NUMBER 6
1953 is now. Now is the Future. Time is not a line. Time is a loop.
This May marks the 60th anniversary of Jazz At Massey Hall, the live culmination of a select few instrumentalists that resulted in the nearest thing I can liken to musical enlightenment. Powell, Mingus, Parker, Roach, and Gillespie: pure ecstasy. Hands dancing up and down the keys with no regard, two “leads” (if that term is even applicable) absolutely wailing hardly in key, syncopation that’s been doubled too many times to count, and a bass that vaguely keeps progression. These are not the sounds of Ubermensch born unto this plane from an existence we cannot comprehend. These are not the sounds of Gods. Rather, they are the blemished creations of men – fallible, decaying, troubled men – bleeding out their hands without restraint, expectations, or limits. Parker would die a mere two years later, bones so corroded the coroner would mistake him for thirty years older than he actually was. For Charlie, that filter he took out never got put back in; and it finally caught up with him.
Terra Nova Expedition sails from Cardiff to Antarctica. The People’s Republic of China amends and subsequently removes its Great Firewall. The Rivonia Trial tries 221 acts of sabotage.
In the year 2013 musicians steadily unravel the secrets to the other Charlie’s (Mingus) brain, the ringleader of the Massey Hall cypher. Turns out it isn’t locked, the deadbolt was busted off. Down a long, darkened hallway we find it: glowing green light oozing out behind a splintered door labeled “#6”. All it takes is a push. Once inside, a variety of characters loiter… chatting and sipping beer. GhOst and Vindsval from Blut Aus Nord are surrounded by a coven of Witch-House folk, the tube TV is unplugged but generating white noise. Michael Gira of The Swans sits at the kitchen table with a turntablist and a Hip-Hop lyricist, a cloaked Electro figure stirs a large pot on the stove. A group of musicians cling to the fire-escape out the window, desperate to peer inside but still too afraid to step inside. But the Mingus flat is no elite club: no passwords, no dress code, no donations. All are welcome.
The Toronto show is happening now. Dizzy’s trumpet has been hacked; a quarter-inch runs from his baby to Powell’s work station, where he manipulates the notes with a laptop and some custom hardware. Max rolls a steady snare with one hand, while the other triggers pads for drops and reverses. Parker’s on his knees, upping the feedback on his DD-7. And Mingus has outfitted his stand-up with a cracked touch screen.
The Megacity of the Future is growing, along with it the capacity of Charlie’s number 6 apartment party. Those privy to it always embrace new faces free enough to seek it out. They crave new members: a shy, bushy haired 30-something carrying an acoustic that reads “this machine kills isms”, a 19 year old clutching sheet music tight to her chest, a backpack filled with a laptop, USB sticks, and paint pens. When they take the elevator up the Block, stroll down that hallway, and push inside they are immediate equals. The Massey Hall stories – recollections of little moments happening then, now, and later – confirm this. Powell, the Charlie’s, Dizzy, Roach… they aren’t legends. They weren’t in 1953 and therefore are not in The Future. They are rusting bits of human, like you or I. We all can be them, with the push of a door and absolutely no inhibitions. No restraint. Limitless.
- Dan Black