The musical backdrop to my reading was a rollicking rag called “Brown Baby,” executed by Eddie Edinborough & His New Orleans Wild Cats. Having recently seen a farewell performance by one of my favorite guitarists, Charlie Ballantine, I wanted to surround myself with the music of my favorite instrument. “50 Years Of Jazz Guitar” covers guitarists playing in the years from 1921 to 1971. I had intended to play music that did not have vocalizations that would demand time from my listening ears, so the albums I chose were supposed to be what my first bride called “no words” music. It turned out not to be a “no words” album (yes, album, as in vinyl) but as I divided my attention between my book and the music, I started to drift into the contemplation of my audio choices.
I have a child who has lived for half of a century, so it is not hard for me to remember the years that preceded her birth, and the years afterward. But I had forgotten that the 50 years of guitar music in my albums did not always have the instrument as the lead. According to the liner notes, “… the basic role of the guitar (in the early years of jazz) was solely that of a non-soloing, rhythm instrument.” In “Brown Baby,” there is a singer giving raucous voice, and Eddie Edinborough doesn’t get to jam out until after a few minutes into the set. The recording was made in 1931, long before I was born. In a 1921 recording called “Chain Gang Blues,” guitarist Sam Moore plays a rarely used eight-stringed guitar called an octocorda.
Most of the guitarists noted on the albums are those I have heard of; of the ones who recorded in my lifetime — Charlie Byrd, Kenny Burrell, Herb Ellis, John McLaughlin, and George Benson — I only saw one in person. George Benson was a native of my hometown of Pittsburgh, and the Hill District neighborhood; I saw him play in some of the Hill’s jazz clubs, including the famed Crawford Grill. But I have, in addition to those 50 years of jazz guitar, one hundred years of recorded poetry.
I uploaded a 4-CD set of poetry to iTunes and copied the poems to my iPod. When I connected the iPod to my Bose Sound Dock, I could listen to music at night, and the voices of poets. I was always pleased to hear “In Their Own Voices: A Century of Recorded Poetry,” as the poems are all read by the poets themselves. Langston Hughes reads his poem, “The Negro Speaks of Rivers,” Robert Frost reads “The Road Not Taken,” Walt Whitman reads “America” and Alan Ginsberg delivers his version of “America.” Theodore Rothke intones “I Knew A Woman,” and Dylan Thomas delivers “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.” James Wright reads one of my favorites, “A Blessing,” and Maya Angelou shares her masterpiece, “Phenomenal Woman.” When William Butler Yeats reads “The Lake Isle at Innisfree,” his brogue is so pronounced as to almost need a translation. By contrast, Anne Sexton’s bright voice announces, “All My Pretty Ones,” while Sylvia Plath solemnly delivers, “Daddy.”
If I am going to take a 150 year trip into the past, I am well served by visits to the artists who play guitar and read poetry for me. It is worth the climb into the time machine to be accompanied by the people whose works I have admired for many of the years I have spent with my feet clinging to the blue marble.
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