Reedman’s Lament
For Michael Brecker (1949-2007)

Old reed, caked with sweat,
you were my second tongue
I practiced every night upon.
Each night I’d lick your splayed, misshapen body
‘till you softened and sang sweet.

Once, I admit, after onions and garlic,
I laid you in my ligature and blew.
You recoiled– and called me crude.
Still, it was a memory we shared–
an interlude that passed between us.

It is true, old reed, that I knew you
mostly in nuance, lost in the warm familiar
lay of my lips, feathering each burst of breath,
a quaver of frail consistency
that slurred what I slurred,
tongued what I tongued,
screamed what I screamed.

Until I drove you past your final measure, it seems,
when chipped and split at both ends
you could no longer carry quality,
and I began, old reed, to nurse another
of your kind to life, and so linked
in the image of your lost legato-kiss,
uttered, out of love,
the sweet quake of silence.

Some so called “jazz purists” have criticized Mike because he refused to reject pop music—he played it—legitimately liked the best in it—and could even adapt his playing to fit what the current style demanded –
And of course, Mike made money by playing on pop records. Mike was one of the most called for studio musicians—
Mike once confessed to me--- how depressing, at times, the demands could be—And that confession inspired this next poem.
The Muse of the Studio Musician

Two things first --(a click trick—sets the pulse, the rhythm of the tune—like a metronome you hear in your headphones—but which is not recorded on the track_
“Screams” are those super high, harmonic wails that saxophone players love to produce—and we love to hear . . . and that Mike mastered—some four octaves above what the horn is supposed to produce
Here’s the poem--

The Muse of the Studio Musician

--for Michael Brecker (1949-2007)


On his lips splayed a chorus
of incantatory honking,
reed_kissed Lydian tongues
that blue notes begged the ear for,
until the digital clicktrack disappeared
and the headphone heartbeat
could not shadow his scales,
and he went deaf with disco,
damned by the artless riffs of memory,
depressed by the way they played his fingers,
forgetting the upper registers of madness
held forever,
screams
only his horn would remember.

Maker-Taker
In fond memory of Michael Brecker
(1949-2007)
Barry Strutt © Used by permission.

The sun was out; the air, cool and crisp. It was a perfect fall morning; a Bloomington morning. Mike and I cut across one of the outdoor basketball courts that framed Wendell Wilkie Quadrangle. We had just come from the towering v-shaped building behind us: our white-washed, high-rise, industrial strength dorm which at the time discreetly housed its fair share of a very bloated freshman class. The morning papers had predicted, once again, (correctly as it turned out), that by the end of their first semester, thousands upon thousands of Indiana’s latest favored sons—admitted under, shall we say, very relaxed in-state standards—would lose their academic bearings along with their student deferments, and suddenly find themselves on their way to Saigon.
Our gait was purposeful, confident, and yet somehow relaxed. We were on our way to the Commons. I would say on our way to the library to study, but somehow that doesn’t sound right. It was Saturday morning and this was the sixties. The Commons meant food, shelter, and a multiplicity of planned and unplanned diversions. I should say, however, for the sake of historical accuracy, that the court complex we cut across was but one of the many, many outdoor courts that dotted the I.U. campus because this was, after all, Indiana, circa 1967.
Ah yes, those constellations of b-ball courts. Those Midwestern City fathers thought of everything—and faithfully followed through with the really important stuff. In the Midwest, form, it seemed, always followed function. High-rise dorms and endless, rectangular patches of basketball courts. Basketball, you see, wasn’t just big here, it was worshiped, glorified, adored—close to god I’d say. (God, in the image of Bobby Knight’s soon to become (flabby) flesh hadn’t arrived yet; but He was coming. He was still at Army then, plebe-bashing, tuning up his screeching assault to ensure that one day, he would be up to the task of pummeling all of us civilians, senseless.)
How big was basketball in Hoosierville back then? Let’s put it this way: where else would the proprietor of a downtown movie theater deign to interrupt its feature presentation (I think it was “Georgy Girl” with Lynn Redgrave and Alan Bates)—by picking up a microphone and actually drowning out the dialogue in order to announce the half-time score of the high school state championship game? Hey, form follows function. What else were those movie-house public address systems for? I am completely serious. Not only did the patrons not complain, there was a thirty-second spontaneous celebration as the reel rolled on—movie dilettantes be damned. I am certain that even today, most of the audience could tell you the teams that played that year and maybe even the score—but they would remember nothing of the actors or the movie itself. (I offer this straight-forward account without even a shimmer of exaggeration: Mike and I were witnesses to the event—but I digress.)
Don’t worry, I am getting to the plot. As Mike and I crossed the courts, two guys in crimson, I.U. sweatshirts were playing one-on-one at the far end. They glanced over, gave us the once-over, then turned around and snickered, muttering something under their breath—something along the lines of “damn long-hairs,” or some idiosyncratic Midwestern slur. They said it loud enough for us to hear of course. I might have let it go, but the air felt so good—and I was feeling it. I looked at Mike. “You play?” I asked. “Yeah, some,” he said. I looked down and saw he was wearing green Dingo boots. (If you don’t know, don’t ask. Just google it. Try: dingo boots fashion 1966 .) I frowned. “Wanna play now?” I asked. Mike cast his eyes downward. “Yeah, all right,” he said. “Just get me the ball,” I said cockily. (After all, I had the sneakers.)
“Maker-taker?” I called out as we walked back towards our opponents. They looked startled and more than a little puzzled—East-coast hippies . . . playing basketball—challenging us?? (For the uninitiated, “maker-taker” means that whenever a basket is made, the team that makes it takes the ball out again instead of giving it to the other side.)
“Yeah, okay,” the taller one said, laughing a little as he tossed me the ball: a two-handed bullet of a chest pass meant to punish me. I caught it easily, dribbled twice and held it against my hip. “Game to 11, by ones,” I said, showing him I knew the local rules. “Shoot for first outs,” I asked, advancing towards the foul line. “Nah, you can have it out,” he said. “Gee, thanks,” I said, doing my best to project Jimmy Stewart sincerity. Big mistake, I thought: maker-taker—you might not get it back. I was feeling it.
Mike and I were both a skinny 6’3”, and we had about three inches on each of these guys—but we were, after all, long-haired “hippies” from back East— and they were both clean-cut, well-nourished Indiana farm boys—dressed for the occasion. Mike went to the post and pivoted. I tossed him the ball and drifted outside. The guy didn’t even bother to cover me. Mike passed the ball back. I took an eighteen-foot jumper. K-ching. Nothing but net. (Ugly sound, that outdoor net—it was made of metal. But it sounded sweet to me.) The corners of Mike’s mouth moved almost imperceptibly, a kind of repressed, Clint Eastwood semi-smile. I handed the ball to the guy who was guarding me. “Check.” He flipped it back to me. I started inside, then dribbled far outside. He let me go again—token pressure—“matador defense” Knick-great Walt Clyde Frazier might have described it from the commentator’s booth twenty-years later. I dribbled to the top of the circle and shot. Same result. K-ching.
Their demeanor changed. The guy guarding Mike grimaced. “Come on,” he said, chiding his partner. They started to play better defense now. I wasn’t sure if Mike could move at all in his boots, but somehow he did, gracefully. After I had made four straight, I tossed the ball to Mike. Mike faked a pass to me, pivoted, and hit a nice little 12 footer from about the foul line. I smiled—a little surprised myself. He can play, I thought. This is going to be fun. (You see the absurdity here: me, surprised that Mike can play!) Things got serious now—a little pushing and shoving, but basically clean, hard basketball. Good fundamental basketball. Give-and-go, bounce passes, block-outs, screens. Mike and I were in sync and having fun—game faces, of course—always—earning grudging respect—making the Quad safe for hippies.
I think we were up 8- zip before they got a rebound. Still, this was Indiana basketball. No taunting in those days—by either side—just serious competition. The ball changed hands, and they scored three or four in a row. Now we had the ball again. I hit a ridiculously long one—and then missed an easy one that Mike rebounded and put back. That was ten. “Game point”, I announced, matter-of-factly. I tossed the ball to Mike and cut to the basket. Classic give-and-go. Mike faked a return pass, pivoted gracefully and shot. Somehow he got it off cleanly under serious pressure with only a four-inch vertical leap—in heels. It teetered on the front of the rim momentarily, then fell in. Soft shot, shooter’s touch. “Game,” I said. We all shook hands, and the I.U.s gave us a respectful little nod. Mike and I just grinned—all the way to the Commons.
We shot around together from time to time after that, but I don’t think we ever played competitively again. It was the sixties and things were going communal, getting crazier by the day. When Mike’s “sweet little jump shot” was recalled at the memorial service—I smiled knowingly. I remembered that shot.
And at the shiva, Susan, Mike’s wife, told me the story of how in early adolescence, Mike’s parents had sent him, without prior consultation, to a basketball camp. Mike was totally bewildered at the time. A sports camp? That was the last place in the world he wanted to be. Mike had bumbled his way through camp and received the good sportsmanship award—the good sportsmanship award?? Good grief! That meant you can’t play a lick but thanks for coming and being a nice kid, staying under the radar and not causing any trouble. Mike responded to the perceived slight by helping his next door neighbor—along with his Irish Catholic brood of at least eight—almost a squad unto themselves—build an outdoor court. Over the next year daily practice followed. Jump shot after jump shot—move after move—bank shots, wrap-arounds, honing his technique. He was obsessed with getting better. And I can tell you he didn’t overlook the unglamorous side either—he played some good defense that day too. Hard work, practice, dedication, artistry. (Sound familiar?). I am told that the next summer he earned several awards and made his mark at the camp as a genuine player.
As I grew to know Mike better, I realized that while Mike could be fiercely competitive, it was for the most part, inwardly directed. And Mike was so innately gentle and considerate of others, that what emerged and what Mike transparently displayed was an unrelentingly hypercritical attitude that was always directed at his perceived shortcomings of his own talents and performances. There was not an ounce of braggadocio in Mike. But with all his great talent, he not only never made you feel small, he went out of his way to make you feel important—and that what you were doing was important. The world could do a lot worse than wanting to be like Mike.
After I.U., we went our separate ways, but we always kept up. I’d bump into Mike at a woodwind repair shop: “You’re playing now?” (Mike had encouraged me to play at a time I had given it up). “Amazing!” Or maybe at a concert in Portland, Oregon, or Kalamazoo, Michigan, or on the streets of New York. “You’re writing? Let me read something. You’re a lawyer now too? You continue to amaze!” At the right moment I might summon the courage to share some of my writings and music with Mike, and he was always open and receptive to my pedestrian efforts. With others, Mike was always supportive, never (unjustly) critical.
Over the years, Mike would make a game out of our “parallel lives” as he put it. We were both from southeastern Pennsylvania, born the same year about two months apart. We recalled the same toys, quizzing each other on forgotten details. Then there was the woodwind thing: the progression from clarinet, to alto, to tenor saxophone—the soprano came later. We’d laugh when not having seen each other for some time we’d discover out of the blue that we were both reading “The Unbearable Lightness of Being” or some other timely work of fiction. We were both surprised when we learned each of us had settled in Westchester and were once again living not far from one another. In our forties we talked about our bad knees, receding hairlines, and our love for our families.
Over the forty years that I knew Mike, from time-to-time we would re-visit our unexpected, serendipitous victory that crisp, fall day, and as time passed we both realized and embraced its real importance as simply a good-day shared with a good friend.
In September 2006 we had a 40th I.U. reunion of sorts, a few good friends visiting with him at his home in Hastings-on-the-Hudson. Time stopped. His basement studio became a dorm room again and we all shared, philosophized, and simply reminisced. At one point Mike picked up the EWI and gave us a private concert, triggering some amazing looped sounds from a bank of G-4 Macs as accompaniment as he soared solo as only Michael Brecker could. Thankfully, it was a good day for Mike, one of the few truly good days since his illness I am told.
We drew closer after that and shared a lot of e-mails towards the end. I have a return e-mail from Mike three days before his death. His thoughtful and generous expressions of our lasting friendship at a time when I now fully realize that he had to be in constant and increasingly unbearable pain, is something I will always cherish. By chance, the memorial service was held on my birthday, January 15th. Parallel lives.
I really loved the guy. I will miss him always.

Mike’s Rat

In fond memory of Michael Brecker
(1949-2007)
Barry Strutt © Used by permission.


You may have heard of Schrodinger’s Cat—a very hypothetical cat—but that’s neither here nor there. Schordinger’s cat is a conceptual construct meant to illustrate a puzzling paradox of theoretical physics. In quantum mechanics theory, as best as I can understand it in non-mathematical terms, which is also neither here not there, “indeterminacy”, among other things, ultimately posits that there can be more than one “correct” answer to a “theoretical” problem which physically—in the “real” world—can necessarily have only one answer. Because of the design parameters—Schrodinger’s cat turns out to be both dead and alive at the same time as it (apparently) “rests” inside a hypothetical box—until disturbed by ones “perception” of it. (Some say Schrodinger’s idea was to graphically illustrate that the so-called indeterminacy principle simply didn’t translate from the molecular level to the macro level of reality). If any of this makes sense to you, you’re probably lying, or you’re in an altered state yourself, or maybe you’re just helping me get on with it. In any event, I thank you for the indulgence.
Moving along, my remembrance of Michael Brecker involves the illustration of a different sort of paradox—perhaps more of a parable than a paradox. Let’s just call it—Mike’s Rat.
Mike and I were both taking Experimental Psychology at I.U. It must have been around 1966-67. Each of us had temporary custody of our own “lab rat.” (A hamster might be more accurate, not to mention politically correct—but since it’s Schrodinger’s Cat, it’s going to be Mike’s Rat.)
No one else was supposed to interact with the rat assigned to you—at least not during the hours you were supposed to be in the lab, shaping its behavior. Basically the rats were doing time in a Skinner Box—a shiny, steel cage the size and conditions of which—as I recall—were pretty grim—from the rat’s point of view at least. I use the word “grim” perhaps only because Mike saw it that way early-on, and his sensibilities influenced mine. (Remember this was long before PETA had become a household name, or animal rights, a cause celebre. Rats were our slaves, we, their scientific masters. Mike, as we shall see, opposed this received order of relationships: he virtually adopted his.)
There was a long metal lever, one end of which protruded outside the cage, while the other extended inside—piercing the rat’s living room. The lever was lightweight and responsive, so that the rat was physically capable of depressing its tipped end with its paw, see-sawing its opposite end upwards, sending it clattering against the cage. The goal of the experiment was to train your rat to “learn” that by depressing the lever all the way down, it would be rewarded with food or water. We were supposed to shape the rat’s behavior—encouraging it via a series of positive reinforcements to first approach the lever, and then over time, to actually bang on it.
Not a whole lot to look forward to—for rat or student. Let’s just say Mike was not a big fan of behaviorism. For one thing, the Clockwork Orange sessions were interminably boring. Mike didn’t like intruding on the rat’s world—and more than once he expressed his concern to me about how his rat was doing—physically and emotionally. At one point, we had to turn in some lab work, graphing the rat’s progress, and Mike and I had gotten together, going over our data. Mike’s data was all over the place. At first his rat appeared to be catching on—then, according to the data—one day it just stopped banging on its lever.
What was going on? “I- I don’t know”, he said, feigning complete bewilderment. I had already discovered that when Mike confessed sheepishly not to know something, the game was usually afoot. Mike loved to learn, and he also loved to learn what you knew—really knew—about something. He found, I think, that he could learn more by first professing not to know anything at all about whatever it was we were talking about. There was nothing devious about Mike or his methodology. Nor was he engaging in a game of one-upsmanship—but he could be dumb like a fox. And on this occasion, I began to smell a rat.
I was immediately skeptical that Mike didn’t really understand what the data was supposed to show or how to graph the intended result even as I played along, telling him everything I knew about behaviorism. So, at the end of my prattling, I pressed him a little. (Most people would have just fudged the data, but that’s another issue for another day.)
At first, Mike claimed to be bewildered by the results. He and the rat had gotten on wonderfully at first. (I am certain he had named his beady-eyed pal, but looking back some forty years, the name escapes me). In any event, the rat had seemed eager to press the lever—which, of course, pleased Mike. It hadn’t been scared off by the annoying clanging noise the lever made, or gotten its tongue caught in the tip of the lever (experiment over!). But then . . . Mike shrugged. “I just don’t think the rat wants to do it —press the lever.” Mike always expected more out of whatever he was engaged in, and I suspected that he just assumed that his rat held the same world-view.
It soon emerged, upon gentle cross-examination, that early-on Mike’s experimental psych sessions had morphed into mutual play sessions. Mike was trying to make his partner’s dreary existence a little more interesting, and had invented a number of play activities that were clearly not within the design parameters. (This guy is never going to be a scientist, I thought—pretty perceptive, huh?) Nevertheless, at first Mike’s avant garde approach actually seemed to be working—the rat was actively engaged—as attested to by the data. In the end, however, Mike’s improvisations appeared to be counter-productive, at odds with the strict behaviorism principles the experiment had been designed to illustrate. In other words, the rat had taken advantage of Mike’s empathetic nature and was shaping Mike’s behavior. Hey, if you have to do time, who wouldn’t rather be treated like a pet than an inmate? No paradox for Mike. His rat wanted things to be more interesting, no problem. Mike would do his best to comply.
It emerged that Mike was playing with his rat at random and feeding him just as randomly—whenever the rat seemed hungry, for instance. And if the rat felt like playing, that was fine. If it didn’t—it didn’t. If it was sleeping when he arrived, he let it sleep. Mike didn’t want to disturb him—and so on. Mike refused to fudge the data, or starve his play pal into submission—so the rat never learned what behaviorism expected of it.
Simply put, Mike had bonded with the creature. No question about that. Together, they had found a way to make the best of a pretty boring experiment. Somehow Mike had found a way to make the most pedestrian event, interesting. Mike and Mike’s rat shared a common space; they shared their souls. By letting it be, it would experience enough freedom to become what it was intended, by its nature, to be. (It sounds so simple, but Nobel Peace Prizes have been handed out for following through with the very same insight.).
And what held true in the lab, echoed doubly so in the outside world. I am talking about the Mike Brecker effect. Mike taught a restless generation how to sit still and truly listen. And no one was ever disturbed by Mike’s keen perception of who you really were and might become. His awesome talents made clear that what might appear impossible, was nevertheless, not merely possible, but attainable. The depth of his dedication spoke to you about your own talents—actual or potential. Just to listen to him toil, told you hard work was worth it. And just to hear him do it, day after day, made a difference in your own outlook. Take an Indiana practice room, for example, circa 1966-67. Students, professors, and hangers-on would line the halls outside just to listen, and later, to dance.
I can’t remember what grade Mike received for his lab work, but behaviorism be damned. No living creature was ever demeaned or disturbed by Mike’s perception of it. To put it in scientific terms, that was the Michael Brecker effect.
And whether Mike merely dabbled in or embraced fully the tenets of Buddhism in his last days as some witnesses contend, Mike’s Rat bears witness that he always understood its spirit and soul as few others did—or could. The world will always miss him as I still do.