IN ONE MOMENT [Page 9] by Tobin Cheung
Occasionally the scent of sausages grilling on the barbeque wafts across the venue to stir everyone’s appetite.
The sound of a quadruple tap and double thump, pumps into our chests. The monotonous drone of mindless chattering dissipates to silence. The beat continues unaccompanied. Soon our head and feet unconsciously move to its syncopated rhythm. Once everyone’s ears have been tempted, the bass player inlays a melody to produce a haunting prelude. Together with the drummer, they set the mood for the audience. I am certain the crisp tinny tsk, tsk, tssssk of the cymbals can be heard echoing throughout the city as it ricochets off windows lining all the skyscrapers. When the guitarist shuffles in with his chords, the ambience becomes complete. A dark eerie vibe is established through minor keys while the timing of each note asserts an inherent groove. It’s as though we were in a back alley club of a shady foreign city. I feel of both excitement and nervousness.
A gust blows in from across the lake foretelling an arrival. The band continues with their groove. Goose bumps form on my arm and magically the soloist appears center stage as if she had always been there. She stands erect, cool and confident.
In one blow, she commences by spurting out an electric sequence of notes, catching the attention of many. She seems young, not young and pretty, but young to be an accomplished trumpet player.
The chorus is gently executed, allowing us the pleasure of savoring the tune. With each pass, she makes slight variations to the melody giving it an added touch. It is also an indication that she is ready to break free, itching to unveil a monologue. The band members can sense her restlessness and the tempo is taken to the next notch. All eyes are on her.
Drawn by curiosity, flocks of people continue to gather along the perimeter. They are captivated with anticipation, anxious to see what a female trumpet player can do. I hold my breath hoping she would meet the expectations of true jazz aficionados. She does not. The fact is, great trumpet players have always been men. Everyone has heard of Miles, Dizzy and Faddis, but very few people can give name to a female player. The trumpet is an instrument that is gender bias. Subsequently, the young lady on stage will not be judged in accordance with the standards applied to men. Jazz critics already have a bell curve in mind and the audience is ready to cheer her on regardless of the technical elements in her performance.
This girl of mid thirties does not perform to our projected level. She is here to put the best of the best to shame. Once she was set free of the chorus, her talents took flight. Within the first three bars she was immediately recognized as a soloist and not a smooth jazz player. A gasp is heard from the people around me, not from being surprised but from being shocked. Jazz enthusiasts straighten in their seats. I am caught in mid-motion, forgetting why I extended my arm. Whatever the reason, it no longer matters. After a moments pause, my arm lowers on its’ own.
Her arpeggios flow undetectable and work together with her phrasing in harmony. She is a fluid player achieving an unrehearsed and impromptu feel. What she plays tells a story, what she does not play makes a statement. Musicians graced at birth with natural ability do not play notes. They make noises, a screech, a wail, a squawk that become notes. She has that magic and I am under her spell. Caught up in her performance, I relish in every sound, until the girls seated to my left broke out in a loud and opinionated conversation. Hoping to ignore them I pretend not to hear.
[To be continued...]
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