Fall 2007
Conundrum from Out to Lunch
We know something happened
in Englewood Cliffs,
New Jersey, that cold day in February 1964. No one will
confirm what we suspect: shape-shifting that rendered
two disparate objects identical, two men doppelgangers
ticketed for Noah’s Ark. Perhaps Richard Davis’ bass
compressed & restructured its curves, turned silver &
black, squeezed itself together with cork grease, shrank
to 4 feet 6.25 inches. Or Eric Dolphy’s bass clarinet had a
spurt of height & girth, switched from folk-art snake to
cocoa-colored earth mother, refreshed with the pine scent of
rosin. Mouth + reed = bow + strings. Maybe they met in the
middle, a compromise of breaths & sawed quarter notes,
salvage-yard spares woven into grotesque science project.
We know that for 1 minute, 8 seconds of “Something Sweet,
Something Tender,” Davis & Dolphy conspired in the
acoustic perfection of studio. We imagine an intricate
system of body language, tunings, embouchure, fingerings,
bowings, telepathies, instincts, & divine winks that led
to a conclusion of perfect unison, two men fused
in a RichardEric Unit. What we hear is what we know:
ocean floors of tones on tones, rhythms no metronome
could tap, notes no score could contain.
Daniel M. Shapiro
is occasionally stared at by people
who think he's Woody Harrelson. His work has been published
online and
in print and is slated to appear in Death Metal Poetry and Along These
Rivers, a Pittsburgh anthology. His chapbook, "Teeth Underneath," is
available from Foothills Publishing.
My poem was inspired by my
fascination with musicians' chemistry. I tried to make sense of the
chemistry that takes place between Eric Dolphy and Richard Davis on
"Out to Lunch," an album I've admired for a long time. I don't believe
practice, visual cues, or other factors are all that explain how they
could mirror each other so closely. I would like to think actual magic
was involved.