It’s not jazz camp ’til I cry
Sleep deprivation and the democratization of the arts
Charley Gordon finds his groove at jazz camp but suffers whiplash on re-entry into the real world, where the noise isn't always joyful and the pros are competing for gigs with the wide-eyed amateurs
By Charley Gordon
LAC MCDONALD, Quebec -- It’s about two hours before the final concert is to begin at the jazz camp. I’ve finished warming up in one of a dozen cabins set in the woods beside Lac McDonald in the Laurentians. I step out and hesitate on the step. There’s a light breeze and but music is everywhere, floating on it. From every cabin comes music — an accidental meshing of saxophones, pianos, guitars, basses, voices, each playing something different yet somehow blending into a complicated melody that has a simple theme: nothing matters but music and all’s right with the world.
This particular jazz camp, run by an organization called Ottawa JazzWorks (disclosure:I’m a former board member), ...
Mob Rule – The story continues
We wrap up Chapter One with a hit of caffe machiatto and a fresh pair of pants, and move on to Chapter Two with some mathematical insights into the numbers racket, and a pretty dame in need of a light. Trouble never looked so pretty, and gang wars never looked so bad. Welcome back to Mob Rule.
By John Armstrong
...Right now the best thing to do is nothing, except keep my ears up.
“Anyway, I got nothing for you to do the next while. Why don’t you go amuse yourself for a few hours?”
“You think it’s a good idea to go out on the street a half-hour after someone tried to clip us?”
He laughed. “That’s what I mean - I was your age, someone took a shot at me, it was like doing pushups in the morning and a couple shots of espresso. Gets the blood moving. We would’ve gone out dancing with two girls on each arm and not come home until breakfast. Ah, to be young and dumb again.” He tapped ash into the dish.
“Don’t be so serious, kid. Dead is ...
