“Word Jazz Farewell”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-19)

Saturday.

Normally a day to be celebrated as the weekend-in-effect. But in my retirement, every day has become a weekend. Time itself no longer holds meaningful power over existence. The pace of self skips no longer to the rhythm of a clock. So instead, I have simply learned to exist. Flowing here and there where the boundaries of an outside world offer rude interruption, like a current of water nibbling away at the soil. I win, I lose, I win, I lose, I win.

When I returned home from a day with Janis, a day of thrift-store exploration, Chinese food and Dairy Queen dessert, my arthritic joints were exhausted. My left leg turned nearly sideways on its disintegrated hip. I had enough oomph in my flesh to get the mail, and take my Black Lab outside. Then, it was chair time. I had to sit.

I wanted to nap like Garfield, the cartoon cat. Then awaken in time for CRAGG Live, my favorite Internet radio program. Often, such intentions were likely to fizzle and smoke into futility as I slept. But tonight my tick-tock awareness was on point. Consciousness returned about 9:15 p.m., when I noticed that the house felt colder. More from my own fatigue than the air temperature. I clicked on the Roku and waited for Terry and Tiffany Du Foe. Meanwhile, I checked my iPhone for messages. On Facebook, John Gorman, former Program Director at WMMS in Cleveland, had posted about a notable passing.

Ken Nordine, the beloved creator of ‘Word Jazz’ was gone.

I slumped in my chair. Deflated, like an athlete’s ball gone flat. My eyes stung and burned from tears. The everyday CRAGG feed continued, with no live broadcast. I poked at the YouTube app on my device, locating his ‘Colors’ LP, from 1966.

“Olive… poor thing… sits and thinks… that it’s drab… sure does… sits and sits and sits and thinks… about its olive drab drab… doesn’t know… doesn’t know that it is about to be named color of the year… by those with a nose for the new… by the passionate few… yeahh… olive!”

The album had begun as an advertising campaign, spurred by the Fuller Paint Company. But interest in Nordine’s work expanded the project. The recording was a familiar artifact for record collectors and wordsmiths, like myself. Later, he produced a series of commercials for Levi Strauss that ran in the 70’s and 80’s. While his name remained unfamiliar to many, his voice became universally known. A part of our greater generational heritage.

CRAGG never went live, remaining in their 24/7 archive loop. A technical issue had sidelined the show. Yet I felt grateful. The ‘Colors’ audio document continued to stream in my living room, now more loudly, from the Roku. I pondered discussing Nordine’s career with friends during my Cornell television apprenticeship, some 40 years ago. Finally, I posted about these personal memories on social media.

“1979 - We used to go away from Ithaca, in New York, to a place we called ‘The Hill.’ Our cast of artists, dreamers and malcontents from Channel 13. At an intersection of two county roads, marked only by the crude, hand-painted sign for a place named ‘Teeter’s Barn.’ There, we would gather, turn up the radios in our cars, drink beer, look up at the stars and ponder life. One night while I went through a pack of Schmidt’s or Genesee or Piels or Utica Club, and the sky was a vast oasis of electric pinpoints floating on black... there came a broadcast from the NPR station nearby. An extended set of Ken Nordine. Appropriate, incredible and everlasting as we listened and watched in the night. Four decades later I can only bow my head silently and mourn his passing. While giving thanks for what he inspired in me and my community of friends. Rest In Peace...”

The attendees for our meetings at this rural spot were many. David Bly, my co-host for television broadcasts. Alan Dunning, who owned a real Fender Stratocaster and a Volkswagen microbus when many of us were broke and walking. Annie Daino, the theater student and Beatles aficionado. Bette M. Burke, the PhD candidate and mentor to the group. Paul & Mollie Race, our hippie parents-in-waiting. Perhaps even others, who hid in the shadows.

Nordine’s voice soared over the landscape. A fitting companion to nights spent away from the hustle of Cornell University and Ithaca College. In my thoughts, those moments of spiritual escape, and his work, are forever connected. Pieces like ‘You’re Getting Better’ had become part of my own DNA.

“I want you to know you’re getting better… I don’t care what everyone’s been saying… you’re getting better. They’re the ones who’ve been getting worse. And uh… they don’t like what you’ve been doing. Understandably. Do you think they can watch you strip yourself of one unnecessary thing after another? Day by day becoming so to speak, naked, or free, and not feel the way they do? Of course not. It’s painful to get rid of things you don’t need. And they know it… they wouldn’t be saying what they’ve been saying if they didn’t want you to stop...”

Passers-by would stop on occasion, to offer roadside assistance. We always explained our momentary situation with gratitude and deference. Sometimes. Members of the Sheriff’s Department discovered us while traveling through the isolated area. But amazingly, there was never a complaint. It seems likely that even with 40 years having elapsed, there must be stray beer bottles still nestled there, in the dirt. Not unlike lost echoes of ‘Word Jazz’ bouncing across the atmosphere.

“Make it on your own, the way you’ve been doing. And remember… you’re getting better! Excuse me now, I have to, uh, go. I’ll just dissolve right here, in front of you. See you...”

Ken Nordine, hero and muse. Rest peacefully dear friend.

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