Summer, 2009: At the far end of an island, I found myself pulled down, pulled to pieces, pulled in half. Should I stay or should I go I asked myself many times. And as many times, I had no answer. So I smoked and I drank and I began to work on my epic poem, Atlantis, thinking it, if nothing else, would satisfy as direction, religion and conviction. It started with a translation of Homer’s Neukia episode into Nahuatl--Pound’s Homer through Divus into the language of the Nahua. The structure of the project was imagined hence. But this article is not about that poem--it is about that moment; an article on that poem is forthcoming. I was at an island’s end, low on conviction, heavy on the passion that had brought me so far, wanting to return to it or--at least!--get rid of the DISTASTE for the professionalized HIGH DISREGARD of the artist, the maker, the poet as IS, by which I had been offended at that time.
I have learned now that such distaste has no terminus--but is itself the generator of conviction, taste, and meaningful art. In tandem with the production of a great poem, a poem such as had been suggested to me impossible in our times, I began to collect the soundtrack for the poem: mostly, at first, Sun Ra, but soon bursting with the likes of Don Cherry, Bengt Berger, Eric Kloss, John Coltrane, The Fourth Way, Roland Kirk, Joe Henderson, Freddie Hubbard, Alice Coltrane, Kenny Burrell, Bobby Hutcherson, Carlos Santana, Wayne Shorter, Charles Lloyd, Tubby Hayes, Lee Morgan, Terry Riley, Herbie Hancock, Akh Tal Ebah, John Gilmore, Tyrone Hill, Vincent Chancey, Marshall Allen, John Gilmore, Walter Miller, Mal Waldron, Jim Pepper, Victor Uwaifo, Pharoah Sanders, John Tchicai, Archie Shepp, Elvin Jones, Joe Farrell, Jimmie Garrison, among others.
It was a bifurcated project of organization in history and sound, presence and sensation. Trying to place myself, that summer, someplace. I finished several cantos, listened to the soundtrack, and read in such a way that was not repulsive to the spirit of the project. Mid August, I’d come to the conclusion that we (Emma, my dog, and I) would make Hajj (see Abdullah Ibrahim — “Hajj, the Journey”).
Our pilgrimage would be to the place from which so much of what had cleansed me had come. In Englewood Cliffs, NJ, across the Hudson river from Washington Heights, NY (where I was living at the time), stood a temple sanctified by the creation of purifying rhythms, soul-full orchestration and elevated minds. Emma (my dog) and I set out on our journey on what happened to be the hottest day of the year. We walked from Dykeman and Broadway to the George Washington Bridge, crossed that dizzying high-pass, and continued northward from Fort Lee to the Englewood Cliffs. Several hours of heat, suffering and poorly planned journeying later, we arrived at the Masjid al-Haram of post-bop Jazz: the Rudy Van Gelder Studio.
Inspired by Frank Lloyd Wright, the modern chapelesque hall is somewhat plain and hidden from the street. Emma and I walked around a bit before deciding that it would probably be best if we announced our presence on the property. This on top of her thirst made me ring the doorbell. The intercom: Who’s there? Me: Edgar Garcia. The intercom: Gimme a second.
I asked the old man at the door for some water and he brought me a cup of it for Emma. I’m here on pilgrimage I said to him, and he asked me wryly where my sign was. I told him I’d left it in the Middle Ages. He laughed and invited me in. The studio, from within, was very much like a chapel--high, wooden ceilings leaping upward with an air of solemnity and sacrifice. He asked me what instrument I played and I told him that my business was in poetry; my instrument, persona. I asked him what he did, and he told me that he was “Rudy.” Rudy (Van Gelder) who had produced nearly every album of note on Blue Note and CTI, and many on Verve and Prestige as well--and had in fact built the studio: snippets of A Love Supreme, Ju Ju and Outback streamed through my mind. We shook hands (again), and he showed me around.
Back in Manhattan, I thought to myself whether persona could be such an instrument as the instrument of sound. And went back to the poem.
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