Tony Adamo Poet Spoken Word

Notes About The Poem

Jazz Creed

Puttin’ it all together, no room for squares, ya dig/time slides into somethin’ heavy and the groovers are here/
 the jazz creeper solo, struttin’ funk bumpin’, black fire lit from the inside out,  Man, it was a city block of sound/
Jazz improvisation listens to the spontaneous birth of melodies, rhythms, and harmonies/
sprung in real-time, right on the edge of the bandstand/ conversation between hands, breath, horn, bass, and the jazz  room club/
Dexter Gordon in the shadows, Lonnie Liston Smith whispering keys blowin' high Building solos with a logical sequence of musical phrases/
 Tony Williams riding the ride symbol,  snare drum popin' the infinite stone cold rhythm walk of free jazz/
Larry Young lighting up the organ like a flying meteor/  man, His atmospheric playing covers the  Earth,/
Master Bebopers walk a high  wire between learned language and wild grace/personal voice poking through the shared scaffold of not knowin' what is next, but just blowin' free to be jazz/, you hear it in the way a note leans on the next/carries you off into nowhere land with a drink in your hand/ Gone, baby gone like way gone/
a soul jazz funkified phrase that refuses to be clean but combines the classic language with the more " modern" sound of jazz/    A city feel, a spiritual pulse, the sense of a bigger crowd in the corner bar where the spirit lingers, and the groove does not quit/ The Real gone tenor man/ his heartbeat says yes to risk/ always balancing musical structure with the moment, plan to surprise/the old maps of chords bending to the moonlight of invention/In every touch of the keyboard, every drum hit, every horn inhale/ every smokey whale
There’s a doorway to somewhere new—yet somehow familiar/
a dialogue between memory and invention, a dance with possibility/So we ride the breaks, we breathe in the vibe of the day, we trust the moment we let the room answer back with its own echo/until the music feels like a story we’re all writing together/a chorus of names, a chorus of voices, a chorus of tomorrowThat, at the end, is jazz/
 The art of balancing the learned with the alive, the safety of the chart and the danger of the spark of Jazz improvisation   is always at the fingertips of the jazz masters/the moment when a crowd becomes a chorus, and the solo becomes a home."

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