I remember a photo of Jerry Seinfeld and Larry David—I think I saw it in Rolling Stone—sitting at their desks. I don’t know if it was staged or if it was a candid rendering of their work space, but the desks were facing each other and surrounded by, on Jerry’s side, Mets pennants and memorabilia, and, on Larry’s, Yankees paraphernalia, each wearing the respective team’s cap, or something to that effect. I’ve searched the internet for this picture with no luck, but the image has stayed with me.
At my parent’s house, in the front room, there is a game table with an insert that has a chess board on one side and backgammon on the other, with the chess side set up, and all of the pieces out. Since I’ve adopted the table to write, the once-set-up game has retreated further and further from where I set up the laptop that my mom’s elementary school has lent to her, and which she hasn’t needed since she bought herself another one for Christmas. The increasing notes and stacks of books referenced indiscriminately down pawns and knights in an ever-degenerating game. The table faces my father’s adjoining study that is separated by a somewhat see-through screen that my mom bought to keep his mess out of view. His desk in turn faces me and always reminds me of that photo.
This arrangement necessitates that we listen to the same thing: if I’m listening to the stereo in the front of the house he can’t very well listen to the jazz program on KUSP in the other room. One night I was listening to the Don’t Cry Now Linda Ronstadt album that I found at the dump, wanting to listen to her version of “Desperado” to better understand why it’s so funny that Elaine’s boyfriend can’t share his song with her, and that the song is about a “desperado” whose “prison is walking through this world all alone” and who “better let somebody love [him] before it’s too late.” However, when I went to flip the record my father objected to listening to anymore Linda Ronstadt, and insisted that we listen to Benny Goodman. Needless to say I was not very happy to quit what I was doing and shift to white people jazz from the ‘30s.
It did not dawn on me that I should let go of my personal stake in a song, stop ridin’ fences, and join in my father’s musical enthusiasm, appreciating that he’s making an effort to share something with me—in short, let somebody love me—but this Desperado did not come to his senses. I went back to reading Seinfeld: Master of its Domain and, while we listened to Benny Goodman’s performance at Carnegie Hall, I thought about listening to Linda Ronstadt. When the CD was over we chatted about its merits and my Dad insisted that tomorrow we listen to the second CD—the songs with the whole band—when we could play it louder.
The concert in 1937 was apparently the first time that a jazz band played in Carnegie Hall and was an incredible event. It was recorded by a single microphone and two copies were made: one for the Library of Congress and another that was forgotten until it was found by Benny Goodman’s daughter in 1950. When we got to the 15 minute version of “Sing, Sing, Sing” my dad told me that in 1988, for the fiftieth anniversary of the concert, KUSP had a show in which they played the whole concert with all of their jazz DJs discussing the tracks, and that when they got to “Sing, Sing, Sing” they played it three times. He also said that after the concert that night the band went on to play more shows, each being a kind of contest, and won them all.
My parents had a party a few days ago so I had to move my things out of the front room. The computer is on my bed and my father is asleep.
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