Red-Eye Boogie
Day one of a six-week tour, with much more to follow
As I sit here, bleary-eyed, at Professor-Longhair-International-Airport lounge, eating grits for breakfast, it seems only appropriate that the good Professor’s silvery tones should be gracing our collective ear bits via the not-quite-loud-enough sound system playing in the background. I’ve often found it to be the case that sound systems are never loud enough when playing the music you like, and that they’re always too loud when it’s music you can’t stand.
I’d locked the front door behind me a couple of hours earlier and was stood in the dark at five-thirty, to the right of the clump of banana trees, under the street lamp, waiting in the early calming quiet of a new morning for the taxi that was to take me to the airport. The Uber driver nodded and, barely awake, I managed a half-hearted smile/grimace and even muttered an affable greeting as I stumbled aboard, bags safely stowed. No sooner had we turned the corner onto St. Claude Avenue than the radio came on and the volume went up and, pinned to my seat, I was subjected to a form of high-decibel lug-hole-drilling rap torture that didn’t stop until we arrived at the drop-off terminal, under the sign that said ‘United’.
Grits and Professor Longhair are good, both of them. When combined, they make for an efficient tool with which to go about the task of re-paving a sleep-deprived constitution; sturdy stuff with which to steady oneself in preparation for the long day of travel ahead. Today’s my birthday and I’m spending it in airports.
The Gods long ago determined that it was my fate to spend every birthday at airports; going through security, standing in long queues, contending with delays, hooking heavy suitcases, toting the weighteous bag of many things, etc. That’s fine, I’m not complaining, I’m used to it, I practically live in airports anyway, and the airport staff almost feel like family. In fact, I must confess to feeling a little disconsolate when arriving on the big day, that they’ve forgotten once again to hang up the bunting with all the balloons and ribbons at concourse C. Surely they must know by now!
There have been so many airport birthdays at this point in my life that they fade, like much else, in the memory. They’re all a bit of a general departure lounge blur. Some stand out I suppose. I remember the fiftieth, the bi-centennial, the big one. Many people I know have special commemorative celebrations when they turn 50. They have surprise parties and go to fancy restaurants, have candle-lit dinners in exotic island getaways. I celebrated that particular anniversary taking two uncomfortable long-haul flights followed by being detained for several hours in an interrogation room at Toronto Airport. The immigration officer seemed unimpressed that I was in danger of missing my connection to play at a Jazz Festival with Dr John and demanded that I produce evidence of a work permit. The good Doctor’s new tour manager, an idiot, from Cleveland, had failed spectacularly. His only qualification for the job was that he was a childhood friend of the Trombonist (suffice to say, I narrowly made it and the gig was good).
Today’s birthday, so far at least, has been going much better, apart from the bit where I had to get up at 5.00 am for the red-eye to New York. But ‘She who must obeyed at all times’ has booked me a first-class seat, bless her, which has more than made up for that gross indignity. I’m currently feeling very special in row three. In fact, I’m enjoying so much extra leg-room that I bitterly regret not having an extra leg so as to take full advantage.
Also, as a first class passenger I’m getting extra attention from the Steward. He just asked me if I wanted a Pank ache? I wasn’t sure if this was a veiled threat; had I done something wrong? Had I unwittingly transgressed an unwritten rule. Is he about give me a swift kick in the Pank? Not being a regular traveler in first class, I’m not completely au fait with how these things are done. I don’t want any kind of ache, especially not on my birthday. I don’t want a headache, a tooth-ache, an ear ache or an ache of the Pank. What is a Pank, anyway? The lady in the seat next to me eagerly requested two Pank aches, but was given a plate of breakfast food instead, weird.
I closed my eyes, fell asleep immediately and was woken by the Steward to ask if I wanted to remain undisturbed. I thanked him and, unable to go back to the land of nod, have decided instead to stay awake until we arrive in the land of Newark and peck at a laptop keyboard.
More to follow….
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…Well, several hours later and the adventure continues. After long consideration I decided against continuing by Camel, Aquaplane or Hovercraft and opted instead for an Avis car rental. So far so good. I fear the natives of Mahwah and ‘Parsipanny Rd Lk. Parsipanny’ might not look too kindly on foreign travelers in this strange land so I have decided to just plough on ahead until we make camp at nightfall in a place called the ‘Full Moon Resort’, Woodstock. There’s a cunning plan afoot to reconnoitre there with Charlie Musselwhite, Bobby Rush, Eric Gales, Luther Dickinson and Ruthie Foster for for a secret three-day operation that’s been dubbed: Music Masters Collective Band Camp.
In preparation, and with a few minutes to spare this morning between waking, rubbing my eyes and the kettle boiling, I sat at the piano and knocked out a quick red-eye boogie on the old spinet piano, for you all, dear Substackians.
Stay tuned, this is day one of a six-week tour. Plenty more to follow. Click below to listen to “Red-Eye Boogie”.
