RUDIMENTS 1155.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,155

[In Pretty Much the Most Amazing Monolgue I'd Ever Heard]

(a jazz story, Jimmy Goodenough, Aug. 1969):

"Well that's an improvement" the

old timer said, while he was sitting

on a concrete and stone half-wall

separating the lawn from the shaded

people. It wasn't just the tone of his

voice that caught my ear but it was

also the accent and his demeanor -

both very interesting. So I decided

to stop right there and spend a

few moments with him, as I had

the time. I'd been working the

last 6 hours or so with Cheng

Dao Lee, known as Charley, an

artist who had a huge apartment

w/studio on w86th where he did

his work. 'Oblique paintings

of Chinese Hills,' we called

them. On this day some of his

large pieces needed crating

and readying for transportation

(to Rosencrantz Gallery, e57th)

- which was simple enough work

if one could be careful. It involved

building protective transport-frames

of 1x2's; a lumber-wood protective

covering, and nails and all the

simple stuff to construct around

each 8 or 10 foot painting so it

wouldn't get hurt during transport). I

used to do things like that occasionally.

A 30-dollar day, back in '68, wasn't

half bad for someone of my cheap

expense-level. When people back

then used to dance the 'Frug' (it

was some sort of dance craze about

1966) some thought it had been

named after me; short for 'frugal.'

-

Anyway, this guy on the wall looked

over to me and said "Sit down -

what are you doing around here?"

and I proceeded to do so, as we

started talking - this entire area

by the 72nd street entrance to

the park was always a favorite

spot of mine - the geography

right there is pretty active -

little hills and vistas, the wide

front of the Natural History

Museum and the Historical

Society across the street, and

nearby was some oddball place

called 'The Ethical Culture Society,'

yeah, right....and all those walls and

and benches and things which

ran along the walkway afforded

interesting views into the

park or along the roadway -

whichever one's preference - by

which to wile away the time or

just sit back on a nice day and

take it all in. That was before

the really rich and the rock

star royalty types began buying

up the place too. Rosemary's Baby

had been filmed in the Dakota,

and the later John Lennon BS

hadn't yet hit. This old guy was

just as interested in any detail

I could tell him as I'd be in

anything he told me - which

meant like a half-interest just

to help make a human-contact

and pass some time. So I told

him my current story : The

art-school downtown, and the

various little jobs here or there,

anywhere, I'd undertake to get

a few dollars; and the varied

ways and means of my wandering

existence. Of course, I'd leave

out the usual jibs and jabs of

what went wrong and who did

what, but no matter. He'd said

his name was Jimmy Goodenough

pronounced 'Goo-den-ow,' which

pronunciation he said was 'good

enough for me' - which I thought

maybe was a joke but never found

out really. I figured, with a name

like that, it was all probably a

practiced routine that he must

have done a thousand times already.

-

It turned out he was some old jazz

dude, from the hep-cat days of 15

or 20 years back and he had for

sure a certain attitude of his own

to which I listened and was raptly

startled and fascinated all together

at once. Although I'd never heard

of him I just let him talk - "...now

you've got the opportunity, now

you're young, and you should

be open to everything. You can,

let's say, 'absorb,' you dig? Like

right, so you got to always take

a moment and look around. Take

those moments too, boy, because

they're precious, and by God then

they just become scarcer and less

as you move along. I warn you that.

And just as important it is to listen,

JUST listen ! No other thing, no

other sound - just a note, like any

person would hear if they would,

if they COULD; you see, but they

never do because the monstrous

crossword puzzle of their dull

mind won't LET them, wherein

the wailing and the good sense

of all that is, and remains, hidden

by the four-letter word I am

thinking of: 'MIND,' or maybe

even 'JAZZ,' because they is

BOTH you see the very same

thing." I liked the way he talked,

the diction was off a bit, and

he shagged his words, almost

like a drunk would. He talked

deep, and mysteriously, like

Miles Davis, in fact. It was old

and intriguing, like when you

go to see a monument to

something old and forgotten,

one that no one ever visits

anymore. I thought it was

all that, and hip too. I figured

probably - strong and enunciated

and boisterous and exclamated;

all at the same time, but sensitive

and observantly wise too. Just

the weirdness of a voice with

a real past maybe. Super-real.

I figured not to step in. What

did I know, and so, instead,

I just let this old jazz guy go

on (it did seem back then there

were plenty enough of them about

- in the waning days of old 60's

jazz I'd somehow bump into

them now and again, pretty

often; and it was just like an

inner 'urge' or something to

come forth and be personified

in one of these guys). I was

always looking for twisted

idols to pick up on. He was

one. I knew that, and he

continued: "And I am thinking

of JAZZ maybe again, or that

be-bop hazing sound of evolution;

something like what went right

past, say, Louis Armstrong from

Fats Waller, without anyone really

noticing (what am I saying - oh man,

they noticed! Everybody noticed!),

until, POOF! right there was Louie,

with Lucy Baba Louie, ruining the

entire sell-out raggedy-muffin

scene. Selling it all out for money

and fame, CHEAP fame, mind you.

So much so like Louis had turned

white, or been turned, or let his'self

BE turned, white! And then some!

Any backstreet-curb-assed excuse for

nigger or hipster of jive or cool

whatever, right there in black

AND in white, playing that white

man's game. And the most

destructive thing he ever did was,

the worse move he ever made,

was to co-opt the voice of the

white-man's toady, that nigger

Armstrong; that vain ego-bleeding

sycophant circus-tent juggler, and

them ain't MY words neither - they

are exact words the words of Mongo

Park his'self, or someone very much

like him. That's all a quote, boy. Here,

have some of this." (And he handed me

a bottle in a brown, paper, bag).

"And then we let that whole ship o'shit

pass on until now the scene shifts, and

right under us, to the ultra-cool hip

of cigarette smoke, cocaine-induced,

heroin-rambling, spook-faced, dead-man,

sit-up tunes in any smoky New York

or Chicago blues parlor, jazz club,

speakeasy, big-hit: Hip tunes and

supposed black nigger-tunes, and

white-man's stupid poetics, tripping

with the downtown jazz-girls,

soothing voices talking back, ever

so lightly to the sex-tinged super-cool

waiters working for change or tip

or lovin' or lip, or smack, or whatever

you'd want. And it was right then as

if the whole entire major fag scene too

erupted on New York's darkest backwaters.

None of that was anything new. It had

always been there, but none of those

new-Whiteys to the scene ever

figured for that!"

-

"It was then that everyone finally

smiled, like even me; and down

at the Village and the old Cooper

Union porch and the Five Spot

Corner, with suddenly fifteen new

kinds of hepcats kids a day selling

everything and anything they

could, and it was all laid out on

the sidewalk each day - just

piles of stuff : boots, records,

clothes, tools, artifacts, paintings,

junk coats, and - you see don't you,

that the point was to turn one

or two dollars a day at least in

any way you could so to survive,

and all that 'angel-headed hipster'

stuff made no sense anyway because

the only people buying were either

themselves back and forth to each

other, or unwholesome freak-faces

from Long Island and New Jersey

strolling through this trinket-touristy

life like it all already OWED them

something. There was guys even

who'd sell their instruments, just

to buy them back maybe the very

next day - it was all like a pawn-shop

of the open air and for the poor

and the really down and out and beat

ones. It used to make me sick to

have to live that way, just a survive,

not a life. But no one made a move,

and no one knew a thing, except

that all of a sudden the hinterlands

had come home to roost, and the

best we could do was stay in place

and survive while it all wilted. The

beats died, the Jazz died, the real

color died, and the only thing left

was the co-opted motion of small

time merchants and beady-eyed

Italian neighborhood wranglers

trying to make a buck off the blood

and the spirit of dead kids already

dying and struggling too. They

labeled it this or they re-labeled

it that, and they tried to make it

work : hippie-carnival-fantasy-land.

But it couldn't, and it didn't, and,

at the same time these very kids

were wasting themselves, others

of them were dying and frying in

nowhere's land of another white,'

fantasy- vision-power-HELL Vietnam."

-

And so it seemed, he wouldn't stop

and didn't, and it was really weird -

as usually I did hate old people and

all their pontificating and bullshit

about life's lessons and all that crap

they never did and had failed to

realize, and blah blah, they just go on.

But this guy was different. He had an

edge. He had some freaked-out

wildman point-of-view about everything;

and it really did seem he'd done everything

and been all around - which got rid right

away of the fakery and the doubt and

made me want to listen, at least, just

for the hell of listening. And if I only

knew then what I know now, I'd have

started listening a lot closer, right off

the bat there and then and how.

Because I knew I wasn't getting it

all, nor going to be remembering it all;

and it really was the start of something

big; if only I had known.