The Turnaround − 10 August, 2002
[ This is the second coda to my Jazz Camp experience. You can read the whole story starting at this page and moving forward. ]
OK, folks, here it is, the final section, the most unbelievable -- yet true -- part of the story arc, the epilogue that repaints the entire picture at once.
To summarize events to this point: I went to a famous Jazz Camp; I got put in with a band way beyond my level; I experienced great horror and remorse; I came back home depressed, but determined. I started practicing harder than ever.
Out of the blue, almost a month later, I was home, practicing of course. The phone rang. I didn't recognize the number or the caller, but picked up anyway.
It was the person who ran the Jazz Camp.
He is one of the most famous jazz educators in the country. And he was calling me.
Rewind: when I left Kentucky, I wrote a hasty note to my roommate before I disappeared. I can't remember exactly what I wrote, but considering how upset I was at the time, it was probably pretty negative about my whole experience.
This note had made it all the way to the top, somehow. Now, on the phone, was the man himself, the person who organized the event, the person who has spent so many years bringing jazz to the public.
He asked me what had happened; I told him. I went into very specific detail about the nightmare my jazz combo experience had become.
Out of the blue, he offered to return my money.
Every bit of it.
Now, some of you know from my other posts, but when I get a shock, I faint. I felt one coming on and, unknown to the person on the other end of the line, I finished this conversation on the floor, with my legs elevated, covered in cold sweat.
This was completely unexpected. See, I'm used to being crushed by gigantic institutions. My view is, once you are a number, you are no longer a human being. I went to some horrible places -- the college I started out in gave the famous "Look to your left; look to your right; chances are neither of these people will graduate" speech. I survived graduate school -- "academic sharecropping." I've been bent, folded, mangled, spindled, and mutilated by impersonal institutions for such a long time I automatically assume they have lost all perspective, all reason, all ability to do the right thing.
But here I had one of those big moments, an event that sent my head swimming with vertigo -- someone doing the right thing. Spontaneously. Of their own free will.
And all because, down at the core, this man was genuine. He has organized and planned and produced for decades for one reason only: he really loves the music, and wants to see it grow and spread.
This event made such a mark on me that I wrote in my music notebook, on a full page, "The Turnaround!" (In Jazz, the turnaround is a set of chords at the end of the piece that bring the music full circle, back to the top.) For me, it was one of those moments where I realized the power of a good educator to motivate and lead by example -- he certainly inspired me that day.
Now, full disclaimer: I being who I am, I didn't actually write this in my logbook the day I got the call. No, August 10th, 2002, was the day I received and cashed the check ;-)
(Hey, you can believe in miracles, but some of us require tangible proof :D )
OK, folks, here it is, the final section, the most unbelievable -- yet true -- part of the story arc, the epilogue that repaints the entire picture at once.
To summarize events to this point: I went to a famous Jazz Camp; I got put in with a band way beyond my level; I experienced great horror and remorse; I came back home depressed, but determined. I started practicing harder than ever.
Out of the blue, almost a month later, I was home, practicing of course. The phone rang. I didn't recognize the number or the caller, but picked up anyway.
It was the person who ran the Jazz Camp.
He is one of the most famous jazz educators in the country. And he was calling me.
Rewind: when I left Kentucky, I wrote a hasty note to my roommate before I disappeared. I can't remember exactly what I wrote, but considering how upset I was at the time, it was probably pretty negative about my whole experience.
This note had made it all the way to the top, somehow. Now, on the phone, was the man himself, the person who organized the event, the person who has spent so many years bringing jazz to the public.
He asked me what had happened; I told him. I went into very specific detail about the nightmare my jazz combo experience had become.
Out of the blue, he offered to return my money.
Every bit of it.
Now, some of you know from my other posts, but when I get a shock, I faint. I felt one coming on and, unknown to the person on the other end of the line, I finished this conversation on the floor, with my legs elevated, covered in cold sweat.
This was completely unexpected. See, I'm used to being crushed by gigantic institutions. My view is, once you are a number, you are no longer a human being. I went to some horrible places -- the college I started out in gave the famous "Look to your left; look to your right; chances are neither of these people will graduate" speech. I survived graduate school -- "academic sharecropping." I've been bent, folded, mangled, spindled, and mutilated by impersonal institutions for such a long time I automatically assume they have lost all perspective, all reason, all ability to do the right thing.
But here I had one of those big moments, an event that sent my head swimming with vertigo -- someone doing the right thing. Spontaneously. Of their own free will.
And all because, down at the core, this man was genuine. He has organized and planned and produced for decades for one reason only: he really loves the music, and wants to see it grow and spread.
This event made such a mark on me that I wrote in my music notebook, on a full page, "The Turnaround!" (In Jazz, the turnaround is a set of chords at the end of the piece that bring the music full circle, back to the top.) For me, it was one of those moments where I realized the power of a good educator to motivate and lead by example -- he certainly inspired me that day.
Now, full disclaimer: I being who I am, I didn't actually write this in my logbook the day I got the call. No, August 10th, 2002, was the day I received and cashed the check ;-)
(Hey, you can believe in miracles, but some of us require tangible proof :D )
