Dear readers,
The past couple of Wednesdays, I have gone to a jazz night in Tegucigalpa at a place called Hibriduz, a place found on the recommendation from a drunk musician a few weeks ago. I must admit, jazz isn’t my go-to genre, nor am I an expert. It’s nice to listen to and unwind, do art or writing, and submerge in an ambience of improvised melodies, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you the difference between Duke Ellington and Miles Davis. My Uncle Patrick West, a jazz musician based in Glasgow, will be reading this shaking his head with extreme disappointment at his nephew’s ignorance of jazz. He believes that jazz music caused the Big Bang and created the universe, and God resides in his sax i.e. heaven. Yes, a true jazz spiritualist, Pat is. Hopefully, I redeem myself by continuing with this post.
I go to jazz night to relax. Work can be tough so it is nice to have a glass of red and let the jazz musicians do their thang while my mind unwinds from its chaos. It feels wonderful, especially in the humidity of the rainy season in the tropics. Hondurans from the north of the country are probably frowning at these very words. “What humidity, chele? Come to Jan Pedro Jula! We’ll jhow you humidity.” [The swapping of the j for the s is a Honduran inside joke. Just speak to a Jampedrana/o: a person who originates from San Pedro Sula. You’ll find out why].
Jokes aside, it’s a nice midweek thing to do, and then get to meet the musicians afterwards. They are actually from a jazz school. The trombonist is the profe: the teacher, as you might have guessed, a Nicaraguan. Then there is a guitarist, who seems to be the spokesperson the group, sometimes, joined by a pianist and saxophonist. But what impresses me most is the bassist and the drummer, who I was informed they are 17 and 16 years old, respectively. They’re quite something. Not only am I in awe of their talent, but also their discipline and skill to improvise. They’re beyond their years in terms of maturity and seem blessed with quiet confidence and ease to perform with such jazz-like coolness. Yet they left me envious and a little regretful that I never really kept up with the piano from my youth (I can still play Ode to Joy, but there are only so many times I can repeatedly play it to impress the ladies), and I often too lazy and ill-disciplined to pick up the acoustic guitar, which sits half a metre away from my bed where I write these very words. I’d love to pick it up and strum like Noel Gallagher, but like I say: laziness. It sits there, staring at me, filling me with guilt. Bastard.
Back to jazz band: I have enjoyed the evenings I have attended, but I have also enjoyed taking black and white photos while the band plays. Not to give myself a giant pat on the back, but I’m pleased with how they’ve turned out. While doing so, I felt inspired to write a poem, something I’ve not done in years. Just caught in the moment, I suppose, when the band performed a jazz version of the famous Mexican bolero, Bésame Mucho – Kiss Me A Lot. For those not in the know, it was written by Consuelo Velásquez in 1940 and first sung by Emilio Tuero a year later. It has since been performed by famous musicians around the world, including the Beatles, Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, Luis Miguel, Andrea Bocelli, Nat King Cole, Julio Iglesias, Natalia Lafourcade and Diana Krall, but one of my favourite versions was by Mexican band, Zoé, who originate from Cuernavaca, Mexico, a city I know very well through my work with Nuestros Pequeños Hermanos, which was also founded in the city.
It was beautiful to hear this jazz version; especially as the melancholic melody reverberated into the humid night sky.
Enjoy.
Wednesday Night
Cup of wine
In my hand.
A drop rain
Moistens the stand.
The band stroll out:
No intro needed.
Calm urgency,
Shirts loosely fitted.
A diaphragm expands,
A serge follows through,
Fingers pulse shiny buttons,
The brass on cue.
A mellow horn
Penetrates the ambience,
For the lust of seductive melodies,
I pledge my affiance.
Guitars and drums,
Do your thing,
The synergy starts,
Night rises to sing.
Wrapped in melancholy,
Bonded with skill,
Bless the souls,
Their concoction swills.
“Bésame mucho”:
The lyrics silent,
Yet the longing remains;
Feelings still vibrant.
I sit back,
Tilt to the sky,
I breathe in the sounds,
And utter “oh my, oh my.”
