An excerpt from “Under the Whitestone Bridge: Death at the Music Mansion Reunion” by Kirpal Gordon

 

Chapter 1

 

Playing the birthday concert for Faith, my mentor’s mentor, was a love supreme.

But if I knew that the concert’s aftermath would result in the felony arrest of my mentor Pavel Trzaska, I never would have entertained the idea of going. Nor convinced him to go. Nor convinced him that I, Orfea Goodnight, his twenty-two-year-old female writing apprentice and fellow musician, should come along on the journey from New Orleans to New York City.

From the second story bathroom window of Faith’s house, I watched red and blue colors flash like strobe lights from multiple police vehicles making the officials appear to be moving in slow motion. Under a dark orange moon that rose above Manhattan’s skyline in the west, police were cordoning off the side of the house with yellow NYPD tape just outside the parlor’s window where Faith spent much of her time. That’s where Gil and Red earlier in the evening had unveiled their birthday gift to her: a rocky grotto shaped in a semi-circle with a gurgling water feature. It was landscaped by Gil and the small wooden deer drinking at the pond’s edge was sculpted in wood by Red.

Now it was the scene of a crime.

At the end of a winding unpaved lane the Faith’s property sat hidden on three sides by Norway spruce, cedar of Lebanon and black pine. Bordering the East River near Boosters Beach, between the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge to the left and the Throgs Neck Bridge to the right, the house—what everyone calls the Music Mansion—was a sprawling three-story Victorian structure. With its wrap-around porch and large parlor that opened into a living room, it proved to be an excellent location for the Saturday night concert—at least until the last song when a gun shot rang out.

We heard a scream and then a splash.

Immediately, band members rushed to the grotto and pulled the victim’s bloody head out of the small rock-rimmed pond. I happened to be outside at the time talking on my cell phone with my boyfriend Rogelio, and I saw the whole thing go down.

My bandmates checked for a pulse, found none and called 911. A patrol car, which I later learned was sitting at Whitestone Park three blocks away, arrived two minutes later, took one look at what happened and called in. More police cars rolled up.

Watching the cops move around the crime scene showed me how clueless they were.

Compared to what I witnessed, all that they gathered from their interviews with the band and the audience was a four-word chronology: shot, scream, splash, death. How many variations would they consider: Was the victim shot dead by a bullet or frightened to death by getting shot at? Was the shot unrelated to the victim? What was that splash: the sound of a human head hitting the water or maybe just the victim’s foot or a rock that had been dislodged by the bullet? Was the bullet and the splash even related? As for who uttered the scream that followed the shot, was that the victim, the shooter or a third party caught by surprise chancing upon the scene? 

The evidence would not add up; it kept telling a different story.

I’m no expert on forensic science, but things appeared to be getting most foul, mon ami. When the medical examiners’ team patted down the victim, they found no entry wounds and no bullets. Instead, they found wads of cash in the pockets of his pants and shirt. I watched as they photographed and bagged five wallets, a collection of jewelry, a snub-nosed gun (possibly just fired) and a small vial (possibly of poison) from inside his overcoat.

Didn’t this new evidence suggest the alleged victim might also be a victimizer, likely to be found guilty of criminal trespass, theft, possible armed robbery and attempted assassination?

Back to shot-scream-splash-death: What if the victim had been rifling through people’s coats in the vestibule of the house, stashing the valuables in their coat and pockets, got discovered and called on it, ran at top speed out of the front door and down the steps, made a left, headed toward the water feature, turned their head, saw the gun in the hand of their pursuer and at the sound of its discharge simply dove for cover accidentally slipping on the wet mossy rocks and crushing their skull or drowning? That’s certainly not murder, but could be construed as involuntary manslaughter for the trigger-happy pursuer.

Instead, what if the fleeing victim/victimizer approached the water feature, turned their head, fired their snub-nosed gun at their pursuer, turned too quickly, lost their balance, screamed and made a splash by smashing their head into the pool or its rocky edge or its metal pipe? Involuntary manslaughter for the gardening team of Red and Gil would be a long shot. But suicide could be on the table just as easily as an accidental death.  

The slope was getting slippery, and until the arrival of the autopsy and toxicology reports, anything was possible. For example, was the alleged victim in bad health, inebriated or under the influence of drugs? In that case, merely running from a pursuer could give our victim a heart attack. To take it a turn darker and make everyone at the concert a suspect: Since poison is already in possible play and there’s food and drink everywhere, what if the victim had eaten or drank something intended to take their life? Such a possibility would prove pre-meditation and justify a claim of murder. But what if the victim had an allergy and died from eating something as common as peanuts or shellfish—then who’s to blame?

Nothing was clear and so much of the story seemed improvisational.

Who was the victim and who were their victims?

Little was said among the detectives, but the plot was thickening.

With their wall of lights turned up to superbright, the CSI unit inspected the grotto and sculpture. Sure enough, they found a bullet buried in the deer’s wooden left foot at water’s edge. When extracted with needle-nosed pliers and put it a plastic evidence bag, I got a bad feeling. Because the concert’s last song was a solo instrumental played by Hope, the police would soon realize that anyone else in the band—Smokey, Gil, Red, Liv, me or Pavi—could have slipped out of the parlor and onto the lawn or porch with time enough to shoot the escaping victim/victimizer at the grotto.

I’m not saying Pavi shot anyone, only that his return home was growing catastrophic.

The cops finished taking the last of the photos, put the dead body into a black bag, zipped it up and headed toward the flashing vehicles. Once the ambulance left the gray-pebbled driveway, I could see what had been hidden from my view: a blue squad car over whose trunk stood lanky, gray-haired, dumbfounded Pavi, spread eagled. New York’s Finest frisked him and handcuffed him, mirandized him and accordioned all six feet and three inches of him into the back seat.

Hope and Liv ran out from the porch.

“You got the wrong person,” Hope shouted.

“Come back and arrest us,” Liv shouted. “We did it.”

They failed to outrun the squad car which left for the police station.

From her room below me I heard Faith crying.

In the driveway under a taxus shrub Red and Gil were consoling a distraught gal who I had seen at the concert. I got the impression she was their old friend, but the news they shared did not seem good.

As for me, spying on everyone from the safe distance of the second-floor window, I felt less like an observer and more like an accomplice. I ought to have prevented this death from happening, and no matter how I tried to play it off, I knew I was responsible. I may only be Pavi’s sex-crazed, know-nothing writing apprentice and music nerd, but I had promised his girlfriend Cajun Karen in New Orleans that I would look after him. I owed it to her. Not only that, in a long line of writing apprentices he had mentored, I was only his second female apprentice—the first didn’t work out so well—and I felt a sisterly duty to those who might come after me.

I should add that I love the guy, you know, platonically.

I knew I had to do more than just watch the police haul his ass away. So I dashed down the stairs, collected what I thought of as relevant evidence of my own guilt, slipped into my blue Jetta and followed at a safe distance the caravan of civilian and law enforcement vehicles headed for the 109th Precinct in downtown Flushing.

Taking Giant Steps Reviews Was Out Jazz Zone Mad by Tony Adamo

This review was first published electronically by All About Jazz

Kirpal Gordon: As a bassist, composer and arranger who has worked with spoken word artists and vocalists, what did you make of the blend that Tony Adamo and his band created in his latest release from Ropeadope Records, Was Out Jazz Zone Mad? The first thing that jumps out to me is its jazz-funk-blues direction driven by that Hammond B3 organ and guitar.

Benny Gottwald: I was immediately hit by the power of that B3; Roger Smith and Mike LeDonne are not messing around! Another voice that jumps out to me, as a bassist, is Mike Clark’s superb drumming. He threw me for a loop! First he comes in with feel-good swing pockets on tunes like “Birth of the Cool” only to contrast that with his highly syncopated funk grooves in “Fly, Jump, or Die.” Clark speaks to the diverse and capable krewe at play on this record. Sticking with “Birth of the Cool,” I was also highly impressed by Adamo’s layering of references to the jazz canon; on that track, most obviously named in honor of Miles, the cat talks about taking “giant steps ‘round midnight.” He’s got the energies of three greats—Monk, Miles, and Trane—all intermingled in one big mind of a song, and if you listen closely, you can hear the band comping on the changes to “Giant Steps.” You gotta dig that layering of influence, all compounding together, balancing out the musical and lyrical blend.

Kirpal Gordon: I hear you on the layering and the blend in 

“Birth of the Cool.” Adamo is like a gone scat-singer 

improvising in and out of the song form. He bends-mends-

soars-roars syllables of whack-a-doodle wonder, incredulity 

and well-being on the chronic. He’s got that jazz DJ love of the

tradition, but now Hometown’s a blues shouter as well! He 

sang some on Tony Adamo & the New York Crew, an earlier 

CD, but he really stretches out with this band underneath him. You’re so right about the rhythm section, especially on the 

opening track, “Rain Man.” With Mike Clark working that drum 

kit, Adamo locks into that funky jazz feeling; it’s frisky, too. The

band is particularly steady and strong, throwing him invitations

to further his flow on two vocal tributes---“Bb King Blues,” a 

blues shuffle, and “Boogaloo the Funky Beat,” reminiscent of 

James Brown---and Adamo lifts off. He croons and then he 

rhymes, then sings some more; after musical solos, he 

improvs on the artists that he roll-calls to mind before returning

 to the head. It’s a joyous dexterity: vocalese hoo-doo meets 

the jazz tribute poem; spoken word spontaneity bursts into 

song. He’s gone to the Gil Scott-Heron School of Crossover Crossroads, and the band is with him working deep grooves 

that he slides his syllables through. The trick with funk is to 

keep it greasy and not let the riff wear out its welcome. The 

best example of the ensemble keeping its many parts well-

oiled is in the laid-back “Too Funky to Flush” (check “Stormy

Monday”), Adamo’s shout out to the Big Easy, its ettoufee and 

its clave, its blues wisdom and its Congo Square drumming. 

Let’s just say: smiles are guaranteed.

Benny Gottwald: Yes, “Too Funky to Flush” indeed had “black magic dancing in my veins.” I was immediately impressed by how such a lyrically evocative tribute to Nola could chill out on the axis of a smooth 6/8 feel. Talk about juxtaposition, especially when they hit the stop-time; that B3 keeps it real while Adamo paints a Big Easy portrait, letting the tune begin to cook just like mother’s gumbo. “Too Funky to Flush” is, of course, not the only tune where Adamo takes the sounds he’s heard in the street and throws them into the mix of a song. “Boogaloo the Funky Beat” does this big time. Yeah, one could couch it as a tip-of-the-hat to James Brown, but that funk won’t stay on the couch for very long; it’s a get-up-and-groove kind of vibe. Tony Adamo really is the chef on this record for sure, some lyrical spoken word benedictions here and some lofty crooning there. He tells us as much: “mixin’ it up now, home cookin’, rice and beans with cold beer on the side.”

Kirpal Gordon: Hey, Adamo is a force of nature. Now if we’re talking favorite track, I lean toward his tribute to Leon Thomas, “General T.” The band morphs out of guitar-organ funk blues to music that stuns and steps listeners into another dimension. Reverend Adamo marries his praise shouts to the spooky, trippy, atmospheric sound that drums, trumpet, bass, alto saxophone and piano lay down. Talk about a taste of Wayne Shorter’s “Iris” from the mid-Sixties Miles Davis Quintet: The band’s got tentacles reaching into space; they touch many stars. They comp, roll, weave, crescendo and wrap within and without Adamo’s recollections of Leon Thomas at the Village Vanguard. He describes General T’s approach as “Keepin’ his words zip-locked fresh,” but the same could be said of Adamo, whose power of jazz wit-ness never fails or stales.

Benny Gottwald: Adamo put me back in the Vanguard with General T himself. The Reverend is marrying musical elements left and right with unlikely beauty. Check the B3’s left hand on “I’m Out the Door,” giving hard swing and talking up a storm with the drummer—Joey Defrancesco and Billy Hart would be proud! One listen to that track and I am sitting in the studio while Bobby Hutcherson plays his last record, enjoying the view while the cats come out to play chorus by chorus. If you had to get my favorite track on this record, it might just be that one.

Kirpal Gordon: Taken all together, his tales and regales on these tracks celebrate his love of this musical art form. He’s acknowledging, much like Walt Whitman did on opera, that funk-jazz-blues is a manifestation of his muse. And like our national bard’s “Song of Myself,” Adamo’s song-poems celebrate his own exodus from the Moloch madness of Western civilization and his initiation into a deeper experience of meaning via the jazz life. No wonder he’s enthusiastic. He’s escaped the asylum. It’s all there on the final track, “Fly, Jump or Die.” Adamo mixes tales of his Bronx neighborhood jumping from building to building eight stories high with observations on how a tenor saxophonist flies, jumps or dies their way through a solo followed by a guitar solo that flies, jumps and re-births his theme. A smart end to a new direction from Adamo and krewe. Click this for more: https://ropeadope.com/artists/#/tony-adamo/

Personnel: Mike Clark: drums; Donald Harrison: saxophone; Bill Summers: percussion; Lenny White: drums; Michael Wolff: piano; Richie Goods: bass; Tim Ouimette: trumpet; Mike LeDonne: organ; Jack Wilkins: guitar; Delbert Bump: organ; Elias Lucero: gutiar; Roger Smith: keyboards; Kyron Kirby: drums.

GETTING LUCKY: An Interview with novelist DENIS GRAY

KIRPAL GORDON: I’ve been a longtime fan of your drama and fiction, but “Lucky” is a new direction for me in reading your work because it’s not just a captivating love story but a novel chock-full of historical and evocative details about New Orleans and the riverboats and the jazz bands that went up and down the Mississippi River during the Roaring Twenties. What was it like researching this novel?

 DENIS GRAY: Well, the first thing I should tell you, is after reading  a review in the New York Times of “Jazz on the River” authored by William Howland Kenney, I knew I was hooked. That I had to write a story set in Louisiana during the ‘20s. This book gave me a historical reference for “Lucky.” The next thing it meant was, I had to come up with a story to match the great state of Louisiana, and, specifically, New Orleans. Now that meant I had to do a lot of research to understand a place that’s been romanticized since forever. And so I tried to figure out what approach to take and what books to read that would best serve my needs. Once I was able to do that, I, as they say, was off and running! The books I read to prepare me for the story were really great. Information. Information. Information. I’m the kind of writer though, who uses maybe 2 percent (if that much) of the information I glean from my research in a novel. What I’m really after, is the spirit of the subject, since I’m not a nonfiction writer. I try to structure my stories real tight, but if I develop the characters correctly, they’ll make the story work for me; and make the writing easy. Yes, it was a lot of fun researching Lucky. I enjoyed every waking minute of it.

KIRPAL GORDON: I am particularly taken by your insights into the jazz life, especially how musicians related to one another as well as a hostile Jim Crow situation that at times misunderstood the music. The way, for example, that Noble Prince’s Red Hot Rhythm Band welcomes youngbuck trumpet-playing Victor Malreaux onto the riverboat struck me so powerfully.

DENIS GRAY: Yeah, Jim Crow, blacks and whites, separate but equal. You know I don’t really get into any real politics regarding Jim Crow in the book, but it does loom over some portions of it. So there’s atmosphere, and you the reader know you’re in the midst of an unjust system. Walter Von Bulow, the owner of the riverboat the “Morning Queen” and the Von Bulow steamship company, tries to create a comfortable but unrealistic setting for his black employees on the ship, but the situation is still unequal no matter, since it is a system he alone cannot buck. But Von Bulow’s the one who hears Victor Malreaux, this young, “hot trumpet player, “youngbuck” as you so aptly described him, and invites him to audition for Noble Prince on the Morning Queen. I think what I was after with Victor in that situation, was to see how an old, seasoned veteran band would take to a youngbuck, since they could be defined as the practitioners of this music. I mean how is tradition preserved if not through one generation passing it down to another: Jelly Roll Morton, King Oliver, Satchmo, Bix Beiderbecke, Fats Navarro –so on and so forth. So Victor Malreaux allowed me to scope out that situation in a clear, accessible way.
                                                                                                            

KIRPAL GORDON: In jazz guitarist Pat Martino’s new memoir with Bill Milkowski, “Here and Now!,” he notes that when he moved to Harlem the jazz music he was studying & the culture of Harlem were one thing, not two, and he laments that kids who just learn the notes miss the larger context. Would you agree?

DENIS GRAY: Honestly, I don’t keep up with the new jazz cats on today’s jazz scene. I’m still pretty much tuned to the past with my jazz listening. But who thought I’d be quoting P. Diddy, but he once said about hip hop, that it was a lifestyle, clothes, attitude, etcetera. So Pat Martino might have something there. I know the old players, music was in the air they breathed; the music was all around them. They dressed it and ate it and lived it excessively, thus, embedded it deeply into the culture’s psyche. So I’ll let Pat Martino debate that one out, but, like I said, he might be on to something that’s relevant.

KIRPAL GORDON: The novel seems a huge undertaking, especially when Lucky enters the tale. She puts her life at risk as she leaves Harlem and arrives in New Orleans in an attempt to reconcile her past. Did you map it all out first or did you just start writing?

DENIS GRAY: No, I don’t do outlines, but I do “map” it all out in my head. Man, there’s a lot of mapping out too! I take the story here, test it there, hope this is plausible, delete that, and so on and so forth during the process. But once the story crystallizes itself, and I feel I can think of some situations that will give the story interest and impetus, and that I have an ending that makes sense and is logical, natural, and unvarnished, I’m ready to sit down and write. Then when writing, it’s when everything opens up, the middle part of the story where all the juicy stuff and surprises lie for a writer; when they know they’re onto something, and it takes you places you thought you’d never go. For me, because my imagining a story is just a germ, a speck of something, when I’m finished with the book, I think it’s ten times better than what I could ever imagined it before writing it. And if I don’t remember three quarters of what I wrote during the first draft, that excites me even more! Just a quick anecdote. I remember I did a sequel for a novella, “Benny’s Last Blast,” and I had the plotlines for the new book, “Benny, God, and the Blues,” down pat except for one vital transition I needed. I actually waited eight years for that one transition to finally come to me! But I knew it would be worth the wait, since it did provide a great subtext for the story. I think my patience was based on my instincts as a writer—at least I’d like to think that it was.

KIRPAL GORDON: If you’ll pardon the pun, how can readers get “Lucky?” Are there any plans to do readings or concerts with this book?

DENIS GRAY: Thanks for asking. “Lucky” is online at Amazon and Barnes & Noble. It’s also an e-Book, so Kindle and Nook make it available for purchase. (In fact, I’ve read “Lucky” off my wife’s iPad.) Readings, I’ve done a lot of them. I vendor also. Concerts, no. My web site is www.denisgraybooks.com. I’d love to hear from readers. And I’m on Facebook—so you can ‘friend’ me.