[Dixielandjazz] Re: Twas The Night Before Christmas

[Stephen Barbone]

Here's one I git in return. A little more modern and out of meter. :-)
I'll rework it for OKOM and send in in 2003. The thoughs and idea are neat.

Cheers,
Stve Barbone

A Christmas Jazz Memory  
by Don Heckman

'Twas the night before Christmas and the gig was running late; The 
prospect for a cool Yule at home wasn't great. Holidays are workdays 
in a jazz musician's life, A chance to make some extra bucks to take 
home to the wife.

If you want to make a living in the jazz world these days, You'd 
better learn to celebrate in many different ways. Chanukah, Kwaanza, 
Ramadan -- you name it. When there's a tune that sets the mood, 
you'll have to learn to play it.

The clock slowly turned toward the midnight hour, As we jazzed up the 
changes of the ``Waltz of the Flowers.'' We labored on: ``White 
Christmas," ``Frosty'' and "Silent Night'';
I wondered if we'd still be jamming ``Deck the Halls'' at first light.

But we finally got lucky, with the start of the last medley. The 
singer mauled ``The Christmas Song'' (a version Mel would have found 
deadly) , We did the ``Jingle Bell Mambo'' and the ``Drummer Boy 
Bossa Nova,'' And wrapped it all up, with a rock ``Hallelujah'' coda.

I packed up my horn, headed into the night.  Too late to buy 
presents, even the 7-11s were closed up tight. Not that it mattered, 
since the gig barely paid the rent, And whatever I could afford had 
already been spent.

I walked through the falling snow, filled with memories of Christmas 
past, Of marching bands and football parades, of lighted trees and 
times too good to last. And I hoped that my kids, when adulthood 
beckons, Would remember their holidays with the same sweet affection.

My footsteps finally led to a warm home filled with silence, My 
wife and kids drifting through dreams of happy innocence. So I sat 
for a while in the late night still, Watching snowflakes tumble 
gently across the hill.

When I suddenly heard a familiar sound in the distance, A rhythm 
section churning with swinging persistence. But this one was strange, 
something I'd never heard before, Driven by percussion I can only 
describe as hoof beats galore.

Then a new sound, one both familiar yet odd, Called out through the 
snowfall, like a leader commanding a squad. ``On Trane! On Dizzy! On 
Monk! On Duke!
On Sonny! On Bird! On Miles! On Klook!"

The next thing I heard was just as amazing, A set of riffs, 
hard-swinging and blazing, Played on an instrument that was brand new 
to me, The sting of a trumpet, the silk of a sax, the tone of a bone, 
all blended with glee.

I dashed to the window to see what was coming, And was met with a 
sight incredibly stunning, What looked like a bright red '57 Chevy, 
Pulled through the sky by eight reindeer in a bevy.

They landed in my yard and the driver leaped out; Grabbing a pack 
from the back he quickly turned about. I blinked my eyes at this 
strange apparition, His cheeks like Dizzy, his smile like Pops, as 
natty as Miles, a man on a mission.

"Call me Father Jazz," he said as he came through the door, 
"musicians are my specialty. I'll even make a stop tonight with a 
little something for Kenny G." Then, opening his pack, he lightly 
danced to our tree, Placing presents beneath it, ever so gently.

"There's a drum set for Alex,"' he said, "that kid has great time. 
And a guitar for Allegra, 'cause the songs she writes are so fine. 
And the books and the wristwatch you wanted for your wife, That you 
couldn't afford, living a jazz musician's life.''

This is way too weird, I thought, it must be a dream; Something like 
this is too good to be what it seems. "Oh, it's the real deal,'' said 
Father Jazz, with a riff-like snap of his fingers. "You're on my list 
of serious jazz swingers."

Moving to the doorway he turned back for a final review: "And if 
you're wondering why no box has been left for you, It's because your 
present has already been given. You know what it is? It's the spirit 
that makes your imagination so driven."

"Musicians all know that the gift of music is the gift of love. It's 
a gift that can only have come from above.   And those non-jazz 
Beatles had it right, for all our sakes,
When they said, `The love you take is equal to the love you make'."

He bounded lightly through the snow to his flying red Chevy, Blew a 
celestial riff on his amazing horn -- so heavy!
And urged his team upward with a rallying command, "On Dizzy! On 
Bird! On Miles! On Trane!"

As his eager steeds rose high into the winter sky, Father Jazz called 
out one last stirring cry. Looking down with a radiant smile and a 
farewell wave: "Stay cool, Bro' and keep the music playing."

Copyright 2000 Don Heckman >>