by Ami Rao
Gosh Ameena, get a grip, she rebuked herself, stop behaving like a smitten teenager! She turned away from the stage and glanced around the room. The club had filled up completely with more bodies than chairs and she noticed that people who hadn’t found a seat were standing towards the back of the room, leaning against walls, happy just to be there. The patrons were mostly couples or small groups of threes and fours, but she realised there were also a sizeable number of people seemingly on their own – true aficionados, she guessed – choosing to spend their evening alone, and yet not alone, listening and lingering to the great vibes they admired. David had found her a seat near the front of the room and a few minutes later when it was time, she sat down and clapped with everyone else, as the musicians took their places.
After that, she remembers what she remembers, the rest is lost in a kind of dreamlike haze. It starts with the lights, the shadows shift, the last of the claps fade, the musicians nod to a beat they haven’t yet played, and the quartet begins to perform. David is on the piano, accompanied by the three men she has just met, one on the drums, one on string bass and the man with the hat, his eyes now half-closed, on tenor saxophone. But then, as soon as they start to play, the individuals melt away and four become one, then one becomes none, and all that is left is the music.
Almost instantly, the little room is transformed.
The quartet seem to travel together to some other place, but what is incredible – what Ameena can’t explain – is how, in doing so, they take the room with them. Because suddenly the music is inside the room and the room is inside the music, bodies cocooned within the notes of this collective voice, intimate and compelling and metamorphic. It’s as if they’ve made a kind of secret pact, a wordless collaboration: carry them away, they have decided implicitly among themselves – we are going to carry them away.
And Ameena is carried away.
She sits up straighter, leans forward, elbows on the table, fingers folded under her chin, rapt, as they pass solos around in what appears to be a completely arbitrary sequence. And yet there is unbelievable order and it works so beautifully, flowing with ease from one to the other, each voice speaking alone, yet drawing strength and a kind of love from the others, creating, exploring, supporting, evoking melancholy and exuberance and a kind of deep nostalgia all at once.
The room bursts into loud, appreciative applause. Ameena finds herself feeling humbled by it, and even a little bit envious, of the ability to alter the character of a room like that, to win over strangers in this way. Jazz, she thinks as she looks at the four of them, demands to be listened to.
She begins to understand then, not fully, just a glimmer, the sentiment with which the musicians greeted each other earlier. The intimacy of the wrap-the-thumbs clasped handshake, and the hug and the pat on the back, held a kind of shared pride in themselves and of each other and for their art – for why they were there, and what they were there to do. They are jazzmen – so beautiful, she thinks, the making of that identity – and the jazz she is listening to is what the four of them create together in the moment, what they bring to it, take from it, discover inside of it. An act of homage, if ever such a thing existed.
Ameena thinks of David then, of his ambition, and as she does, she notices that there are no stands on that stage or sheet music as there had been in the cello concert. It seems impossible to her, the very mechanics of it, and she makes a mental note to ask him how this is even done, this kind of extemporaneous performance, unwritten, unrehearsed, just felt, driven by some inner mechanism that thrills to the idea of creative exploration. And if that’s the case, then she realises that he is already a composer, that they all are, in this remarkable gift they possess of spontaneously scoring music together.
He had looked up at her a few times even as he was playing, their eyes meeting in split seconds of closeness, but for the rest of the time, she knows he isn’t really in the room at all, he is somewhere else, face cast in some mysterious expression, body rocking forwards and back, lost inside the music.
And then she’s tapping her foot to the beat, as if it has entered her body also, found a way in through her brain and then flowed downwards to her feet and then it needs to be released, like a sort of energy, only it is no longer exactly as it had entered her body, but a transformed version of it, as if it has been changed by her, by her sensibility, changed by each person present in that room at that moment in time. This energy, she thinks, is what drives the music forward, like a kind of hope that drives us all forward, keeps us excited, greedy for more – more music, more time, more freedom, more life.
‘Well?’ David asked after.
‘Unbelievable,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘Enjoyed it?’
‘I loved it. I absolutely loved it. It was amazing.’
He smiled. ‘I’m thrilled you enjoyed it. Well, now you know everything about me!’ He looked around the room. ‘This is basically what I do, what I love to do. The day job pays the bills and the night job fuels a passion.’
‘Promise you’ll never stop. Never ever.’
‘Ha! Brought you over to the dark side already, have I?’
‘Yes, in the first five seconds! I’m being serious though. This is you. It’s what you’re meant to do. Anyone can see that. And…’
‘And?’
‘And people eventually end up doing what they’re meant to do. Well, at least that’s what I believe. It takes some people a lifetime to figure out what that is. So, if you’ve found it already, I hope you never stop.’ She shrugged.
David cocked his head slightly, then nodded. ‘I like that idea, that people eventually end up doing what they’re meant to do. It’s a nice thought. Though you know, I’m not sure I could ever stop. It’s like a hunger, an itch. Life without music seems almost too unbearable to contemplate.’ He reached for her hand and held it, caressing the top of her palm with his thumb. ‘But the main thing,’ he said, ‘is that you enjoyed yourself.’
‘Hey,’ she said suddenly, ‘can I ask you something? I’m sorry if it’s ignorant of me.’
‘Yes of course, don’t be silly.’
‘So, you’re playing, and there’s the melody, right, and then under that, the beat. So, as a listener, I find the beat and then I hold it and I start to listen for it, but then it goes off, like I’m here in this one place, and then all of a sudden, I’m somewhere else. Why does it go off-beat like that?’
‘Syncopation?’
‘Oopsie!’
‘What?’
‘Not another technical term! Remember I’m the uncultured one who has never heard jazz before, never listened to an orchestra before… just like you said, the original vestal virgin if ever there was one!’
His face fell instantly. ‘Ameena, I never meant it like that. I don’t think of you as uncultured at all.’
But she only laughed. ‘I’m pulling your leg, silly. I’m English. Every time we open our mouths, we’re trying our damnedest to be funny.’
But David still looked so sorrowful that Ameena reached across and kissed him quickly on the cheek. ‘I’m joking. I promise.’
She nodded as she saw the muscles on his face ease. ‘I promise,’ she said again with her most convincing solemn face. Then she lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘In fact, don’t tell anyone but as of the last count, I have eleven unclaimed children of various ages scattered all over the British Isles.’
‘Okay shut up,’ he said jokingly, and his dimple gradually reappeared in a way that Ameena found incredibly attractive, ‘and listen to me.’
‘Listening!’
‘So, in very simple terms, syncopation is a disruption of the regular flow of rhythm, a kind of deliberate shifting of the beat, so when I play, I stress the “upbeats”, and to the listener, the melody feels “off” and kind of swinging – just like you said.’
‘Yes, I wasn’t expecting it
– it threw me off.’
He shook his head. ‘No, it threw you on!’
He stood up then and motioned towards the piano. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘let me show you. It’s easier if I just demonstrate. Walk with me to the piano for a second. Don’t worry, no one will care.’
They walked to the stage and David sat down at the piano with a kind of easy elegance, Ameena noticed, a beauty of line, like it belonged there, his body, on that piano bench.
‘Listen,’ he said. He played a tune. ‘This is Mozart.’ He stopped and looked up at her, then he closed his eyes. ‘Now listen. This is Thelonious Monk.’ A few minutes later, he lifted his fingers off the piano and opened his eyes. ‘You hear the difference?’
She smiled. ‘Yes, you’re right, that second tune threw me on!’
‘Yup,’ David said. ‘Syncopation in music is kind of like a stylistic device in literature – humour or a twist – it lifts the writing, makes it more colourful, more imaginative. Similar kind of thing. When the rhythm gets loose, it adds depth and brightness to the music, makes it come alive. That’s why jazz is so great, and so playful. And so human in a way, if you consider that humans are inherently unpredictable and quirky!’
‘And that comes from?’
‘Like its genesis, you wanna know?’
‘Yeah! I’m interested.’
David laughed. ‘Ameena, this can get very detailed, and I don’t think you want a history lesson, but the quick answer is that syncopation came from Africa. Mainly West Africa… Senegambia, Benin, Cameroon, the Congo. And then, for historical reasons it developed in the Caribbean… Haiti, Cuba… and also simultaneously in Brazil. So, in the jazz idiom, syncopation is deep-rooted in African music, partly derived from Afro-Caribbean dance rhythms, partly from African drumming. When we go home tonight, remind me, and we can listen to some West African drummers, you’ll be able to hear it rhythmically straight away. Those musicians might improvise for hours on end making subtle changes to the accents, and the enormous varieties of syncopation are the entire point – the thing that makes your body move and your mind enter trance.’
‘So, then you’d hear syncopation in non-jazz, African-influenced music too, right?’
‘Right. You’d hear it in Caribbean music… hip hop, rap… yeah, basically, all African-rooted musics… R’n’B, Michael Jackson, Stevie Wonder, soul. And in jazz, because it’s improvised, and because for better or worse it’s always trying to be “hip”, there’s syncopation going on literally every second.’
Ameena nodded. She studied David’s face, how his eyebrows actually jumped as he spoke, a physical demonstration of passion, if such a thing existed.
And he looked at her, listening to him the way she was, her brown eyes wide with genuine curiosity and he felt a sudden sense of fulfilment – the joy of loving someone who gets why you love what you love.
‘You should teach…’ she said warmly, as they made their way back to the table together, ‘you’re amazing. You explain it so well.’
‘It’s not me. It’s the music.’
Ameena nodded. ‘I understand. It’s so rich and varied, the story of this music… so beautiful.’ She smiled then and it was disarming, both her smile and the honesty of what she said next. ‘I didn’t know any of that, and I bet that’s not even scratching the surface. I guess it’s what makes you a jazz musician, an appreciation for the history of something beyond just its practice.’
He shrugged one shoulder in that non-committal way she had learned he did when he didn’t quite agree with you. ‘I’m not exactly going to dispute that, but I’m not sure, you know, I don’t feel like I’m at that place yet, to be able to claim true jazz musicianship status.’
She frowned. ‘Which is what, exactly?’
He sighed. ‘It’s complicated. In music circles, we talk about soul – what kind of soul do you need to have to play jazz?’
‘What kind of soul do you need to have… I love that.’
He stood up. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I started off saying I didn’t want to give you a history lesson and I think that’s exactly what I’ve done. Anyway, they’re about to start the second set and you’re supposed to say, “That handsome, dashing guy up there on the piano” – my good buddy Aaron, by the way – “is nowhere near as handsome and dashing as you, David, or as talented or gifted or comes even close to possessing enough soul to explain what it means to syncopate a rhythm…” Can I get you another drink?’
‘David…?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I want to get out of here.’
‘Are you bored?’
‘No. I want to syncopate with your jazz soul.’
1.27
On an ordinary Wednesday morning at approximately 10am, a scene was unfolding in the conference room of Ameena’s workplace:
‘What kind of name is Ameena Hamid? What kind of question is that, Bob?’ Whitney Kym was speaking across the table to Bob Hunter, Press Relations Officer for a major international fashion house. Her thin brows were so tightly drawn they seemed almost joined together in one neat, perfectly straight line.
Bob was there to discuss the specifics of an exclusive awarded to the magazine, which would cover a preview of their upcoming fall line. A few minutes earlier, Whitney had explained that given the high-profile nature of the project, she had given the brief to one of her most skilled and savvy writers.
‘What’s her name?’ Bob had asked casually, biting into his oatmeal raisin cookie.
‘Ameena Hamid,’ Whitney had replied.
And Bob Hunter had spat at least a few of the raisins out.
‘What kind of name is Ameena Hamid?’ he had asked.
And Whitney had responded with her displeasure drawn on her forehead. And thrown the question back at him.
Slowly, Bob reached for a napkin while he collected his thoughts.
‘It’s just that, you know,’ he said, gathering the now-moist cookie crumbs with his index finger and carefully guiding them into the mouth of the napkin that he had folded into a kind of pyramidical receptacle, ‘people read you. People read you and buy us. That’s the point.’
‘Yes.’ Whitney nodded. ‘With you so far.’
‘So…’
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t want people to read you and not buy us. See?’
‘No, actually. I do not see.’
‘Well, I’ll speak plainly then. The thing is, with it being written by someone so distinctly Moslem-sounding…’
‘Jesus, Bob.’
‘Sorry Whitney, but fashion, as you of all people know, is about perception and positioning. I mean, we are after all, the House of— well, you know who we are, brandishing the name about would be crass. The point is that we cater to, shall we say, a more discerning segment of society.’
‘How come you don’t have a problem with me?’
‘Well, you run the place for starters, secondly when is the last time China attacked America on American soil and thirdly, you went to Stanford, your English is better than mine.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Bob, my grandparents were Korean.’ Whitney tilted her head and nodded a few times. Then, with her head still tilted and a strange glint in her eyes, she said, ‘You’re worried about her grammar?’
‘Well, yes, there’s that. Partly. I mean, at the very least I was hoping you’d have given it to someone for whom English isn’t a foreign language.’
Whitney smiled and reached for the phone in the middle of the table, pressed a button and spoke directly into the intercom. ‘Ameena, can you come in here for a second please? The conference room, yes.’
Bob Hunter’s face registered pure panic. His eyes grew wide, magnifying both the quantity and the quality of the lines that framed them like rays. White faces age so horribly, Whitney thought to herself, divine karma, this business of looking seventy w
hen you’re fifty.
‘Uh, Whitney, what are you doing?’ Bob was saying nervously.
‘Dispelling your worries. Mostly.’
‘Look, please, that’s not necessary. I’m sure we can sort this out… between us, I mean. We are friends, after all, I’ve known you now, what, ten years…’
But Ameena was already at the door and Whitney motioned for her to come in.
‘Ameena,’ she said smoothly, ‘Bob here is worried that his fall preview brief might be too much for you to handle.’
Ameena smiled. ‘I assure you Mr Hunter, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. I’ve already started thinking about how we can play with the writing in a way that sets you instantly apart from everybody else in the space. The piece will be as sophisticated and unique as your collection.’
A somewhat shell-shocked Bob looked up at Ameena, then at Whitney and then back to Ameena again.
‘You’re… uh… you’re English?’
‘Yup,’ Ameena said, her smile intact, ‘like the language.’
On the same Wednesday, at evening rush hour, a scene was unfolding on the curb off the Princess Parkway–Wilbraham Road junction in Manchester:
Yusuf scratched his beard with his left hand; his right hand was steadily on the wheel. He was driving Kareem home from university where, unbeknownst to Zoya, he had been summoned to ‘have a chat’ with his son’s academic advisor.
‘The fact of the matter is, Mr Hamid,’ the advisor had started to say... he pronounced the name HAM-ID like the cut of pork, followed by a short, staccato ‘id’, a particularly ironic Anglicism of his last name, Yusuf had always thought... ‘The fact of the matter, as it were, is that it is perhaps the prerogative of young people to rally around a cause they believe in, it gives them a sense of purpose, you see – a narrative, so to speak. And Palestine is clearly a very important narrative for him, uh, for you all. So, I am not, as it were, entirely unsympathetic.