With retirement approaching, a myriad of choices tempt me. Were it not for the restraining order, believe me, I’d be spending lots of time at the Current’s office. Still, I’ve kept busy. I’ve already organized my medicine cabinet, labeled finger and toe nail clippers so as not to confuse them, alphabetized my sea shells, tested all the fire extinguishers, smoke and carbon monoxide detectors, polished the doorknobs, trimmed the hair around my nipples, and wiped away the fingerprints from when I do pushups against the wall because I can no longer do regular ones on the floor.
I’m clearing away all this stuff because it’s time I focused on my true destiny – sax man. Can anyone seriously challenge the point the saxophone is the single most erotic musical instrument ever invented?
Please don’t offer guitar. Truthfully, most guitarists are insecure suburbanites who couldn’t turn the double play. They evolve into scraggly, hunched, serious young men who sit on uncomfortable stools in half-empty clubs, competing with three TVs showing World Cup soccer, moaning about getting dumped by Selene, a mergers and acquisitions specialist.
Piano? Too refined. Drums? No subtlety. Clarinet? Don’t make me smack you. Who among you has not stopped dead in his tracks, mesmerized by a street sax man playing for tips, soaring notes above the skyline? Yes, you blush and hide your arousal, close your eyes, think raw soul. Every feral riff excites you more until you hesitate to reach for your wallet, fearful you will climax right there in the front of Tower Records on 66th Street. Uh, not that it happened to me. I’m just generalizing.
As much as I respect the soprano and alto sax, it’s the tenor that I must learn. Ah, the full, muscular tones of the tenor sax. I once saw the great Richard Elliot perform, was shocked to discover he’s actually a little guy. On record he sounds like a power forward, and indeed, when he circulated through the audience, that tenor seemed to add six inches height.
Adrian Brody could never play sax. Mickey Rourke and James Earl Jones, however, are metaphorically sax men. Presence, it’s all about presence. Deadwood is a saxophone show. Frasier is a harpsichord. And if a woman plays – Mindy Abair and Candy Dulfer to name two – the erotic quotient triples. My dream fantasy is listening to Charlize Theron, wearing those skintight white pants from Three Days in the Valley, play tenor sax while getting splattered by the Hudson River at the edge of Sinatra Park at dusk.
I have to stop here and…rearrange my sock drawer. Do some lip exercises. Wriggle my fingers. Think rivers of growling melody. Become Sonny Rollins. – Joe Del Priore