by Ricardo Avecedo

My parents were Beatniks, not Hippies.

Blur is the most accurate description of my life from the age of 3 to 8. Being dragged from one party to another by my parents. Adult parties of course in a child's eye are wild swirling surreal things full of wonder and fury, but maybe I'm getting ahead of myself.

Lets picture a cliche: California 1962, a world of black turtlenecks, capris, worn in sandals, goatees, black eye-liner, beehive doos and black sun glasses. Take it a step further, fill a room with these folk all deep in the throws of grappling with life as philosophy, many just back from the first truly mistrusted war, "Korea," coming to terms with the expanding consciousness of America. A multi-racial crew and I mean multi. This was the period in which enlightened Caucasians sought out the other, in search of a greater understanding of this other they wore black as if in mourning of racial abuses and in wearing black also stood out from the middle-class American who just went about their business, turning a blind eye to a class structure debacle called the "nuclear family."

And the broth of this stew of cultural evolution was Jazz.

Yeah, this was the world I was born into. Not the folksy, jangly tambourines of a tie-dye, acid-induced, free-love, peace-fest rock (although free-love was a Beatnik concept), but the deep soul drenched musings of Miles, Coltrane, Lady Day, Monk and Getz, sprinkled with lighter mutations like Brubeck, Dejango and Dorsey.

This is pre-Dylan my friends, (I would call Dylan one of the great Beats) all that existed of folk as social import in our home was some Leadbelly or Hank Williams. Dylan's politics vulcanized folk into a voice of cultural epoch, but even he would admit the truth of a wordless riff speaking volumes beyond any diction. Tones so deeply hued, they went beyond blue to purple, the night,to black, to the night, to the dark place in all our souls that frightens us with its potential. That is the truth of Jazz.

Okay, back to the party. On any given weekend, or weeknight for that matter, I was surrounded by virtual milieu of adult music and attitude, honing my taste early towards the sultry and mysterious. To me the sound track to a good time was always jazz or some mutant hybrid thereof, to the point that when dropped off at, say, a cousin's house to be baby-sat, they're listening to "Rock & Roll / Motown" seemed like music that was "kinda stupid" but fun. Growing up beat had made me desire a deeper sense of weight to even a good time (which even at this point can make me a bit of a downer at a party. Ooops! I guess that clears out my social calender for the season...)

Most nights would begin with a trip to the liquor store, where we'd stop to chuckle over the latest issue of Mad Magazine proudly displayed next to the True Adventure and Playboy. My stepdad would then grab a few large bottles of chianti, some good vodka and a carton of cigs (the guests would be responsible for the "Boo").

We'd arrive home, my mom lighting tiki torches, some "Billie" or "Sarah" would be slapped on to the turntable (Mom's favs). We'd glide about the pad toning down the interior lights while illuminating our backyard in fire. Once the folks started arriving, we'd go into hard-bop mode, "Grant Green" or "Art Blakey," everyone swarthy and loose, reefer trails punctuating barbs about the Cuban missle crisis and rumors about some weird shit going on in Southeast Asia.

By this time the moodier grooves would be broken out and me, high from second-hand smoke and the occasional "Hey there Senorito, ya want a slug of my vino?" would create a freaky adult carnival of distorted faces and raucous laughter. At some point I'd drift off, making the rambling pseudo intellectual conversations and invariably "Miles," the soundtrack to wild dreams and nightmares...but dreams and nightmares which I wouldn't change for the world.

Now with kids of my own (Violet and Domingo) I find myself reluctant to openly party in their presence, choosing to instead keep my drunk "Beat" enhanced past as a secret I share with my peers and drinking buddies. (My kids think Jazz is kinda weird...but still I do try.) I continue to find myself animated by a desire to find hidden truths that only the dark can provide...looking for a catalyst that will vault me into drinking and talking as evolution, hoping that somehow the larger truths can be distilled and drank like a nectar, an ambrosia...

Yeah I know, I expect too much, but why shouldn't I? Jazz once moved minds to higher levels by its sheer existence. And today in Trip-hop and House music, it works the same magic. I look at people half my age who seem like family because to them it too seems all about the beat...the beat of life.

To be continued...