V-2nd - 2: At the V-Note

[Joe Allonby]

Swaying up Mass Ave one early AM after a night of weirdness at Doc's
Cafe. We were on our way home to our pre-gentrification apt on St
Botolph St which was still kinda rough and red-light in those days. My
roommate Jason and I encountered Charlie on the sidewalk in front of
Wally's. Charlie's tie was untied, his collar unbuttoned, jacket
soaked through with sweat, uncased trumpet in his hand. Even through
the sunglasses-at-night, he looked a little wild-eyed. Charlie was
from out of town and on tour with some big act and like many pros took
advantage of the night off in Boston to jam with the regulars at
Wally's.

Boston closes early. Wally wasn't done. He wanted to find a party. Get
high. Drink more whiskey. We told him we didn't have a party, but we
could hook him up with the bong and the bourbon. Maybe a even a couch
to crash on. I know the deal. I've been on tour too. As we walked on
up Mass Ave, we heard the noise of a party. It sounded like a COLLEGE
party. This was unusual for the South End at the time. Undergrads
really hadn't infiltrated very much from nearby Northeastern and BU.
But it sure sounded like a raging kegger coming from the upper floor
of a brownstone. Before we could say anything, Charlie was up the
stoop, through the unlatched door and charging up the stairs. What the
hell, we might as well follow and watch the action. We might be able
to help him out if it turns hostile.

Lots of guys in polo shirts hanging out with plastic cups. Cute girls.
Jaws slack in disbelief as a large black man in a sweat-soaked suit
and sunglasses and bearing a trumpet carried out a home invasion and
headed straight for the keg. We followed at a discreet distance.
Nobody made a move to stop Charlie. They just stared. The punks
following him must have seemed downright normal in comparison. Charlie
got his glass of kegbrew and headed for the middle of the crowded
living room. The kids parted for him like the Red Sea, Some of the
guys placed protective arms around the girls. Jason and I helped
ourselves to the keg. Charlie handed his cup of beer to the nearest
frat boy who took it with a look of disbelief. Then Charlie put his
horn to his lips and started blowing long swooping riffs over whatever
noise was coming from the speakers. Then he broke them up and danced
notes around it. Then he really went off. It was beautiful. The facial
expressions changed. Smiles broke out. They were listening. They were
digging it. We hung for awhile. We left knowing that Charlie would be
OK. Welcome to Urban America kids.


On Fri, Jul 9, 2010 at 10:39 AM,  <kelber at mindspring.com> wrote:
> "The usual divisions prevailed: collegians did not dig, and left after an average of one and a half sets.  Personnel from other groups, either with a night off or taking a long break from somewhere crosstown or uptown, listened hard, trying to dig.  "I am still thinking," they would say if you asked.  People at the bar all looked as if they did dig in the sense of understand,approve of, empathize with: but this was probably only because people who stand at the bar have, universally, an inscrutable look."
>
> Young Pynchon being biographical, no doubt, and an astute observer.  He wouldn't have been one of the collegians who rudely left, mid-set, nor would he have been one of the intimidating inscrutables at the bar.   Haven't we all, at some time, struggled to fit into at least that second group?  Following this passage is an homage to Bird. Young Tom may have struggled to dig as a college kid on weekend trips to NYC, but now, writer of V., he either truly digs, or no longer cares.
>
> Near the end of the scene, Sick Crewsman Fu makes a contemptuous gesture towards someone who compares McClintic favorably to Bird.  What's Pynchon's attitude here?  Is he with Fu in despising anyone who'd denigrate the recently passed Bird?  Or is he standing back, Stencil-like, and mocking the pretensions of would-be hipster Fu, self-appointed arbiter of jazz?
>
> Laura
>