After the Rain

A peculiar joy sets in on the morning after a rain. They say it has something to do with ionization in the atmosphere. I don’t know about that, but the air is cooler, the plants are wet and gleaming, the morning light is clear and sharp, and the birds are chattering with unusual abandon.

The days are getting shorter now, but they’ll continue to get hotter for quite a while, too, and the summer shrubs are in their prime. I am especially thrilled by the appearance of newly sown grass in places that had seemed too shady and beaten down by foot traffic to support anything green.

We cut down the apple tree in the front yard two years ago, and some of the grass that had been enjoying the shade, shocked by the sudden change in exposure, up and died. A few weeks ago I seeded everywhere—a little late, perhaps—and then it rained for three days. Yes, I watered once or twice, too, but I was still genuinely surprised to see those tender, bright-green shoots popping up here and there. We’ve got to cut down on the garden parties for a while to give these tiny plants a chance to establish themselves.

Meanwhile, our chestnut tree has finally given up the ghost. You don’t see many trees of this type around anymore, though a breeder in Canton, Minnesota, has been developing cross-breeds between American, Chinese, Japanese, European, and Seguin chestnuts with some success. Ours was planted by the man we bought our house from 25 years ago; he had connections with the Arboretum and the Nature Conservancy. The tree had only grown about ten feet in the last quarter-century, so it isn’t surprising, I guess, that it finally succumbed. The base of the tree now supports a cluster of little shoots, which I suppose I’ll be mowing down for years to come. As for the trunk, which is about as thick as my bicep, I’ll chop it down someday soon, season it over the summer in the garage, and use it this fall for a weenie roast!

Roy Hargrove - Justin Robinson

A cool Monday evening, I’m watching the world go by from a table on the Mall in downtown Minneapolis. Waiting to be seated for the second set at the Dakota. Trumpeter Roy Hargrove and reedman Justin Robinson. The Dakota’s owner, Lowell Pickett, ambles by and I ask him a question. “What’s the likelihood of getting Fred Hersch into town?”

“I love Fred’s music,” Lowell replies. “And he’s involved in so many interesting projects. But could we fill the club? I’m not sure he has the name recognition.”

I head inside to my stool at the knee-wall facing the stage. Number 701. The gentleman to my right—we’ll call him Ted—has seen a lot of jazz. Loves the piano, studied for three years—long enough to know he didn’t have the talent. He’s heard all the greats, most of them in New York, though he expresses a preference for Marcus Roberts, Ahmad Jamal, and the “ten-thousand fingers playing a show-tune” approach. We reminisce about a Charles Lloyd show at the Guthrie circa 1968 that we both attended.

Pamela Espeland, the jazz guru of MinnPost, passes by, says hi to Ted, and stops to talk. Her husband describes how the latest blog jazz calendar she’s devised works.

Hargrove and his crew arrive on stage and burst without adieu into energetic, but not feverish, straight-ahead jazz. Up tempo as often as not. They’d started the first set (so Ted told me) with a free jazz piece that he didn’t care for. The second set stays firmly in the post-bop groove. Hargrove plays one ballad on an immense flugelhorn. They do a rousing version of “The Invitation.” Altoist Justin Robinson cuts loose on one number, though he’s playing away from the mike and some of his classic bite is lost in the air. Near the end of the set, a drum solo—at which point Ted rises. “Here is where I go to the bathroom,” he says. Returning a few minutes later, he tells me, “I could hear it fine from in there.”

A substantial set, sheer listening pleasure from beginning to end, but only one encore. I asked Ted to compare the two. “The first set was a little longer,” he said. Then he paused. “But this one was a little better.”

An attractive young couple was sitting across from one another just in front of me--they had been glad-handing other guests all evening. I eventually figured out that they were musicians themselves—trumpeter Adam Meckler and singer Jana Nyberg—and I chatted with them a bit after the show. Adam’s group will be doing a late-night set at the Dakota on July 17. I tried to enforce upon him the importance of Miles Davis’s 1967 album Filles de Kilimanjaro, in classic old-timer “those were the days” fashion. He nodded politely, looking around for his friends. Jana and I exchanged a few rounds of “Ja, our parents practically just got off the boat from Sweden” talk, and waxed poetic about the beauties of Door County, where her father runs an art gallery.




I spotted Justin Robinson at the bar on my way out, and went over to compliment him on his rousing 1998 album, The Challenge. (I don't know whether artists appreciate this kind of remark, or simply wonder why you had to dip so far into the past to come up with something nice to say. Not that it matters much. Robinson's main concern at the moment was the woman sitting next to him at the bar.)




As I headed out into the night, Hargrove and five of his friends were standing on the sidewalk, plotting their next move. But I’d done with socializing by that point, and I hurried on the car.