with his foot, and played along. Once again there was the floating feeling to it. He stopped. “See, it’s more in between the beats”
    â€œLike syncopation?”
    â€œThat’s what a lot of them writers say in the magazines, but it ain’t. Them writers don’t know nothing about it. Who the hell told them they could explain jazz to everybody when most of ‘em don’t know the difference between a tuning fork and a basketball? It ain’t just syncopation. You got to take the beats by surprise—get in there a little quicker than they expect or wait until it’s just about too late and then jump in.”
    I shook my head. “I don’t see how you can figure all that out when the notes are flying by you so fast.”
    He laughed. “Hell, kid, you can’t think about it. You got to feel it. You got to let it happen of its own accord.”
    â€œWhat if you can’t feel it?”
    â€œYou will. You stick to it and one day it’ll come to you and you won’t ever have to think about it again.” He opened the spit valve and shook a little water out. “All right, come on, we’ll try ‘Farewell Blues’ once and then I got to go see my girl so she don’t get salty with me. You take the lead. Just play it like you did before.” 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 I’d learned it, and he played along with me, circling around me, weaving through my line, up and down and around. I couldn’t believe it was me; I couldn’t believe it was me playing jazz.
    Then we stopped. He stood up. “I gotta go. She’s probably already sore at me.”
    â€œCan I come back, Tommy?” I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to call him by his first name, but I wanted to.
    â€œSure,” he said. “I don’t mind.”

I T CAME OUT the way I figured. Pa never said anything more about taking lessons from Tommy Hurd. I don’t know if it was his idea, or Ma’s; probably both of them, for different reasons. I figured he just threw Tommy’s card away and let the whole