Live at the Five Spot

Ethan assumed he dreamt the jazz club and the beautiful woman, until he saw the revolver on the floor of the basement. He looked down at his hand, his knuckles scraped and raw, and smiled.

       It had all started because of the damn gray wall. Earlier that morning, he had stood at the edge of the basement, blinking the sleep away. Four hours only made it worse somehow, his body craved rest. The basement, cluttered with scraps of metal and wood, stank of damp mold, bringing back memories of high school water polo, and the old locker room.

 Flicking on the single overhead light, an ominous fear threatened to drown him, he would never play music anywhere other than this cement-walled room, his dreams cursed to live forever in the dark, never to see the light of day. He wanted to be part of something larger, surrounded by great musicians while he laid down the heartbeat of the music. Instead here he stood, only the walls and the cold metal furnace to hear him practice alone. 

In a thick hooded jacket and a knit beanie against the chill, he walked past his drum kit to the gray wall, pounding his hand against the cold, unblemished cement. He hated this wall, staring at it for hours on end. It had become the physical manifestation of the obstacle he felt every day. Could he ever be good enough?

All his failures rose up, combining together brick by brick into an unbreakable wall of shame. Criticisms from his drum teacher, the gig where the audience ignored the band, the rejections from auditions. And then the letter, still on his desk upstairs. “Sorry to inform you… maybe next year…” The words rose up on Ethan, large thick letters in black and white, huge fists hitting him again and again. And then the line that cut through him like a bullet, ‘after more practice’. He had read that line from Berklee College of Music over and over. As if he hadn’t been practicing every day, drumming until his hands bled and his elbow hurt so much he couldn't even hold a cup of water.

 He looked at the wall, and the easy turn he could make to give up. His dreams broken against realities of rent, and bills and life, too much of a coward to ever get through this terrible, oppressive wall. Ethan breathed out, his breath turning to fog, as he pulled the tape out of his bag, and then the poster.

 He continued to take classes, otherwise his Dad wouldn’t pay for his rent on this apartment, with this sad basement. That didn’t leave enough daylight hours to fit in the practice that he needed, and his job, so he fought against this wall and his demons of despair in the dark mornings. But yesterday, in between his shift at Hook & Press, and his evening class at the University, he took a few minutes at the Warbler Record store and found this new decoration. 

Ethan carefully taped the left corners of the poster, before unrolling it across the rough cement wall, pressing it tight as he taped the right corners. This poster had called out to him from the rack. A black and white image of a New York City jazz bar from the 1950s, the Five Spot. The photo taken from the stage, showed men and women crowded around cocktail tables filled with glasses, while above them all, a man played a saxophone. Thick smoke filled the room, while shadows of the rest of the band edged the picture. 

 Ethan put his finger on one woman in a white jacket, staring directly into the camera. Dark shadows surrounded this angel, her arresting gaze calling to him. Her face made him buy this poster.

He stepped into the pool of yellow light surrounding the drum kit and sat down at his five piece trap set, with two tom-toms, a floor tom, a kick drum, and a snare. He gently fingered the ride cymbal, and the hi-hat, the cold metal inviting him to play.

Looking up at his wall, he frowned at his poor installation of the poster, it hung crooked, the right side slightly higher than the left. But somehow it energized this dim space. His watch read 5:15 AM, a few hours to practice before he had to get to work. 

From a long black leather pouch he selected two drumsticks, the instruments fit perfectly into his calloused hands. He tapped once on the snare drum to his left, stepped on the pedal to tap the kick drum, then hit the fat floor drum to his right. Dust exploded into the air, little particles glittering in the air around him like thousands of tiny fireworks. He ran through some simple exercises to get loose, then closed his eyes for just a moment, thinking about what to play first.   

He started in on a standard he knew well, ‘In Walked Bud’. Tap, tap tap on the cymbal, and then rat-a tat-tat on the snare. In his mind he could hear Monk on the piano, next the saxophone came in, sweet and long. 

 Then the music in his head exploded around him. A loud horn, along with voices surrounded him as the poster in front of him expanded to fill the whole basement, and then his whole world. 

Suddenly, he was in a dark windowless club, small tables along his left came into focus, each filled with well dressed men and women, laughing amongst the glasses and ashtrays. More tables were scattered through the middle of the long narrow room with a bar glittering in the back, bottles reflecting the dim, yellow light. White-shirted waiters moved in and out carrying plates and trays. A heavy scent of cigarette smoke and stale whisky assaulted him. A man on a saxophone leaned in from Ethan's right, blowing a hard high note. Electrified with shock, Ethan dove to the left away from the apparition. 

 The music stopped in an instant, and he found himself on the carpeted floor of the basement, next to his drum kit. His heart raced, and his whole body buzzed.

“What the heck!” He shouted into the empty room. Ethan stood up, looked around at the still, cold basement, before walking to the poster on the wall. Could he be dreaming? He reached out to feel the poster. In his vision he had sat in that room, part of the band from a picture taken 70 years ago in a different city.

He looked around the basement, a faint smell of cigarette smoke lingered in the air. He once more put his finger on the image of the beautiful woman in the back. Are you there too?

He sat back on the stool and taking a deep breath, began playing again. The room flickered like an old movie reel starting up. His eyes wide he stopped and the room turned back into the quiet basement. Beginning to sweat, he peeled off his sweatshirt and knit cap, shaking his curly hair out. Now in a tee-shirt and jeans, he launched once again into his drums. Ethan flew right into jazz bar, the noxious cigarette smoke and vertigo combined against him, and he had to close his eyes tight to stay upright. 

Continuing to play, he looked over to see- yes, John Coltrane! standing next to him, blowing into an alto saxophone. Ahmed Abdul-Malik squeezed tight on the small stage with his bass. The piano bench sat empty, so Ethan turned around to his left to search for the band’s drummer, Roy Haynes. Ethan couldn't see him, but then he looked down at his own hands, his thin arms moving easily and in rhythm. Ethan’s hand slipped and he missed a note. He had taken Roy Haynes place in one of the greatest jazz bands of all time!

 His expanding grin threatened to break his face in two. He looked out into the crowd. The elegant young men wore dress shirts and sport jackets, the woman in tight cocktail dresses. Then he saw her, the woman from the poster here, in front of him. Their eyes caught, and time stopped.

She wore a white, short jacket over a white top, almost glowing in the dark room. Her eyes sparkled under dark short hair, and then she smiled a him, an electric shock of connection. A change in the music caught Ethan’s attention and he had to turn away. Ahmed signaled him to end the song. Ethan did a short riff and then they all stopped playing. 

“We’ll take a short break.” Ahmad huffed into the microphone. Ethan held his sticks up ready to play again if the dream world began to fade, but it continued. Alone on stage, he stood up to see where the other band members went, but they were gone, lost into the dark, smoke filled room.

“You’re amazing.” Ethan turned to his left to see the woman standing near him, her voice the thick sound of a brush on a drum. “I haven't seen you here before?”

The same age as him, her grey- green eyes looked older, and harder.  

“I’m a fill in…” Ethan mumbled, overwhelmed by this angel come to life

“My name is Courtney, maybe you can buy me a drink?” Her hand raised up, waving glamorous, red tipped fingers.

Ethan just nodded as his mouth didn't seem to work. A waiter came by and handed them both cocktails, and then faded into the crowd, the musty smell of whisky drifting up from the glasses.

“How long have you been playing?” She said, as Ethan watched her lips move, entranced by the bright red lipstick

“My whole life! I’m trying to get into a music school.” Ethan stepped down off the small stage, to get closer to this beautiful woman. “But I don’t have as much time to play, as I’m working and taking classes at school, too.”

“You’re so good.” Courtney’s head tilted. “Why don’t you just play music all the time?” Her question hung in the air like a ringing cymbal.

Ethan didn’t know how to answer this, his greatest fear. What would happen if he only played music, and then failed? He would have no back up plan. His Dad’s worries had extended to him.

“What do you do?” Ethan tried to change the tune.

Courtney’s chin dropped as she looked up at Ethan through long thick lashes. “I’m a party girl...”

“If I could,” Ethan looked back at the small stage, “I would make music all day and all night long.” 

“Hey, who is you?” A large man appeared out of the dark shadows behind Courtney, he wore a black suit jacket over a white shirt with a loosened collar and narrow tie. His dark hair slicked straight back from his large forehead.

“He a friend of yours Courtney?” Speaking in a thick accent, his jaw lifted up and protruded forward like the bow of a ship.

 “He’s in the band Carlo, he’s the drummer.” Courtney slid in between Ethan and the huge man. 

 Carlo looked at Courtney, and then with dead, fish eyes he glared at Ethan, square shoulders raising up to block out the light. 

“Why don’t you go back to playing your be boop music and stay away from my girl.”

Carlo pulled back his jacket. Confused, Ethan admired Carlo’s hand-tooled leather belt, until he saw the curved handle of a revolver tucked into it.

Ethan stepped back, away from the gun while Courtney smiled, her eyes crinkling in apology, as she sipped at the cocktail glass

A middle aged black man in a tweed suit and a dark fedora meandered up on stage and sat down at the piano. Ethan knew it could only be one person, the man whose legendary live recording at this club, the Five Spot, made it famous forever in jazz history, Thelonious Monk. Ethan readied himself at the drum kit and waited for his signal to begin. He knew had to play better than ever in his life to provide a steady beat for these amazing musicians.

Monk began, the tinkling opening notes of ‘I Mean You’. Ethan leaned in and began to play. Performing in front of an audience, he put part of his soul out for the world to see. Watching the audience nod along with smiles and recognition filled him with pure joy.

 The loose, smooth flowing band differed from any group he had ever been a part of. Coltrane took off on long rambling solo’s, while Monk left the piano to dance around him on the tiny stage. Ahmed had no room for his bass, and regularly knocked into the drum set. Ethan struggled to focus on his rhythms, each musician veered off melody into their own imaginative, fantastical world before landing back together perfectly, like magic. He slipped and missed a beat once, getting a look from Monk, and then again, his hands wet from sweat.

The song ended, and Ethan finally breathed out, he didn’t know how long he had been holding his breath. He had never worked so hard. A hand on his shoulder, Ethan turned to see the gentle face of Coltrane just inches from his own.

“Epistrophy-” Coltrane’s arched eyebrow turned into a question mark.

Ethan knew the fast, complicated opening of the song, but hadn’t practiced it for over a year. Voices raised in conversation reminded him of the audience listening to him, waiting for his certain failure. His mistakes would be a disaster, ruining the band’s sound for these legends around him. His whole body clenched in anxious panic, he knew he couldn’t keep up with these legends. He should just leave, run from the challenge.

“I can’t…” Ethan began.

“You’re playing alright, man.” Coltrane spoke like a bass drum, deep and resonant. “But you’re tight. This music is too important to take so serious. Let go and just play.” Coltrane nodded and stepped back.

Ethan squeezed the sticks tight, and nodded, the words ‘just play’ drumming a fast staccato beat in his heart. He heard in Coltrane’s words the truth, he belonged here, at the drum kit, on stage.

He spun the sticks in his hands, pulled back his shoulders and began, turning his fear into music, rhythms and beat. He floated above himself disconnected from his physical body, watching the audience, their mouths open, their eyes totally engaged. 

Ethan got the nod from Coltrane and now took his turn to solo. Conservative at first, he remembered the words and just let go, his hands erupting into a chaotic, thunderous explosion of drums and cymbals, a swirl of sound surrounding him, lifting him up. Ethan felt pure bliss and knew he had to do this, even if he had to live in a box on the street. Drumming will be his destiny. The song ended and Ethan’s body, as a drum himself continued to vibrate from the rhythms.

A scuffle in the audience drew his attention. Courtney, her face clenched in a snarl, threw her drink, then he saw Carlo reach back and slap her.

 “No!” Ethan screamed pointing into the audience. No one moved, or even cared. Courtney’s eyes caught his, pleading and desperate.

Ethan had always avoided violence, scared to fail even at that simple physicality.  He had to make an attempt, even if people thought he was a fool, had no chance of success. The connection he felt with this woman spurred him to do what he had never done before.

He dropped his sticks and jumped into the audience, curly locks flowing behind him as he swam through the crowd, dodging tables and waiters to get to Courtney. Finally at Carlo, he continued his momentum diving forward, and just like a shot in water polo, he used his whole body to deliver a wild roundhouse. The punch connected solidly into Carlo’s ear, his whole body moving down sideways with the punch. Ethan had never hit anything so hard. 

Carlo turned back and he saw a spark of life in Carlo’s dark eyes, and a smile on his face. He didn't see the gun rise up toward him until the huge black barrel aimed at his his chest.

“No!” Courtney cried, as she pushed the gun up.

Ethan dove sideways, falling, the room around him flickering, darkness filling in from the edge of his vision as a gunshot echoed around him. 

His face pressed hard into the dank carpet. A sharp pain in his right hand spurred him to open his eyes. Cracked metal scraps of the revolver scattered across the floor, no longer menacing in the glare of the light. Ethan turned to see the poster, torn from the wall, remnants dangling from one corner, the cement around it cracked.

 Ethan knew he could never go back to be a part-time drummer. He would be a denizen of the night, living in the jazz clubs and bars of the world. He had tasted what could be, and would fight all he could to get there again. 

Until then, he had work to do. Ethan climbed back on the drum stool, closed his eyes to hear the first few notes of ‘In Walked Bud’ and began to play.