I. Miles
Punk would have been his first choice
But most days, he settled for jazz fusion
Mind you, it wouldn't be your smooth easy listening
No, the incarnation he favored was electric Miles
Live-Evil era Miles to be precise
Pip squeaks of funk, a bitches' brew of sonic chaos
Untethered dissonance that destabilized the unwary listener
Barely a minute after they'd entered the library
Check the startled looks of the patrons - priceless
It was not what you'd expect, distorted, unsettling
Very far from what you'd expect given the setting
But this was what you got when it was his shift
On duty at the front desk, he controlled the playlist
Not your garden variety background inoffensive music,
No, at its most friendly, the riffs would place you On The Corner
Or a journey into free rhythmic abstraction, taken to Pangea
Unmoored, with little recognizable features, frankly disconcerting
Pugilistic in intent, the music, it demanded active listening
At such times, you were apt to be left completely disoriented
Wishing for the relative aural safety of A Tribute to Jack Johnson
Electric Miles then, and only occasionally Electronic Miles
No Kind of Blue modalities, no stately Sketches of Spain
No First Quintet bop stylings, no Second Quintet excursions
The library's soundscape became full of challenges
You'd wonder why you kept re-reading that page of the article
Strangely uneasy, enervated and somehow provoked by the music
And as for the microfiche, you'd inevitably lose concentration
The middle schoolers mostly gave up on doing their homework
Best just to decompress or browse the aisles during those hours
The other librarians would exchange looks of concern
The mantle of reverence had been punctured if not shredded
Nervous energy, the wall of sound evoked the shape of dread
Missing, the customary hushed tones of the library
It hearkened to Sly Stone, There's a Riot Goin' On
But we are creatures that avoid conflict, striving simians
So no one confronted him or made any demands for silence
Discreetly and strategically placed, a box of ear plugs was often to be found
Near the display of staff recommendations at the entrance
Passive aggressive too, posters and vinyl, The Birth of the Cool
Sorcerer, Someday My Prince Will Come - Frances on the cover smiling at you
Ascenseur Pour L'échafaud, the iconic Miles projects,
Miles Ahead too.
And it became institutionalized and part of the practice
Buyer beware, know what you're getting into
The loud librarian ruled on Tuesday afternoons
II. Method
If organized chaos was his soundtrack
Manufactured serendipity was his methodology
Walking the aisles searching for opportunity
Where a blanket of serenity would normally greet you as you entered
The diffident and deferential queries you expected:
"Is there anything I could help you with?"
No, the loud librarian would approach you head on
"Have you seen this? Over here we have a new exhibit"
And, well, you would often forget what you had been looking for,
The reason you'd come to the library in the first place
He had sized you up as you entered and unerringly tailored the offbeat material
He always gave you something that you didn't know that you needed
Redirecting you, changing the perspective, oblique viewpoints
The connective tissue he saw was inspired direction
So, despite the inevitable naysayers at his aural eccentricity
Despite the chatter and slanted anecdotes he imparted
After a few encounters he garnered a following
Aficionados would leave the library synapses firing
Many a research project would be revitalized
Science fair projects became baroque surprises
No mundane experiments with baking soda
Newton's experiments in alchemy became prime subject matter
The histories of the maroons in Suriname and Guyana
Speculation on elements of continuity within the Akan diaspora
Suddenly Fabian Socialists entered classroom discussion
At the dinner table, parents would now face new contentions
Their curious offspring now questioning state legitimacy
Back from the bibliothèque devotees of oral histories
III. Billie
Come the winter solstice, the soundtrack changed
Tuesday heartbreak became troubled Thursday
A shift change, the director rearranged the schedule
And Thursdays were known to feature a tough crew
Gathered as they were in dueling conference rooms
The first group considered stamps, the Philatelic Society
Altogether conventional, they researched political histories
But the seeds of conflict were sown by the Psychedelic Society
He couldn't help it - simply couldn't contain his curiosity
About what strange things could be going on in their meetings
A fractious lot, not responding to any of his queries
From what he could make out after examining their marginalia,
Their focus was ostensibly on matters mind-altering and minor arcana
They were reluctant to reveal the substance of their "happenings"
But he was not at all impressed with their take on bioprospecting
Their single minded focus on ancient herbal remedies
Commerce instead of the application of indigenous knowledge
And so we all started to listen to Billie Holiday
The
Lady in Satin album mostly, autumnal Lady Day
Pathos in the voice, wracked by too much living
Thoroughly wrought with experience, witness the mannered phrasing
Off kilter, her way with a ballad, the lush strings backing
And loud, crucially you could hear every bent note
Trace the curvature of her deliberate voicing
As if caressing the microphone, the breath control, halting
The immediacy in the lyrics was striking, but it tended to take a toll
By the time
Glad to be Unhappy came on, you'd be thoroughly wrecked
After a few months, he decided to quit, it was time to move on
Another town across the country would require his intervention
He planned out the soundtrack of his last Thursday afternoon
He played
The End of a Love Affair it seemed on repeat
Careful observers would realize that it was all seven takes
Variations on a theme, as ever, she preempted the beat
The strings mournful, her voice increasingly emotional
The psychedelics were in distress as they walked out the door
The blues of wist and melancholy, no one could stand it anymore.
Billie. You're killing us, this is too much to bear
How many times can we hear The End of a Love Affair?
Finally smiling, for the encore, he switched to Portishead
He hummed along to
Sour Times during his exit interview
A
soundtrack for this note (
spotify version)
File under: culture, observation, perception, life, music, obsession, whimsy, Small Things, poetry, toli
Writing log: November 24, 2022
