My life is spent in the underground tunnels of New York City, moving from station to station, inspiring people with the beauty of jazz.

I remember hearing it for the first time.  I was seven years old and my dad brought home a John Coltrane album with his whiskey and some celery.  He handed me the celery and the bottle and walked over to the record player.  I watched intently as he pulled the 12” out of the sleeve and placed it on the player.  He dropped the needle and grabbed the bottle back, taking a swig of the fire water as the sounds of jazz filled the air.

I stopped dead in my tracks, still holding the celery.  It was like time stood still, but the music never stopped, swirling around like a crazy cat in a dark basement.  It was Jazz.

Thus began my obsession.  I snatched up Coltrane and Armstrong and Calloway records left and right.  I borrowed a guitar from my friend’s father after he lost his arm in a saw mill accident.  And I met a couple musicians at The Noisy Oyster who let me play with them, learning my scales and finding inspiration in every pretty little thing that looked my way.

I played the club scene for a while, but found that it was no longer my kind of crowd.  There was nothing new about it.  Everyone who came to listen already loved jazz.  They tapped their feet to the beat, cracked a few smiles when they heard a progression they really liked, and then went home no different than they were before.

There was no discovery.  No amazement.  I wanted to introduce people to jazz, just like my whiskey swigging, celery giving father introduced it to me.

So I took to the streets, drawing inspiration from the streetwalkers and ladies of the night.  No longer playing for a wad of cash handed to me by a skeezy promoter at the end of each set in a smokey bar filled with polite patrons who tap their feet.  Now I play jazz to stop people dead in their tracks and introduce them to the crazy cat that lives in the dark basement.

The biography of a street musician., 4.0 out of 5 based on 1 rating

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