NYU Black Renaissance Noire NYU Black Renaissance Noire Volume 16.2: Fall 2016 - Page 85
By Patrick Sylvain
When I reached the ticketeer , With a camera strapped on my left shoulder , She pointed in Turrentine ’ s direction and said : “ This would be a nice shot .” Stanley hunched on a bench , Legs spread , a black tenor sax resting On his thighs . A mood enveloped his posture , A statement of how He and his instrument were going to blow The night into sub-particles .
We spoke briefly Before I followed him Through the double-glass doors Where hands clapped to thunder joy . A mic at the horn ’ s center rim , He began blowing They Can ’ t Take That Away From Me . Sculpting Jazz with cotton tongues , And despite the clinking of Ice against double gin glasses , He forged scales into an enduring pantheon .
Breath notes filtering through ears Forming layers of chords That held elegant bridges And bopped toccatas Where Coleman Hawkins And Charlie Parker traveled . Stanley took us to places , Graceful and rumbling blues , Sounds bouillabaissed Into the realm of the senses . We clung to each other , Hanging on the edge .
His hurricane sounds bellowing in the night , My tapping feet were electrified for a dance . The music creating jolts of lightning , A tarantism buzz . Turrentine kept blowing , I zoomed in to frame his bulging neck veins And inch-deep dimples That held and pulsated Molasses notes , Sticky warm blues . His sound was pure brown sugar , Bonding agents of melismatic Harmonics brothing in creamy Strings of chromatic melody . Soulful , cooked in a tradition , Of immaculate blues Giving his notes a signatory breath As personal as his fingerprints .