Jazz on the Fly
I’ll be the first to admit this form of writing isn’t for everyone; it’s improvisational. I went fly fishing with Dad a few weeks ago, and when I got home, I was listening to jazz when the following piece formed in my brain. The entire thing was done in five minutes, exactly as you see it. I wasn’t planning on writing; it just happened. But, as I said, I know it’s not easy to follow, especially if you’re not familiar with jazz.
This is best read in the following context:
l believe jazz and fly fishing are similar. They’re poetic, ripe with spontaneity, and beautiful in their imperfections. When done right, it’s art at its highest level.
As I laid in bed listening to some of my favorite jazz tracks, I saw these four songs interact with an artist on the fly.
Song 1 – “Pithecanthropus Erectus” by Charles Mingus. 1956. This track is a bit all over the place, like getting on the river for the first time, trying flies out, and getting a feel for everything. It can’t be smooth at first.
Song 2 – “Blue Ronda a la Turk” by Dave Brubeck. 1959. This track is more dialed in, yet unpredictable by way of an unorthodox 9/8 time signature, like a fisherman who has a feel for the water but isn’t quite there yet.
Song 3 – “Take Five” by Dave Brubeck. 1959. This track is perfection. Nothing improvisational about it; a man on the fly in total control. Every kink worked out. Art at its highest form: a fisherman in tune with God.
Song 4 – “My Favorite Things” by John Coltrane. 1960. This track is familiar and joyous - a perfect moment in time - the letting go of a fish who fought with all this might.
With the first cast you’re Charles Mingus dialing into Pithecanthropus Erectus
slow...methodic...cool
and then improvisational genius takes over...
his bass is your wrist, awkwardly dialing into a hole forty feet away...
your fly dances in the air, like musical notes disappearing into the ether, never lost, floating into faraway galaxies, while scoring a new direction in the abyss of your brain...
“Wind is coming in east to west behind me, I’ll adjust here, a little there,” knowing your caddis is going to succumb to mother nature's unpredictability; no different than Charles and his band succumbing to a form of art that makes sense to few, but is certified brilliant to those in the know,
like a bait fisherman incapable of reading the poetry of a man on the fly.
The improv is beauty incarnate;
shoulder, arm, wrist, and fingers doing the work of a piano, bass, trumpet, and drums.
Soon, the insanity of Mingus starts looking like the more familiar tones of Brubeck's Blue Rondo a la Turk,
the improv isn’t so jagged, its rhythm is “cleaner” …
the bait fisherman recognizes some of these tones...he can see the playwright’s vision...
the fly isn’t being throw about anymore, it has intention, as far the bait fisherman is concerned,
he sees a figure eight of sorts.
You, the artist, the poet, the playwright, is in TOTAL control
the improv is no longer improv
your fly is floating through the sky with the grace of Fred Astair, it’s no longer Pollacks action painting, Monet’s fluidity is present,
its beauty is coming together like an Escoffier recipe,
imperceptible adjustments, introducing ingredients few can pinpoint.
Beauty is apparent, even the bait fisherman is feeling the cymbals and piano – Brubeck’s Take Five is tickling parts of his brain that heretofore were sound asleep.
You know you’re approaching perfection,
flow state is hitting, and it’s hitting HARD.
a la Turk has metamorphosed into the greatest jazz tune of all time.
Your fly is exactly where you want.
You’re living inside a masterpiece of your own creation.
water replaced oils and your four-count rhythm replaces the brush.
Your fly is poetry,
it’s Whitman penning Song of Myself,
it’s Kubrick directing 2001 --
better yet – it's Hilma af Klint’s spiritual ingenuity,
you are your most authentic self. You’re the greatest artist in the galaxy.
The trumpet in Take Five is loud and it’s handsome, it’s God talking.
You’ve become His greatest creation,
the bait fisherman knows what’s going on, he sees art in the middle of river that was simply a pollutable honey hole to him,
it’s now a three-dimensional canvas where beauty and harmony are intertwining.
Blues and greens dominate
ecstasy is waiting on the other end of your line
colors that only God himself can make are swimming around, eyeing your invitation, the brain of an Oncorhynchus mykiss is about to join the greatest piece of art ever made.
Tones are cooling down, the oils are starting to set.
You’ve eased into Coltrane’s My Favorite Things...joy is present, a smile is waiting to burst forth from your face, the bait fisherman doesn’t know he’s joined the art as he impatiently waits to see you put the period on the final sentence.
And then it happens...
the piano and drum and saxophonist are one - the trout bites!
His energy instantly transfers by way of tippet into your fingernails.
He’s fighting like only nature knows how to,
darting through the river –
your brain is dropping copious amounts of dopamine, it’s biology now – the trout's brain is dropping cortisol.
It’s the final act of the play,
it’s Coltrain's instrument at its highest form,
it’s a painter putting down his brush.
You welcome the trout into your hand as you surgically remove the fly from his lip; you see new colors:
the pinks of a rainbow, or, if you’re lucky, the autumn hues of a brookie.
The song is over.
