by Manuel Gonzales

You will have to forgive me if I break any rules of conduct, protocol and all that. A tornado just recently hit the Austin area and, considering how late I am writing this article, I'm sure it was sent for me; but fortunately, I escaped, unscathed. Considering, then, the enormous pressure now hanging (in a dark, hail-filled cloud) over my head, I am willing and ready to break any and all rules of conduct concerning this small profile/CD review. First, in addressing you, my audience, most likely wasting countless precious words, I have, in my first paragraph, failed to report to you, my audience, any factual information (a motif, dare I say, which will definitely continue in the following paragraphs as well) about who I am profiling or what I am reviewing. Second, I will not review the entire CD. I will instead review one song from said (unsaid) CD. Third, most of what will be written this day (with few exceptions) may sound, to your ears, like fiction. Made up. Fabricated. A yarn, spun, not in haste, yet with total disregard for what might or might not be true. Mainly because most of what will be written (spun, not in haste, but in fear of the journalism gods watching above) is in fact and will in truth be fiction. And, if in reading this article, you believe some of the words used, some of the emotions expressed, some of the sounds heard and sights seen appear over done, I must then blame an impending sense of poetic urgency weighing heavy on my shoulders (but should you doubt the intent of my words, the force with which they are delivered, then, my friends, I suggest you check out said (unsaid) CD for yourself, or better yet, listen to (see, touch, taste) said (unsaid) artist in person at the upcoming Clarksville Jazz Festival, where he (Roy Hargrove) and his fellow artists (collectively: Crisol) will grace Austin with sounds, not of heaven nor angels' voices, but of Cuba, that other side of life.)

And so, without further adieu, my story.

A heart beat. You can hear it -- strong, steady, sweet. Rhythmic. That's how it begins. Angelic. That's how it ends. Everything in between is life. Living, breathing. Music as life. Jumps off the drums, falls out the horns, rolls off the keys, and lands, newly born, it's head up, heart still beating. And as you start believing, sound walks clear out of your speakers and shakes your hand. Grabs your wrist, and you go for a spin. A whisper in your ear, that's Roy Hargrove's voice: Nothing wrong with livin', that's what it boasts, nothing wrong with dancin'. Nor a little singin'. Nothing wrong with life, as it were in the beginnin'. Nothing wrong with my life, or my heart beat. Listen real close, you can hear it on the street. Music. Music to my ears.

Finds himself strolling through Cuba after a few years. Bag in one hand, horn in the other. Sweating, maybe, under the sun. (Without his umbrellar). The hot sun, Cuba hot, people hot. Music hot. Almost as hot as the music he plays. But not. Oh, no, not today. Not quite.

Not quiet, but LOUD. His pulse, pounding his temple, and in his head -- a crowd. Their voices -- a chorus. Angels (cielito lindo) hum in their crying-deep voices. Lowly. Sing-me-to-sleep voices. Softly. Ringing in his ears, their music, their love, stealing his fears. The voices, and they're speaking to him. Sing, they say. Sing. And, together, they sing, best they can, they sing. Spinning, they sing. His lips pressed together, they sing. In the middle of the square (they sing), back of a bar (they sing), he don't care (they sing), where or how far. They sing. And we hear him. Wanna' go near him. Don't want to miss him. And they sing. His voice (its voice) heard, pure, clear. Flying high, soaring with the birds, nearly shedding a tear with its sweet golden melody. And all of us can't help but say, Oooh, Lord! This boy can play! He and his horn, lifting our hearts (at one time, forlorn) and taking us away. God damn, that boy can play. And they gathered around, everyone, the whole town, and they beat on their drums, and they plucked their thumbs, fingers rolling down the keys, all doin' just as they please.

And then in France, a festival of jazz, doin' its dance, and all that razz-matazz. And there they are, playing in a small, smoke-filled bar, they get the idea, This might go far. In a cathedral, they are recording, the smoky, dark Cuba they are exporting. And now the story's been tol', the continuing story of Roy Hargrove and his mystical Crisol.

In case you somehow missed this information in my (eloquent) article, Roy Hargrove is the trumpet-man's name. His band: Crisol. The CD: Habana. The song: "Mr. Bruce," track number five, featuring Chucho Valdes on piano. Buy it, get it, hear it, taste it.