Coffee And....

By Samuel Provenzano

Great jazz, like great writing, occurs in the moment. One of the most profound rewards of being present to one's life is that we learn our lessons sooner. And so, with art...or perhaps with any activity in which we are engaged, presence becomes a requisite to having anything worthwhile to say. When we express creative imagination within any given moment from presence, we have the possibility to more effectively express what is in our hearts as well as our minds. With these very short musings, I hope to awaken in you, as you drink your morning coffee, an inspired moment of presence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samuel Provenzano
• Release date: Jan 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9780998574929

Book preview

Introduction

Sometimes when a story is unfolding and revealing itself to me as I sit at a keyboard, I experience the same sensation of being swept into it as I once did playing jazz, or as I once did building a stonewall. What I’m saying is our participation in a creation is minimal, and a good part of the time, we need to just get out of the way.

One of the things I appreciate about short shorts or flash fiction is the fact that the final result is less affected by the external and is more likely to arrive in its purest form. 

Gig

We came off the stage for a twenty-minute break. We were all pretty stoned; we usually were. I sat alone at a table, and this gorgeous young thing came to the table and sat across from me .

Do you mind if I sing a tune with your group? She asked.

What tunes do you know? I asked her. She thought for a minute. God, she was beautiful!

Do you know Funny Valentine? She asked it like she thought I would laugh. Since I was the drummer and we never played Funny Valentine, I wasn’t sure. But the band was so good and she was so perfect, I was sure we’d figure it out.

Sure, I said. We’ll do one or two, then we’ll call you up. What’s your name?"

Rickie, she said, Rickie Lee Jones.

I offered to buy her a drink, but she whispered that she was eighteen. We small talked, but she didn’t say much, something about being from Oklahoma.

After about a half hour, the band got back on stage, and we started the set with two wild back-to-back originals, which got the crowd screaming. Our sound was raw and mainly Afro-Cuban.

Our leader was the pianist, Carly Munoz. He was from Puerto Rico, and he was a wild man. He taught me more about rhythm than anyone before or since. Duke McVinney played electric bass. He was a banker’s son and had come to Venice Beach from New York. His father disowned him