TANGIER FOR JAZZ (PART 2)

I almost get kicked out of the casino. First for my open shoes, then because I’m not allowed to write in my notebook in the casino, then because I argue with the security guard about not being able to write in the casino. It goes on like that for some time, but eventually the music is on so I don’t care any more about house rules. I give up my book and pen to the security guard and take a seat at the black jack table marked “Seats for PLAYERS ONLY.” Another guard steps up to me during the show and asks wearily, “Please don’t write anything.” My shoes are dangerous, my writing’s dangerous, I feel all over like a dangerous man.

I’ll tell you about the music. But first I’ll tell you what bothers me about the pen/open shoe security debacle. The casino is sleazy. I see a kid walking around in dirty trainers. Old men eyeing the girls running the tables: “Should I bet on that? Ha ha ha!” (raising bushy eyebrows) “One…two…three…four! Ha ha ha!”(flourish of the hand)
“What’s your name today? And what’s your name tomorrow! Ha ha ha!”
“I don’t have enough for a five hundred minimum bet!”
No, it certainly isn’t your average high-class casino. But they want to hold on to that myth by giving me a hard time about my shoes.

The truth is, none of that matters in the end, because the music is excellent. I’m seething with the memory of being treated like a criminal, but that’s not important any more once Maxwell Silvapulle kicks open his high-hat with a jogging foot, whips his hands letting them roll over like a dog, and slaps the traps shut. In his breaks, Alexander Tripodi plucks his swing fiddle to pick up the melody; eyes bulging from behind his thick glasses, straining, looking around to drink in the bass line. Suddenly the violin shrieks and Alexander’s eyes are shut tight, imagining the notes pinging off his bow and casting out into the audience. The violin and bass drop out, leaving the drums to just pan on their own. Maxwell brushes the toms like a cook, only the high hat’s “kkksssss…kkkkssss” hinting at the original tempo (you’re lost by this point if you’re not paying attention). All at once the drums cascade, rolling and tumbling, Maxwell sits stiffly upright in his dark suit. His eyes look obliquely out from the side of his head because it’s cocked at an angle, as though he’s bracing for the impact. That’s the long inhale. Then the release as fiddle and bass come back in with synchronicity and that’s when it all lays into a familiar rhythm again. The drummer slumps a little in his chair, relaxes. He can finally see straight.

Page 1 2

© Saeed Taji Farouky 2006

Return to writing & journalism