COLLEGE JAZZ

My love of jazz music began in college when I actually began to understand how to listen to it. This truly American art form can only be appreciated in full when you know what to do with your ears. As soon as you realize that the soloist is making things up on the spot that fit in with the chord progression and beat of the rhythm section, a whole new world opens. If you were to sit for a live jazz performance two nights in a row, with the same musicians playing the same tunes, the show will be different. It’s magical, and amazing.

Of course, there are a ton of great resources online for how to listen to jazz and that’s not where this week’s words are going. Instead I would like to share with you how this world opened for me. It started with a guy I met my freshman year of college at The University of Massachusetts Lowell campus. He was as skinny as a beanpole, had a wise mouth and serious guitar chops. His name was Jake and he had a huge impact on my learning about music, and more recently, about life.

Jake hails from Saugus and when he visited New Hampshire he joked that he never saw so much grass and that living in my state was dangerous due to the fact that you could buy beer and wine in the grocery store. He famously once said “Dude, how do you live here? I go in for a loaf of bread and come out with a 12 pack! This place is bananas. Do you people even have laws?” For those of you who are not from the Boston area, Saugus is just north of the city, but only about 30 minutes from the NH border. Jake made it sound like he was heading to the Yukon. He spoke like that all of the time.

He was never shy in voicing his opinions about music, jazz players (good and bad), classes, teachers and the state of how many people were “morons.” I can still remember him outside of a practice room on the 4th floor of the music building listening to some group rehearse a Kiss tune.

Jake: “C’mon man, do you hear this shit? No one needs to come to college to learn or play this crap. They’re all morons in there. They suck. It all sucks…..But it sounds pretty good though.”

That was college Jake. Vicious but loving of everyone. He and I, along with his cousin Ron (an engineering student but also a kick ass bassist) formed a trio and quickly asked any and all piano and horn players that we knew to sit in with us and jam. That’s music lingo for anyone can play in the practice room. Come on in, open your Real Book (an illegal collection of jazz lead sheets that had about 400 standard tunes in it and at least that many mistakes since it was hand written and passed around through generations of musicians. GOOD STUFF…the Jazz BIBLE. I still have mine). We learned a ton of standards, went to local shows, bought and discussed records, played a gig here and there and began spending Friday nights in the recital hall where we played for hours with friends coming and going while devouring Papa Gino’s pizzas. When the hall had a concert going on, we would haul our gear upstairs and practice in an empty classroom. This WAS our college party scene. We were all addicted to the music and seeing where it would lead. When campus was closed in the summer, Ron’s dad let us rehearse in his machine shop among the belt sanders, power tools, sawdust and where an occasional employee of his father would wander in wondering what the hell a jazz combo was doing in there.

After two years, Jake transferred to Berklee School of Music in Boston to study advanced guitar theory. I still played with his cousin the bass player, but Jake was the glue. We saw each other less and less as this was the early 90’s. No internet, no cell phones and each of us busy on our respective campuses.

Two years after I graduated and started teaching, I had heard that Jake had also obtained his teaching degree and he took a job in a middle school about 10 minutes from where I was working and living. We bonded over late night conversations about lessons, curriculum, how awesome the kids were and how often the administration got in the way of what we were trying to do: build a middle school program that offered something to every single kid sitting in front of us. I loved it. He grew tired of it, and, always one to go 110% when he decided to do something, Jake packed up his pickup truck and drove to California with no job and no prospects. In my mind this was a terrifying move. Looking back now, I think it was genius: no kids, no spouse, nothing tying you down to anywhere….25 years old. Why not?

He got a job teaching music and band at a high school in Indo, which is south of Palm Springs….and is not Palm Springs. Jake was there for a few years, but wasn’t happy there, so he relocated a little east of Los Angeles and began a long stint teaching in two middle schools in the city of Glendora. I went out to see him and visit his schools during one of my winter breaks. He let me take his percussion kids for a few lessons, I saw his program running well, and we had a bunch of laughs. A few years later, Jake returned the favor when he cam home one holiday to see his family and I put him to work with my kids while he visited me.

We also began a years long penpal program between our two band programs. Each year, our 8th grade kids would write letters (remember those? with a stamp and stuff?) to each other as long as the kids played the same instrument. Each year the N.H. kids would marvel at the fact that kids in L.A. often spent Christmas outdoors, while the California crew wondered endlessly what it was like to play in the snow. Later, when technology got better, we shared videos of our bands playing and researched each other’s cities. We were teaching the kids about life. At the end of the day, that’s what teaching has meant to me. Take all of our life experiences, pass them on to the kids, build community and allow them the grace of letting them become who they are. Instill confidence, show them that it’s ok to make mistakes, grow, love openly and often, and…..make and listen to great music.

At least once a year, Jake would come east to see his family and I would always make it a point to see him. He met my wife and kids, and I got to know the California people in his orbit as well. He got married, bought a house, decided not to have kids. Sold said house, got divorced and generally followed a path that was his and his alone. He would think nothing of driving 2 hours to watch a live drum corps show, or spend a week in the northern mountains of California taking a jazz guitar workshop. I always enjoyed speaking with him about life, and arguing over who had the best recordings of “Night in Tunisia.” (He loved the Parker/Miles recording, while I always found the Bud Powell one with Max Roach on drums to rule the day…)

Then Covid. Jake and I lost touch for a few years, both of us thinking about calling, but not doing so. Thankfully, earlier this spring Jake called me and told me that he would be home in late July and would love to meet at a pub for lunch somewhere between Boston and southern NH. I was game, and since it had been more that 5 years since we saw each other, I put the word out to a couple of old college buddies and we set to meet on a Friday afternoon.

To my surprise, Jake brought his girlfriend who I had never knew existed. That was also very Jake. Full of surprises. He had no idea that I had been sick, retired from teaching and was now in a career working for a non-profit helping people and families living with muscular dystrophy.

There were 5 of us at lunch an we gabbed for a while like people do that haven’t seen each other in awhile, but quickly fall into conversation of great friends like not a day has gone by. I shared that I was retired from teaching and asked him how the middle school gig was going out in California. I was not prepared for what came next. Months later, as I write these words, I am still grappling with the remainder of that day.

“Well my friend, we are about to have a very uncomfortable conversation.”

“What does that mean, Jake?”

“I am also retired, but not by choice. I’ve been sick for almost 5 years with colon cancer. Besides Covid, this is why I haven’t flown east in so long. I was getting all kinds of treatment and chemo and was not well enough to travel.”

“Jesus man, you look great! I’m sorry that you went through that. Obviously it’s all good, since you are sitting here and you look fine, and you were able to fly and travel. Tell us the story….”

He spoke and spoke and spun a tale of inpatient hospital stays, red blood cell counts, medicine that made him so, so, sick and eventually I began to wonder why he was laying this out in extreme detail and tearing up while telling all of us how much he loved us and how many great memories we had.”

“Jake, man, it’s always good to hear all of this, but what the hell?”

I’ll spare all of you reading this what was said next because it became something that I want to remember in my mind, heart, and soul for as long as I live.

Jake explained that, in early 2024, he had no quality of life from all of the drugs and treatments that weren’t doing what they were supposed to do. He felt like total shit all of the time and decided to stop all treatment, even though the cancer had not been cured. This was, as he called it, his “farewell tour.”

We spent the next hour crying, laughing and telling stories. We hugged several times as Jake graciously said goodbye to all of us. He had made peace with his decision and had decided to use the time he had left to live fully, travel, and see everyone that he had a life connection with. In our final conversation as we held hands in the parking lot, we traded jokes about each other’s mothers….which had been going on since college. Nothing but happy memories. At the end, that is all that you can ask for.

Since June, Jake and I have texted here and there, but I know he is fading. There is never enough time to say everything that should be said. As far as I know, he is still on the Earth, and I hope that he is able to read this and know how much I love him, our music and our time spent together.

One more time. Nothing but happy memories. I love you man, until we meet again.

Stay safe, stay awesome, and don’t fall asleep in the practice room.