A Trip To New York....

Following Keith Jarrett's "Köln Concert" sermon, you leave the church. It's a beautiful sunday morning, it's fall, cold and misty. Yet sunny. "Coffee first", you say, and enter the next deli.

The guy at the door behind the warm-held curtain is Miles. He's the Bouncer. He checks you in with Blues By Five, a cold reception, followed by a warm welcome: "Welcome to New York" says Billie Holiday dressed as a waitress waiting impatiently to take your order, "it's so nice here in autumn. Autumn in New York!"

After you eat, you take off. Busy streets, canyons of steel. Dexter Gordon, the bike-messenger, is your man. You and Dexter fly through Broadway. What an energy. After a while, you think it's time to cool down.

You go to a small bar and buy a drink. Stan Getz comes in and tells you a long, long story. It's all Misty and sad, but with a nice happy end.

We really don't wanna sleep midday in bar, do we?

You leave the place and take a cab. Monk is the New York cab driver, Blues Five Spot his taxi. First you think, this guy is an idiot, he can drive nowhere. And then you start gliding through Manhattan's tiny streets, not getting stuck in any traffic. That creep can roll, man.

Monk knows every single corner, how tiny, how concealed, no matter. You're ashamed of yourself, of your thoughts. This guy is fucking genius!

Enjoying the ride, you open the window. It's Harlem's Manhattan. Stories. Streets. Steam. People walking, crossing the streets, cars. It's busy. Jarrett's From The Body kicks in. All the different flavors, the variety, the different restaurants, kitchens, languages, plates, dishes and yes, espresso, the smell of coffee. It's a world of its own!

Enter coffee shop. You lay yourself on a comfy couch and stare the ceiling. Warm drink. It's Herbie Mann whistling into your ear. You're almost asleep, but the wake up call comes in.

Here he is, your butler James with the white-gold 1930's phone in his hand, "It's Mr John Coltrane again, sir, uhmm, I think it is the issue with The Inch Worm. He says, you'd know. And, oh: "Sir, he's insisting." He makes a phone sign with his hand, to point out that you have to take this call, as if you would ever want to make a single gesture, not to think of an action, in against taking Mr Coltrane's call. Where in earth could that be?

Irritated, shaking your head, you then gladly answer the call. Once again with deep pleasure. How nice it was to hear his voice. "Yes, yes, ta dii, tara daa, tara di da.. yes" I think you know all the words.

It's late. You take Oscar's Night Train to the city. The every-now-and-then stopping and slowly-slowly rolling train.

You count the seconds.. The Night starts..
http://outsidedaily.com/journal/2008/11/18/trip-to-new-york.html