Discerning the divine Bruce Edward Walker
Continuing along the path I began carving last week, I started the weekend by reading an upbeat, positive email from a couple who read my previous column. Not only did they express appreciation for what I had written, but as well presented a musical recommendation. Much appreciated.
Especially since the readers had picked up on my fanboy love of the music of Dexter Gordon, and suggested I give his classic early 1960s’ album, “GO!” a listen. Yes, I responded, I had made myself aware of the album 35 years ago, but in light of my new acquaintances, I’d give my disc a bonus spin. Trust me, it’s well worth the effort to seek it out to listen to yourselves.
In fact, some thoughts on how I first came to the music of Dexter Gordon and, truthfully, the whole jazz shebang. It was during an era of near destitution when I endeavored in the reference book salt mines, learning a tremendous amount about literature and criticism while struggling to pay the rent and still keep my toe in the water of music and my own creative writing endeavors.
As it turns out, one of my co-workers was a former weekend radio host for a jazz program. He would make tapes for me from his extensive collection for my edification, and even gifted me a copy of Len Lyons’ “101 Best Jazz Albums” as a handy reference.
Fortunately, my daughter served as my accomplice in my new educational foray. She would accompany me to the Henry Ford Dearborn Public Library and would use the low tables there as props to help her learn how to walk. As she took her first tentative steps, I was metaphorically behind her as I took tiny steps forward in my jazz education.
I’d pore through the LP stacks and check out a handful to take home and listen to in a barely furnished apartment with a television but no cable and terrible reception. All we had was a fairly decent stereo system with a turntable with which to entertain ourselves, including a receiver with which we’d listen to the Ed Love Program every weeknight on WDETFM. Jazz permeated our upstairs flat each evening, and it was glorious.
Emphasis on the glorious.
How could it be evidence of anything other than the Divine? Not the in-your-face proselytizing type of music you’d hear at the guitar mass on Saturday afternoons, or even compositions explicit in their spiritual inspiration, either. For every “Love Supreme” by John Coltrane there were dozens of albums by Charles Mingus, Donald Byrd, Miles Davis, Gordon, and Eddie Harris to not only soothe the savage beast but remind the listener that such talent derives from something bigger inside and outside ourselves. Something glorious and divine.
That’s my story, dear readers. As an individual who spent the better part of his first decade with serious hearing issues, music, literature, and nature were always my go-to fortress for solace and contemplation adjacent to the religious sphere. It wasn’t much of a stretch to recognize there’s a hint of the divine in all worthwhile art. Not only masterpieces or amazing landscapes, mind you, but even the most pedestrian efforts can sometimes display a spiritual affinity.
So, thank you to the wonderful readers who took the time and energy to convey to me a musical recommendation. And about that little girl learning to walk by pulling herself up on the tiny tables at the local library? Well … not too long ago she texted me while waiting outside a Denver venue where she and her boyfriend were queuing outside a Bruce Springsteen concert. Speaking also on behalf of her younger sister, she wrote: “Thanks for raising us with an appreciation for music, dad.”
Tell me there isn’t something divine going on there.