Peculair Poinsettia #2

If you want it told right, you tell it with a Bari Sax. It can be the low and slow of a woman done wrong. It can provide the bass line and drive the jazz band to new fits of jive hallucination. Under appreciated, unknown and ignored by the audience, it strings the music together and provides that dark, deep, umph needed for even the sweetest chart.

I pull my Baritone Saxophone out of the monster case, the instrument is twice my age, and the shredded cedar if its carrying vessel show the age. The brass is tarnished, and the pearlized keys have been worn away by the forceful caress of my fingers.

In the beginning I was an alto player. It is the choice solo instrument of jazz, give or take a phase. Alto players are dexterous, cocky, and with an attitude that encourages listeners to gawk, jaw-dropped at the skill. A million colors hurled at you with such force, the listener can only appreciated the speed lines as they whirl by, never mind getting a glimpse of the painting they are supposed to portray. But I didn’t like the s-light and the pressure and the scrutiny--big tits are highlighted by the neckstrap.

“Dude, the lead’s a chick.”

“Meh, all the good Cats have dongs.”

How competent you are as musician is what matters. But that is determined by the cutthroat licks (solo competions) and the one-upsmanship, that takes place with in the band. The lead always plays alto, the second tenor sax (doubling sometimes as a clarinetist when looking for a 20’s tune) and the third, bari. When the band does a new chart that doesn’t require a sax for the bass line, I play the flute. The director likes that new-age shit.

Women Jazzers are singers, or pianists. Ella Fitzgerald, Bessie Smith, Mary Lou Williams. Even now, female instrumentalists are an exception to the rule.

I place the mouthpiece in and, start to expel the air that will be transformed into melody. I press the button to the CD player, and a recorded percussionist from 1998 sets the beat, while his then band-mate Mr. Trombone sets the scale. Warmed-up, I let loose the funk, deep, powerful and strong. Uninhibited by gender games, gig pressure, and the next paycheck.

And the Bari plays a tune of a woman done wrong.