Oppenheimer's Horn, or, the Sax Perilous

Is there any instrument quite so dangerous as the common saxophone? Is there any musical device more deadly when misapplied or more affirming when used wisely?

A trumpet is almost always welcome - bright, forceful, and gregarious - it is the vivacious coed of noise, brilliant and beloved.

A saxophone (already of the moodier woodwind family) is another creature altogether. It does not play well with others, preferring to solo and to warble and waddle through scales that swoop dramatically from low to high and high to low. Many is the song that has had to hold on with white knuckles while the sax uncoils and sonically elbows the other instruments out of the way. One is always fearful that the whole thing will bobble out of alignment.

Thing is, when used sparingly and judiciously, the saxophone solo can be plaintive and triumphant and anguished and sexy. But when used recklessly, when used with abandon, or without a firm hand insistent on restraint, the sax solo is an aural oilslick, spreading and seeping into every corner of a song and leaving mold cheese in the corners.

A badly deployed sax solo can be a melismatic tumor.

A well deployed saxophone riff can be a joyful wail, at once more complicated and more human that all but the finest cornetist can coax from his or her instrument.

A Clarence Clemons may be worth a hundred Kenny Gorelicks, but am I wrong to cringe with anxiety when the first blast or burp of a sax pours into a ballad (or even a jump number)?

I would place the saxophone under glass and give, among living musicians, Bruce Springsteen and Van Morrison the only keys. Those who would like to borrow the saxophone for a song here or there would have to appeal to them. Jazz musicians would have free access, but would need to sign out and file the proper forms stating their intent and indemnifications in the event of a cheese-spill.

The soprano sax would be declared a violation of human rights.

Beatles, Like Hands, Are Often Taken From Us Prematurely

Today, while in line at the pharmacy to pick up my prescription for twenty Percocets needed for yet another kidney stone, I stood behind a shopping cart with a little tow-headed boy in the basket. He could not have been more than five. He said “hi” and I said “hello.”

The rest of the conversation:

Boy (plucking at his sweatshirt, which was grey and emblazoned with a large, orange letter B): “This is my shirt”

Me: “I know it. The letter B.”

Boy: “Yeah, B.”

Me: “Stand for anything?”

Boy: (looks down at his chest, looks back at me, says nothing).

Me: “I know. It’s because you like the Beatles so much, right? Because of that song ‘Letter B.’”

I could be misremembering, but I swear an audible groan escaped the lips of the woman in line behind me.

I felt I was a condescending and patronizing ass, making jokes at the expense of a little kid’s ignorance of sixties pop music just to amuse myself. And I thought I had probably scared him off altogether, ruining what promised to be a fun little vignette.

The mom has made one or two glances at me and they weren’t of the ‘oh how cute’ variety. I frantically began to read earnestly from the ingredient list of whatever balm or salve I could grab from the shelf to my immediate left.

Instead, after a lengthy pause:

Boy: “You know, we only have two of the Beatles left.”

Me (stunned): “Yes, I know. Two.”

Boy: “One died of cancer.”

Me: “George Harrison.”

Boy: “George Harrison. Brain cancer, maybe.”

Me: “Yeah, that’s right. And the other one?” (I make a gun with my hand and affect a face that says ‘s.o.l., huh?’)

Boy: “He was shot.”

Me: “Pretty sad.”

Boy: “Yeah.”

Me: “Who do you think will be next?”

Boy: “Paul.”

Me: “Yeah, just our luck. We’ll end up with Ringo.”

Boy: “Ringo. Just our luck. My mom is getting medicine for my throat.”

Me: “Sore throat? They’re terrible.”

Boy (withdrawing his arm into his shirt, leaving the sleeve limp): “I lost my hand.”

Me: “I don’t think they make medicine for that.”

Boy: “No. They don’t. But I lost my hand.”

And then the mom turned around, her business with the pharmacist complete, and gave me a peculiar look. I told the kid good luck with his sore throat and stepped up to the counter to get my opiates.

The woman behind the counter suggested that the young boy ought to run for president, that at least he might have cancelled his vacation a bit earlier than three days after the hurricane.

I paid for my pills and went to sit in my car where I read from my book by James M. Cain. I would have loved to discuss the story with that kid.