A Shout out to a Great Jazz Duo: Paul Orbell and Craig Akin, NYC

I’m sitting at Brick Café in Astoria, three blocks from my apartment.
I decided to take the entire day off. No commitments, no pushing myself to move forward, to be “productive,” just an insistence on taking a step back from the constant rush and clamber of New York. It was hard at first, almost as difficult as forcing myself to write or look for the next audition. Perhaps that’s the trap of NYC: either you’re getting ahead and neglecting the joy of life, or you’re enjoying life and feeling guilty for not getting ahead. The escape from these two ends is simple: get inebriated. I’ve only met a few to whom this does not apply.
My day started off with a French film, “Priceless.” I moved on to yoga—because my back hurt—and a nap. Next, I went to see the new film, “I Love you Man,” and found myself calling my best guy friend to say I missed him. Fortunately, I got his voicemail and didn’t have to listen to his inevitably awkward response.
Now I am sitting at the Brick Café. I just spent more than I can afford on a three-course meal, including drinks. I brought the Stephen King book I’m currently reading. I can’t help it; I love stories, so why not fill my day off from work with good stories?
Tonight there is live music. More than likely, the restaurant is looking for ways to bump up business during the recession with “Live Music on Wednesdays!!.” I thought nothing of it, especially since the live music was a jazz duo. This means no singing. No lyrics. No story telling. I have rarely connected to jazz. So what? I’ll read my book and enjoy the ambience.
About thirty seconds into the playing, I find I can’t focus on my book anymore. The thumbing of the upright bass vibrates in my chest as the electric guitar sings a different song. They seem to play entirely different tunes, yet somehow the tunes complement and play off one another. Damn, that last line is laden with metaphors for life.
Forgive me if I come off as sappy. It could be the rain outside, the lights bouncing off the wet pavement, the wooden tables, the curtains. It could simply be that I’ve had all day to reflect, alone.
My mind starts drifting. Stephen King’s words simply won’t register. I close my eyes. I’m inundated with clear images playing through my mind, inspired by the music.

First Piece
I’m walking through a tree-lined street in Paris. It’s Fall. I’m holding the hand of my beloved x-girlfriend, now best friend, Chixie. We drift along wordlessly toward the famous lawn, so well kept, so green. The French sit around the lawn staring at the grass. When I first experience this, I find it hilarious. Kids are playing in the dirt and gravel surrounding the lawn, while this wonderland of grass, perfect for a football game, or Ultimate Frisbee, remains untouched. Chixie, however, forces me to appreciate what is really going on: It is enough for the Parisians to admire the perfectly groomed lawn, and ‘twould be an offense to tred on’t. It is a matter of respect and appreciation for beauty.

My eyes open. I applaud as they somehow resolve their tune that I thought would find no resolution. They begin to play another number. I close my eyes.
Now I’m bobbing through a crowded swing club. I’m 21 years old on a date with my gorgeous girlfriend and full of hormones. I’m wearing the wrong pants for this, which is obvious when she insists I stand up to dance with her. I love swing-dancing but do not want to get up in this particular moment. (I feel like a twelve year-old boy in school being asked to stand and answer a question at the exact wrong moment—which was really about 30 minutes of any given class.) My girlfriend is oblivious to my predicament. She drags me to the DJ, a woman, who looks down at my number, laughs, and agrees to play our favorite number.

More clapping. I drop a dollar in the jazz duo’s tip bucket. Next song. I close my eyes.
I’m in Kenya at a jazz club called “Java” that my American friends and I would go to when we needed a respite from being the foreigners. (It occurs to me that the Brick Café is itself a respite for foreigners. The musicians and I seem to be the only ones for whom Engish is our first language.) Java is a dark, smoky club. There’s a mix of Brits, Americans, Canadians, Africans, and black musicians whaling away on a stage. My girlfriend—the same one who dragged me on my walk of shame to the DJ—leans over and asks me what instrument I would come back as, were I to be reincarnated as such. “An upright bass,” I say without hesitation.

I open my eyes and watch the bass player thumbing away with impossible speed. I watch the electric guitarist. They have so fully cultivated their talent and technique that they are free to express themselves completely through their instruments of choice, playing with each other, off each other, telling their story. What’s more, they tell my story. And they tell the story of anyone willing to pause and listen. I cannot let this moment pass, so I run home, grab my laptop, return and complete my own day of story-telling. This is not work. It’s fun.
Here’s a shout out to Paul Orbell and Craig Akin and a thanks for a sweet completion to my day off, smoother than my Johnny Walker Red on the rocks. Catch them if you can. You won’t be disappointed.