Upbeat
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Upbeat

Nine Lives of a Musical Cat

David Amram

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eBook - ePub

Upbeat

Nine Lives of a Musical Cat

David Amram

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About This Book

David Amram-composer, jazz artist, conductor, and world music pioneer-has been described by the Boston Globe as "the Renaissance man of American music." From early collaborations with Kerouac and Sinatra, chosen by Leonard Bernstein as the New York Philharmonic's first composer in residence, Amram's artistry has taken him from concerts with Willie Nelson to jamming with the Massai tribe of Kenya. In Upbeat: Nine Lives of a Musical Cat, Amram recounts his extraordinary adventures in the many worlds of music he calls home, all told in a rollicking anecdotal style that makes you feel that you are at home around the world. He writes, "Everywhere I have been in the world, music transcends politics. As musicians, we were able to go beyond all that and just be fellow human beings." Threading through Amram's tale of music, hard work, respect, and friendship are unforgettable stories of fellow great artists-Dizzie Gillespie, Hunter S. Thompson, Janet Gaynor, George Plimpton, Lyle Lovett, Zoe Caldwell, Willie Nelson, and many more.

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Information

Publisher
Routledge
Year
2015
ISBN
9781317249719
Subtopic
Sociologia
Edition
1
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Chapter 1
Merrymaking and Mayhem in the Mountains: Hunter S. Thompson’s Final Blastoff
It all began when Doug Brinkley called me in June to let me know that Hunter’s memorial event was scheduled to take place August 20, 2005, in Woody Creek, Colorado, and that I should try to save the date. Doug Brinkley, in addition to being Hunter’s literary executor and editor of his three books of letters, is also the author of several other best-selling books, one of America’s premiere historians, a galvanizing speaker, full-time professor at Rice University, father of three young children, organizer of George McGovern’s seventy-fifth birthday celebration in Washington, to which he had invited Hunter and me as part of the program, and a loyal friend for the past twenty-three years.
Back on December 12, 1996, both Hunter and Johnny Depp were honored by the city of Louisville and made Kentucky Colonels. Poet Ron Whitehead and Doug Brinkley had invited me down to create some special music for that occasion, and the late Warren Zevon joined me on piano, along with Johnny Depp playing guitar, for a memorable evening of poetry, music, speechmaking, and post-ceremonial mayhem.
Doug and I have been at scores of events together since 1982 when we first met in Boulder, Colorado, at a weeklong event celebrating the twenty-fifth anniversary of the publication of On the Road. I knew that if Doug were there in Woody Creek to celebrate Hunter’s legacy, and if Johnny Depp were involved as well, everything would end up coming off in good taste and presented in a joyous fashion.
Both Doug and Johnny are excellent at what they do, and they were both extremely close to Hunter and had great respect for him as an artist and a person. Hunter’s son, Juan, and Hunter’s wife, Anita, had the same high regard for Doug and Johnny as well. Doug and I kept calling one another over the next two months as the event was taking shape, so that I could figure out how I could best serve the program by contributing something that would be appropriate.
“Don’t worry, David. Things are fluid, but just be there and be prepared to do whatever feels right at the moment,” said Doug. “Both Johnny Depp and the family want to make it a memorial service as well as a celebration, and don’t want it to be a media circus or another Woodstock. There will be other public events in the future where big crowds can come to celebrate Hunter. I wish we could invite all the friends we share in common who knew and loved Hunter and his work, but we have to respect his family’s wishes. I am getting e-mails and phone calls from around the world. There is huge interest in this. Hunter wanted this kind of a final sendoff, and Johnny and Hunter’s family are determined to see that it happens the way he said he wanted it to happen.”
When I called Doug Brinkley on Wednesday morning, August 17, three days before the event was to take place the following Saturday night, and told him I was coming the next day to Aspen, he said that he hoped to also be arriving later that same Thursday night as well, and hopefully we could meet up that night if possible.
“Bring all your instruments and be prepared to jam with everyone. You’ll find a way to make your “Theme and Variations on My Old Kentucky Home” come off, as you did when we were in Louisville. The final plans for the musical portion of the evening are still not set in stone, because we are still not sure who will actually show up, so just be ready for anything. I know you will make it happen, as you always do. Get some rest, and I’ll see you in Aspen.”
Since all I had planned for certain was to bring as many of my instruments as I could carry on the plane, pack a new suit in my bag to wear for the ceremony, and create several plans of different ways I could perform my “Theme and Variations on My Old Kentucky Home,” regardless of who ended up playing with me, I decided to just think about all the good times I had with Hunter over the years and trust the fates to guide me when it was time to do the piece.
Improvising words and music on the spot and doing what feels right at the moment is what I have done since my days in the army in 1952, and what I have continued to do when the occasion calls for it in my non-symphonic performances around the world. My job in Woody Creek was to make the finale seem effortless and enjoyable for others and try to bring good feelings to Hunter’s family, which is certainly what Hunter would have expected of me.
I spent the whole night packing and sketching out last-minute musical ideas, trying to figure out which instruments to bring with me, exactly what I should do to get a band of some sort together after I got there, and how I could possibly do it.
I was really excited to be returning to Aspen again, and spent the whole flight to Denver planning ten different ways to do my “Theme and Variations on My Old Kentucky Home” so that if I ended up having a large ensemble, it wouldn’t be too long, but so that all the musicians would have a moment of their own to shine, no matter how many or how few ended up playing with me. I learned this from seeing Duke Ellington in 1941 in Philadelphia, where during his stage show, each player had a chance to shine.
After arriving in Denver, I ran down the seemingly endless corridors of the Denver airport, panting due to the five-thousand-foot elevation of the Mile High City, and just made the commuter flight to Aspen.
As the plane taxied onto the Aspen runway, just forty-eight hours before the event was to take place, I suddenly felt a blast of energy. When I got off the plane and smelled that Colorado late summer fresh air and looked around at the mountains, I knew that everything would turn out the way it was meant to be. Even though I hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours, I felt rested and ready to go. I could feel Hunter’s spirit and crazed energy in the air and hear that staccato voice barking at me: “Make it look easy. Keep it simple, Amram. There are too many windbags and lying lizards. Be honest, clear, and to the point.” This was the advice that Hunter gave me, a young classical composer when we met in 1959, when he was a young reporter for the Middletown Record and lived in a tiny cabin on Route 209 a few minutes from where I used to have an equally tiny place, in the same foothills of the Shawanagunk Mountains in Cuddebackville, eight miles outside of Port Jervis in upstate New York.
Now, forty-six years later, here in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, I knew that however chaotic this ambitious event might be, somehow everyone who came to contribute to Hunter’s memory would all work together and we would all be able to pull it off. And that we would all be, in Hunter’s words, honest, clear, and to the point.
After wandering around the small airport in Aspen for twenty minutes, hoping to find someone with a sign saying that they were looking for me, I was met by Emma Juniper, a young, energetic twenty-year-old college student who had been an intern for Hunter just a few months before he died. She was now working with Anita, Hunter’s wife of the last two years, and her cell phone was ringing nonstop, with people calling from all over trying to get their names put on the list of invitees, as well as members of the production staff, journalists wanting interviews, and guests and participants in the event like myself who had been invited, who also needed to know where to go, when to be there, exactly what to do, and when to do it.
“The final schedule is still in formation,” she said bravely, when I asked her the same questions. “It will be fantastic, but all these issues are still being decided, and I know it will all be fine in the end. We are all so happy that all of you can be here for Hunter.”
Emma told me the names of all the people who had not arrived yet, which ones might come for sure and which ones were tentative, and how some of the crew had been here for a month, putting the finishing touches on what was the equivalent of a space shuttle launching at Cape Canaveral.
As we drove from the airport, she outlined for me the nearly impossible task of coordinating a whole evening with 487 officially invited guests attending a huge event in the outlying town of Woody Creek, while meeting the deadline of finishing the construction of the 153-foot tall tower from which Hunter’s ashes would be fired into space from a cannon, coordinated with a lighting display, Japanese ceremonial drum group, and fireworks, as well as preparing and serving dinner, drinks, and a musical program for all the guests.
My mind reeled as she reviewed the other details involved in planning the whole program for the evening, which included arranging the transportation of all the guests, performers, staff, and crew to and from the field behind Hunter’s house in a series of shuttle buses.
As Emma outlined the logistics, I realized that pulling the entire event off successfully would require a team effort akin to the Allies’ cooperative triumphant moment in World War II when they completed the invasion of Normandy on D-Day.
“I hope you understand why no one could answer your phone calls and emails or contact you for the past two weeks, David.” said Emma. “Everyone is so excited that you can be here to play, and I wish I could answer your questions now, but it is impossible for me to do anything to help you to figure out how to put together what you are going to do, except to go with the flow, and conscript some kind of ensemble with whomever you run across that you feel can perform your “Theme and Variations on My Old Kentucky Home,” during the next two days, and be ready to play whenever we finalize the program, which may be just an hour or two before the event takes place at 7:00 p.m. Saturday night. We know you can do it.”
“I’ll try,” I said. “Worst-case scenario, I’ll play my “Theme and Variations on My Old Kentucky Home” on my Irish double-D whistle all by myself as an unaccompanied piece, and switch to the piano and lead the audience singing, although I’d rather have some other musicians play it with me, as I did in December of 1996 in Louisville for Hunter, when Hunter and Johnny Depp were both made Kentucky Colonels. That night in Louisville, I rehearsed with Warren Zevon playing piano early in the afternoon, with singer Suzy Woods and her bluegrass band in the basement of the theater, since they arrived two hours later, and with Johnny Depp a few minutes before we actually played, when someone went back to his hotel room and got him his National slide guitar.
“I had planned the whole structure of the piece the night before, when Ron Whitehead called me from Louisville and told me who he thought would actually show up, even though I had never met any of them before. After I got together with each of them separately, I revamped everything I had previously planned, and when we performed it, I gave everyone signals when to come in, and it was terrific.”
“I’m sure you will have no problem this time,” said Emma, who was able to listen to my ramblings while answering her endless calls and calming down those whose voices I could hear shouting out their problems through her speakerphone.
“Do you think Johnny Depp will play guitar with you again?” she asked.
“I’d love it,” I said. “I didn’t want to bother him, since he has such an insurmountable task trying to oversee all that is happening, but I wish he could. It was terrific having him play with me in Louisville. I’ll ask him when I see him tonight.”
“He’s not here yet,” said Emma. “I think he’s arriving the day of the event. He had work he had to do in Los Angeles.”
“Well, whatever happens and whoever shows up or whoever I run into, I have already planned so many different ways to do it here in Woody Creek, it won’t take long to rehearse, since I have the whole structure in my head, and can rehearse it with each musician individually, and then cue each person at the performance for when they should play.”
“It sounds like you have another perfect plan,” said Emma. “Let me drive you to where you are staying so you can drop all those instruments off, and then we’ll get something to eat. You look hungry.”
As we drove from the airport to my lodgings, Emma demonstrated her linguistic ability in five languages, telling me about all the crazy events that had occurred in putting this spectacular together. Staring out the window of Emma’s car, I was blown away by the unearthly feeling of this special part of the world again.
No matter where you looked, everything was peaceful and beautiful, all bathed in a Colorado summer late-afternoon gentle light that made everything appear to be perfectly fit together, like the old paintings I used to see in the illustrated book of Bible stories Jacob’s Coat of Many Colors, which I used to read as a boy on our farm in Feasterville, Pennsylvania. As I read and reread the stories in the late 1930s, looking at the illustrations of shepherds tending their flocks in endless fields of rolling mountains, I always wondered if there was actually any place on earth that could be as idyllic as these paintings.
I realized as we drove toward Aspen that there was such a place, as I watched the countryside roll on by, reminding me of a Cinemascope movie, through the front windshield and side windows of Emma’s car. I saw that like much of northern New Mexico’s remaining unspoiled small mountain communities, Colorado’s Aspen and nearby Woody Creek were both still a paradise in 2005.
The surrounding countryside is as breathtaking as any place in the world, and as we pulled into the Inn at Aspen, a small and comfortable mini-hotel on the outskirts of town, I could see that the rolling land a few miles outside of the town of Aspen still retains a remarkably pristine flavor. All the ne...

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