Wide Eyed Open to it All

When I Bought Joni Mitchell's Don Juan's Reckess Daughter

In 1988, I was 15, with more to look forward to than I had to look back on, and I knew it. The experience of the moment seemed like a big deal, but would it still seem that way anon? Was 15 just a station on my way or the wound that never healed? It could be so much better and so much worse than I could possibly imagine.

I am of the last generation to discover culture before the internet. I would say that I don’t advocate being in the dark, except that sometimes I do. That year, I discovered The Velvet Underground and Joni Mitchell in the dark, lying in bed with a girl who was two years older. The lights were out for the ultimate illumination.

I had a Biology test to study for, not my kind of life study. The teacher hated me, and so what? I was not opposed to learning. I was too into it when I wanted to. One does not have much leverage at 15, but the currency of youth and the thrill of potential. There was so much coming at me, I couldn’t be good at all of it, and that would close certain doors. But the other doors that would open, where would they take me? I was not home studying. I was procrastinating at Half Price Books off Northwest Highway. Used records were not only cheaper, but you could open the gatefold. I was still experiencing the aftershocks of Joni Mitchell’s Blue and Clouds. I special ordered the vinyl and had to wait nearly a week to get them. Joni was, I thought, a folk singer. I didn’t know folk singers didn’t play suspended chords or had sweeping, ambitious melodies. I was going to learn fast.

I went to an arts high school in downtown Dallas and played keybs in the jazz band. Trumpet virtuoso Roy Hargrove had graduated the year before, and I couldn’t try to get anywhere near there. I wondered if there was a way to share my growing appreciation of chromatic harmony and complex rhythms and my need for poetry as if it were food. How far would it expand? I thought they were discrete entities. This folk singer was over here, and over there was the jazz canon, which included many tunes by Wayne Shorter. We played “Footprints,” “Speak No Evil,” “Night Dreamer.” So many stacked and suspended chords! I knew he played with Miles Davis from 64-68, and I knew that he was also the dominant composer. I also had learned all about the genius, doomed Jaco Pastorius, the Charlie Parker of fretless bass. A year had passed since his death, and the orchestra teacher spent the period playing Word of Mouth. I had never heard music like that in my life. I wondered if the older, sophisticated me would think it was a big deal. But at 15, it sure was. It was breaking every rule of music while inventing new ones for the less interesting imitators and acolytes. I was about to live a crazy new life, and I was getting crazy new music for it every day. Jaco didn’t die of drugs or drink. He died of being Jaco. He pissed off a bouncer and was beaten to death for it. Jaco went wherever the hell he wanted. He expected everyone to get out of the way for the baddest bass player who ever lived.