What comes through
in this rooftop conclusion to an old movie
in which somebody who
clearly doesn’t know how to play it
picks up a banged-up trumpet
to play against a light-hung screen
meant to represent
a metropolitan skylineis some sense
of the soaring and transformative strength
of jazz. When he plants
his bandaged shoes, cocks his boyish profile
and lifts the horn to ride a gorgeous role
of dubbed spontaneity, the effect is (despite
that bogus clothesline at
his back, with its one limp sheet)persuasive:
those high, ramping notes speak of daring,
the flutter-tongued vibrato of
diffidence, and the whole of unformed
invention, wound still in the horn’s warmed-
up cerebric densities. Indeed, so fine
is the music, even his
acting’s better for it and as the camera pans inon the sure
kiss at the tiny mouthpiece, you might
almost believe that here
is a man whose upper lip burns, night
after night, in the effort
to make unpremeditation look
easy. Although he’s
turning his back on the city, his musicis a gift
to its boxed-in inhabitants: the loose,
looping melodies waft
over the roof’s edge, falling,
and, in falling, joining
that collected world of objects you’ve watched
falling on film—all
the briefcases and rifles and bottles pitchedfrom tower
and cliff-top, the beribboned packets
of love-letters lofted over
the rails of ocean liners, the open buckets
of paint, the key rings and miner’s flashlights,
the flying anvils and leather-upholstered
convertibles and sun
hats and muddied sacks of gold… Goldas the moon
ought to be, the pounded streets, the lumpen
heart that weights a man,
stooping his shoulders—just that fleeting,
flyaway color are the tones tonight lighting
off his horn. And when a slow
coldness blows in, a gold-
to-blue harmonic shift, ohhe’s dying
up there with the fit sweetness of it,
digging hard, as with a shovel, going
deep for the ultimate, most intimate
strain in his chest. The multi-storied, tight-
plotted metropolis at his feet,
coruscating all the more
for the yearnings he lays upon it,would topple
if he hurled his trumpet at it.
This Issue
February 28, 1985