The Devil's Horn

March 18 2020

The thing I like most about the saxophone

is how it bends a note,

more like giving voice

than following a score.

And the shape of the instrument

some call the devil's horn,

all sensuous and sinuous

in its smooth suggestive curves

and softly glittering gold.

And then, how it's held.

More caressed than gripped

and fingered oh-so teasingly,

standing loose-hipped and louche

and rocking back and forth

as if lost in the music.

Classical composers avoided it,

as if it were a snake in the grass

that might contaminate the orchestra.

While rock knew how to riff

and jazz made sax its own.

The perfect instrument

for bluesy laments

and ballads of longing and loss.

If only I could be as cool

as a jazz saxophonist.

I would sport a beret

and grow a funky beard

and wear sunglasses indoors.

Instead, I sit at my keyboard and type,

in tattered slippers

and mismatched socks,

unflattering pyjamas

the could use a good wash.

I cannot coax out a note.

But easy jazz

is playing softly in the background

and I've surrendered to its spell.

First a plaintive voice

full of pathos and hurt.

Then an alto sax, playing all alone.

It goes from a pure sweet sound

to a reedy growl

and then a minor note,

lovingly bent

and breathlessly held.

Who doesn't want to be a cool saxophonist? (Pronounced “saxahhhphonist”; especially as it appears in this poem, where it resonates so nicely with “loss”, not to mention “socks” and “wash”.)

Even me, someone who has a tin ear and can't hold a tune, let alone play an instrument. I think I got as far as a very halting rendition of Twinkle twinkle little star... on the recorder in grade 3. In middle school, back in the day when they actually taught music and had school bands, I was relegated to vocal class. And even there, eventually instructed to stand in the back row and mouth the words.

But even a musical half-wit can appreciate and enjoy music. I love jazz, and especially jazz saxophone. Like the cello, my other favourite instrument, it seems to come closest to the human voice. What a perfect compliment to the plaintive restraint of Billy Holiday, or the effortless mastery of Ella Fitzgerald. I can only envy the cool jazz saxophonist, performing his magic before a crowd of adoring fans. (I might have just as well said “her magic”; except that for whatever reason, it seems most saxophonists are men. At least for now.)

And any time I can shoehorn into a poem a wonderful word like “louche”, it's worth doing no matter how lame it turns out.