SONNY CLARK versus COMISKI PARK WEST COAST IPA

I’d like to very insincerely welcome you to a new feature, brought to you by the good folks at THE OWL HEAD SHOE HORN.

This is JAZZ VERSUS A BEVERAGE.

Each installment promises a sort of shootout between a jazz record and a cup of something. If you’re thinking, “You goofy bastard, that doesn’t make any sense,” you’re on the right track.

Tonight’s matchup: Sonny Clark’s untitled and/or eponymous 1958 Blue Note album versus some random IPA brewed in Chicago. I can’t tell you more than that about the IPA; I threw away the can. It was a colorful can and it said something about Comiskey Park. Narrow it down from there, you god damned detective.

(Note: In my memory, the Sox stadium was Comiskey Park, not Comiski Park. Explain yourself, beer. And/or send me more beer so I can better assess the situation.)

Sonny Clark won the coin toss, so here we go. I’ll Remember April, as presented here by Mr. Clark, is the song I’d like played at my funeral. Am I serious about that? Not sure. Will I have a funeral? Will I die? Maybe? Maybe? Probably not in that order?

This record brings to mind textures. Wool, but not the itchy kind. Not cashmere, no. Just a nice wool, not too pricey but one that will be with you till the end of your days (when they’ll play Sonny Clark). It’s an old fishing sweater found in an attic, and it was worn by your Scandinavian fishing boat captain grandfather. It smells of salty air and frigid water, salty water and frigid air. Your grandfather was a badass, it seems.

This is a solid record, like a solid table. Beautifully made, but not beautiful. Your kids could set their shoes on it and that would be just fine. More function than form. It’s a record that would play nicely during a cribbage game at the cottage on a good hot summer night. You’d tell the whippoorwills to shut the hell up and show some respect for Sonny and his compadres, Paul Chambers on bass and “Philly” Joe Jones on the drums.  

Hold on now, the beer wishes to speak. This beer has impressed me before but tonight tastes a little like bug spray and is making me sort of sick. I know that sounds like match-point for the Sonny Clark record, but let’s not be so hasty.

Is there more here than meets the eye?

The record and the beer can have wildly colorful designs. So clearly they are in cahoots. Or, more to the point, the universe isn’t messing around. When I started writing this I was just funnin’ (Tombstone reference), but look at the can design and the record cover; this is somewhere between uncanny and downright creepy.     

So now it’s official: this beer and this record were brought together tonight by divine providence.

Now here’s a point for the beer: you can’t call a song “Softly As In A Morning Sunrise.” Why? you ask? Because we don’t go for redundancy in these parts, and there are no sunrises that don’t happen in the morning. Right? Am I right?

Ah, but Mr. Clark wishes to interject. Look at the copy on the beer can, he says. It reads MEN WITH NO PANTS FIGHTING FOR A BEER. What the hell is that all about? Is that some kind of clever easter egg marketing bullshit? Maybe I play songs with redundant titles, but at least I don’t traffic in dumb marketing stuff.

This beer has a lot going against it and is officially on the ropes. It’s tasting a bit like DEEPWOODS OFF with DEET and it has some kind of clever insider-y copy on the can that makes me feel like I’m not cool enough to be in on the joke. Probably only White Sox fans get it. White Sox fans are preferable to Cubs fans. These are just some facts.  

Sonny doesn’t make me feel bad, unless you consider that he plays I’LL REMEMBER APRIL so beautifully that it makes me picture my own death. But I mean that in a good way, so…

There’s something about piano trios. It’s such a solid unit, one of nature’s most perfect constructs. When a pianist, a bassist, and a drummer get together, and someone is rolling tape, and it’s before 1970, good things will happen. Ahmad Jamal. Bill Evans. Red Garland. Sonny Clark.

This feature wasn’t meant to be unhinged and dumb. It started as an earnest self-imposed writing exercise; I’d brew a good cup of single-origin coffee and drink it while listening to a good record and write about how the two sensory experiences intermingled. It’s a shame that the first entry happens on a Friday night after an exhausting week. I wrote a few earlier in the week that might be worthwhile. Maybe I’ll publish them some day.

For now you get this. I’ve moved on to drinking water and listening to Ahmad Jamal At The Pershing. That’s a matchup for another day. Water is hard to beat, but Ahmad Jamal is one bad dude. Stay tuned.