Now is not the time for music. At least, that's what Wynton Marsalis said on The Charlie Rose Show last week, speaking of Marsalis' upcoming journey back to his hometown of New Orleans, a trip intended to, among other things, lend some solace to the victims of Hurricane Katrina. Rose had asked Marsalis if he was going to bring his trumpet; Marsalis said maybe, then reconsidered: "Now is not the time for music." And it was the right answer. Sometimes something is so ineffably tragic and wounding that nothing can cut through it-not a painting, not a poem, not even jazz-and this was one of those times.
It is a strange and perhaps in some ways fortunate coincidence that the full trauma of Katrina's effects grew more and more distinct around the 9.11 anniversary. The two events-as has been pointed out-share a number of eerie parallels, but for these purposes let's focus on their duel connection to the sentiments of Marsalis' succinct statement. Now, at least in the expansive ground zero that is New Orleans, Mississippi and Alabama, is clearly not the time for music. Even the most gravely beautiful symphony would be less than trivia when whole infrastructures of subsistence are wiped out; can you imagine an image more ludicrous than the brass blast of "When the Saints Go Marching In" as boats glide by, searching the black still stew of water for bodies?
Similarly, the insanely deep gravity of 9.11-not just the actual day the Twin Towers fell, but all the ensuing days when we remained glued to CNN, when the search for bodies continued, when the task of clearing the rubble began-called for grim silence. How would it have looked if, say, Bob Dylan clambered atop a pile of rubble to pluck out a folk song?
In the excruciating few hours-or days, or weeks-that ensue after some sort of giant, shocking event, the place any sort of art form in our lives becomes increasingly clear: Survival = food, water, shelter and health. That's it. People are always making the dreamy statement that art is sustenance for the soul, but it's not really true-food is sustenance for the soul; anything else is just, uh, gravy. A luxury. A bonus. How weird is it to admit that?
This is not to say art forms are not quasi-essential, are not rooted in our very beings. It's always interesting to me to see how long it takes the "star-studded" benefits to ratchet up, or how far away (literally and figuratively) one must be from a ground zero for music to not only be OK but welcome. It didn't take long, for instance, for Harry Connick, Jr. to make his way out to the Astrodome to give the evacuees there a tiny bit of respite, possibly momentary joy, an act that seemed both appropriate and appreciated, even as people were still being plucked from their rooftops 400 miles away. It's kind of a second tier of tragedy-that timespan and/or geographic zone where bits of normalcy creep in, where survival is now guaranteed, and music is needed as both gravy and the main course.
That second tier is analogous to the place music has in the larger picture of human existence. It's a place where a sort of secondary sustenance comes in, where whatever it is in us that propels creative urges is not only allowable, but suddenly essential. It's a place where there is a two-fold human compulsion, the compulsion to create, to get things out, but also the compulsion to take artistic things in.
When tragedy strikes, those compulsions get mixed in with a third one: the need to do something. Hence the music benefits, like the one I attended at The Cowgirl on Saturday night, featuring a number of local bands and musicians and featuring former Steve Miller Band member Chris McCarty. When I arrived there around 9 pm, I was surprised to see it was crowded, but not unusually so. I assume the folks who were in attendance knew the deal-it was $10 to get in (100 percent of which went directly to the Red Cross), a small donation, the least we could do, but also one that, sadly, might have turned people off.
I was hoping it would feel good to be there, a culmination of the different tiers of creative existence, a time at least when maybe people would be kinda nice to each other.
But it just felt kind of normal. The bands, as is always the case in these situations, proved hit-or-miss, though mainly high-quality. The musical highlight was subtle: Round Mountain, an underrated Santa Fe group that ably traverses the differing genres of musical geography with smarts and skill, kicked off their set with a trumpet melody, simultaneously mournful and hopeful, and quickly busted into an accordion-laced tune. Thankfully, the group avoided the temptation to bust out the zydeco, and the accordion blossomed into a poignant but indirect reminder of why were all there in the first place.
Other than that, it felt mostly like a regular ol' night at The Cowgirl, tipsy people stuffed into outdoor tables, zipping up their hoodies against the tiny bit of autumnal chill, chatting about this and that. I don't think I heard the word "Katrina" all night. A woman with a, uh, large posterior jammed herself next to a friend of mine and promptly spilled her beer on her, constantly wiggling her rear end to get a more stable seat, but never turning around and actually asking, "Hey, could I ask you a favor? Do you mind scooching over a bit," much less noticing that she had stained my friend's jeans with Tecate. Nice. We're all here for a good cause, but we can't even look the person sitting next to us in the eye.
Maybe that's the third tier of human existence-the ability to connect the disparate dots of helping out in an acute crisis and maintaining some civility, or some general, everyday niceness. I just wish it were as essential as the first two. In the meantime, at least, big ups to The Cowgirl for doing a damn nice thing.
