Writer On Call

Doctors are on call. I'm also a writer on call. To myself. You heard me. I’m a wannabee writer under the delusion that one day, I will create  jazz on paper. I wish I was more adept at gently nudging characters to attention like the drummer in a jazz band tapping sticks that look like my grandmother’s yard broom, on the cymbals.

The pianist nods and tickles some black keys, white ones or both. The arrogant saxophone doesn’t want to be left out and howls an amen, then a big thud from the upright bass guitar saying, you can’t leave me out of the conversation.

So big, like a bear, with musical notes that hurt the ground with its footprints. I still don’t understand that instrument’s reason in jazz, but it is part of the conversation.

It ain’t like that, the trumpet pumps its objection. It is, it is, it is, says the piano keys. You got it all wrong inhales the saxophone, grandstanding for ten seconds. There are two sides to the story, groans the bass, still upright. Yes indeed, says the drummer using other sticks from his repertoire.

The conversation crystallizes when all instruments have declared their position in this musical debate. And the audience? Blissful. Heads shake north and south at the naughty trumpet and hold back the tears at the saxophone’s love lost rendition.

And the trombone?  I don’t know much about that. Most of the jazz delights I attended in Harlem, New York, did not feature trombones.

I’m a trombone writer myself, wondering if I’ll ever feature in a jazz composition, with all characters misbehaving and behaving for a common cause: a great book.

Encore!

Nonqaba waka Msimang

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