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It’s the people who are learning now, and creating new things right now. “In no way is this meant to discredit or to make him seem less significant for what he’s contributed,” she said, “but it kind of reaffirmed my understanding of the music-that the most important artist and the most important time is, like, right now. While playing jazz standards with the seventy-one-year-old Tyner was “fun and intense,” she said, it did not represent her ultimate goals as an artist. Jazz thrives on apprenticeship and anointment before Charlie Parker died, he is said to have told the saxophonist Sonny Stitt that he was giving him the “keys to the kingdom.” But, when I repeated Tyner’s praise to Spalding a few days later, in Austin, Texas, where she recently set up house, she smiled and said, “Wow, that’s great,” and then qualified her enthusiasm. She understands the form, where the verses and choruses come, how solos work.
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A few minutes later, in the greenroom at the end of the hall, Tyner told me that Spalding “understands how to play with this kind of group. When she returned backstage to collect her paycheck, Coltrane hugged her and said, “You sounded beautiful every night.” Mela kissed his fingertips, banged a fist against his heart, and pointed at her. “They’re just small for a person,” she said. Spalding looked into her open hands, which, apart from the thick white calluses on her fingers, might have belonged to a ten-year-old. One tongue-tied middle-aged man commented on her hands. Suddenly she was leaning over the instrument, her left hand darting down toward the sound holes, the index and middle fingers of her right hand blurring as she plucked out a furious barrage of sixteenth notes then she returned to the neck, her head thrown back, eyes closed, as she produced bursts of booming fragmented notes that drew smiles from Tyner at the piano and gasps from the crowd.Īfter the performance, the last of six nights that the group played there, a line of twenty or so well-wishers crowded a door at the side of the stage to get Spalding’s autograph, snap pictures, and talk to her. When she took a solo, mid-set, on the 1957 Coltrane tune “Moment’s Notice,” she started slow, mapping out the quick-shifting chords with a comfortable walking bass line high up the neck. When the band began to play, her left hand swarmed the neck of her upright bass, spidering out speedy arpeggios and dashing upward in chromatic runs. A slender, light-skinned black woman with a natural Afro and a serenely beautiful face, she was dressed in a frilled-front sleeveless blouse, black vest, and black pants. Spalding is “trying to make music for the people.” Photograph by Ethan Levitasįemale instrumentalists have been a rarity in jazz, and Spalding looked incongruous amid the standard tableau of the jazz concert: dudes in boxy blue suits.