Rivendell
from My Warm Up
Steve ArmourSaleem leans across me and shouts, Don't you hate it when these white cats walk into Billy's thinking they can play?
Practice room #9 has the same dimensions as the other eleven cubicles the College of Music has set aside for wind players. #9 is the only one not in use, and as I step into it I hear Dave Schiller across in #10 practicing the Bach G Major Suite for unaccompanied cello on his bass clarinet. Next to him in #12, Mark Jordan arpeggiates a major scale with a raised fifth on his trumpet. I don't know the saxophonist in #7, but he has his bell facing the wall his cubicle shares with mine, and even after I close my door I hear everything he plays.
Six inches from my face, leaning across me and shouting, Don't you just hate that shit? White motherfuckers.
Practice room #9 is five feet wide, eight feet deep, and seven feet high. Its walls are covered in cream-colored squares of acoustic material banded by stainless steel. It contains a gray metal folding chair and a black Manhassatt music stand and it smells of musty carpet. The carpet is gray and stained and marked with cigarette burns.
I set my case on the carpet and sit on the folding chair, listening to the guy in #7 play a six note descending scale--chromatics followed by an interval of a third and then two more chromatics, all eighth notes. He plays it slowly over and over.
My trombone case is a Dolly Bag. It's made of soft leather, black and starting to show some wear. Dolly Wiseman from Indianapolis makes these bags by hand and they are good bags. She makes them out of the same leather Cadillac uses for car seats. I open the case and get a whiff of the stale smell from last night's club, just enough to make me drop my head and close my eyes.
Artie stands in the door of Billy's Bar as Tony and I walk up. He greets Tony with a special handshake and a half hug and they smile and laugh together. I say something and Artie frowns at me.
Can you play? he says.
Well, yeah, I can play.
You know a lot of serious cats have come through here, he says, so you better be able to play.
I glance at Tony. He's watching his shoes.
I say, I've played here lots of times and no one's ever had any problems. I'm sure it'll be cool.
I'm not asking what you did before, Artie says. I'm asking can you play. Because serious cats have come through here, brothers who gave their lives for this music. You know that? You know where you're at? People know Billy's all over the world.
Yeah, I know.
People know Billy's all over the fucking world, man. Serious cats have played at this session. Serious brothers.
Yeah, I know the history, I say. And I know not many white guys come down here, but I'm sure it'll be fine. It always has been before.
It ain't about color. Don't you go accusing me of nothing. It ain't about color. You just better be able to play, motherfucker.
Yeah, well don't worry about it.
Ain't nothing worrying me. You the one better be worrying.
Then Tony says, C'mon, Artie. He's with me.
And Artie says, I'm gonna let you pass because you're with my man. But you better know where you are.
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