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He came by, a real strange-lookin’ old dude in jeans and boots and orange suspenders, takes out these old beat-up cameras that didn’t even look like they’d work, and I thought, Uh-oh. He put me up against a light-colored wall with my horn and told me to play and keep on playing. So I played. For the first three minutes or so, the guy just stood there and looked at me hard, real hard, with the coolest blue eyes you’ve ever seen. (This is formatted as Times New Roman 10)
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Excerpt from “The Bridges of Madison County” by Robert James Waller pg.165 to 167.
Interview with “Nighthawk” Cummings
I was doin’ a gig at Shorty’s, up in Seattle where I was livin” at the time, and I needed a good black and white glossy of myself for publicity. The bass player told me there was a guy livin’ out on one of the islands who did some good work. He didn’t have a phone, so I sent him a postcard.
He came by, a real strange-lookin’ old dude in jeans and boots and orange suspenders, takes out these old beat-up cameras that didn’t even look like they’d work, and I thought, Uh-oh. He put me up against a light-colored wall with my horn and told me to play and keep on playing. So I played. For the first three minutes or so, the guy just stood there and looked at me hard, real hard, with the coolest blue eyes you’ve ever seen.
After a little while, he starts takin’ pictures. Then he asks if I’ll play “Autumn Leaves.” And I do that. I play the tune for maybe ten minutes straight while he keeps banging away with his cameras, takin’ one shot after another. Then he says, “Fine, I’ve got it. I’ll have them for you tomorrow.”
Next day he brings them by, and I’m knocked over. I’ve had a lot of pictures taken of me, but these were the best, by far. He charged me fifty dollars, which seemed pretty cheap to me. He thanks me, leaves, and on his way out asks where I’m playin”. So I tell him, “Shorty’s”.
A few nights later, I look out at the audience and see him sittin’ at a table off in the corner, listenin’ real hard. Well, he started comin’ in once a week, always on a Tuesday, always drank beer, but not much of it.
I sometimes went over on breaks and talked with him for a few minutes. He was quiet, didn’t say a lot, but real pleasant, always asked politely if I’s mind playin’ “Autumn Leaves.”
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Excerpt from “The Bridges of Madison County” by Robert James Waller pg.165 to 167.
Interview with “Nighthawk” Cummings
I was doin’ a gig at Shorty’s, up in Seattle where I was livin” at the time, and I needed a good black and white glossy of myself for publicity. The bass player told me there was a guy livin’ out on one of the islands who did some good work. He didn’t have a phone, so I sent him a postcard.
He came by, a real strange-lookin’ old dude in jeans and boots and orange suspenders, takes out these old beat-up cameras that didn’t even look like they’d work, and I thought, Uh-oh. He put me up against a light-colored wall with my horn and told me to play and keep on playing. So I played. For the first three minutes or so, the guy just stood there and looked at me hard, real hard, with the coolest blue eyes you’ve ever seen.
After a little while, he starts takin’ pictures. Then he asks if I’ll play “Autumn Leaves.” And I do that. I play the tune for maybe ten minutes straight while he keeps banging away with his cameras, takin’ one shot after another. Then he says, “Fine, I’ve got it. I’ll have them for you tomorrow.”
Next day he brings them by, and I’m knocked over. I’ve had a lot of pictures taken of me, but these were the best, by far. He charged me fifty dollars, which seemed pretty cheap to me. He thanks me, leaves, and on his way out asks where I’m playin”. So I tell him, “Shorty’s”.
A few nights later, I look out at the audience and see him sittin’ at a table off in the corner, listenin’ real hard. Well, he started comin’ in once a week, always on a Tuesday, always drank beer, but not much of it.
I sometimes went over on breaks and talked with him for a few minutes. He was quiet, didn’t say a lot, but real pleasant, always asked politely if I’s mind playin’ “Autumn Leaves.”
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Excerpt from “The Bridges of Madison County” by Robert James Wallerpg.165 to 167.
Interview with “Nighthawk” Cummings
I was doin’ a gig at Shorty’s, up in Seattle where I was livin” at the time, and I needed a good black and white glossy of myself for publicity. The bass player told me there was a guy livin’ out on one of the islands who did some good work. He didn’t have a phone, so I sent him a postcard.
He came by, a real strange-lookin’ old dude in jeans and boots and orange suspenders, takes out these old beat-up cameras that didn’t even look like they’d work, and I thought, Uh-oh. He put me up against a light-colored wall with my horn and told me to play and keep on playing. So I played. For the first three minutes or so, the guy just stood there and looked at me hard, real hard, with the coolest blue eyes you’ve ever seen.
After a little while, he starts takin’ pictures. Then he asks if I’ll play “Autumn Leaves.” And I do that. I play the tune for maybe ten minutes straight while he keeps banging away with his cameras, takin’ one shot after another. Then he says, “Fine, I’ve got it. I’ll have them for you tomorrow.”
Next day he brings them by, and I’m knocked over. I’ve had a lot of pictures taken of me, but these were the best, by far. He charged me fifty dollars, which seemed pretty cheap to me. He thanks me, leaves, and on his way out asks where I’m playin”. So I tell him, “Shorty’s”.
A few nights later, I look out at the audience and see him sittin’ at a table off in the corner, listenin’ real hard. Well, he started comin’ in once a week, always on a Tuesday, always drank beer, but not much of it.
I sometimes went over on breaks and talked with him for a few minutes. He was quiet, didn’t say a lot, but real pleasant, always asked politely if I’s mind playin’ “Autumn Leaves.”
After a while we got to know each other a little. I used to like to go down to the harbor and watch the water and ships; turns out, so did he. So we got to the point we’d sit on a bench for whole afternoons and talk. Just a couple of old guys winding it down, starting to feel a little irrelevant, a little obsolete.
Used to bring his dog along. Nice dog. Called him Highway.
He understood magic. Jazz musicians understand it, too. That’s probably why we got along. You’re playing some tune you’ve played a thousand times before, and suddenly there’s a whole new set of ideas coming straight out of your horn without ever going through your conscious mind. He said photography and life in general were a lot like that. Then he added, “So is making love to a woman you love.”
He was workin’ on somethin’ where he was tryin’ to convert music into visual images. He said to me, “John, you know that riff you almost always play in the fourth measure of “Sophisticated Lady”? Well, I think I got that on film the other morning. The light came across the water just right and a blue heron kind of looped through my viewfinder all at the same time. I could actually see your riff while I was hearing it and hit the shutter.”
He spent all his time on this music-into-images thing. Was obsessed by it. Don’t know how he made a living.
He never said much about his own life. I knew he’d traveled a lot doing photography, but not much more until one day I asked him about the little silver thing he had on a chain around his neck. Up close, I could see the name Francesca on it. So I asked him, “Anything special about that?”
He didn’t say anything for a while, just stared out at the water. Then he said, “How much time do you have?’ Well, it was a Monday, my night off, so I told him I had as much as it took.
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Used to bring his dog along. Nice dog.Called him Highway.
He understood magic. Jazz musicians understand it, too. That’s probably why we got along. You’re playing some tune you’ve played a thousand times before, and suddenly there’s a whole new set of ideas coming straight out of your horn without ever going through your conscious mind. He said photography and life in general were a lot like that. Then he added, “So is making love to a woman you love.”
He was workin’ on somethin’ where he was tryin’ to convert music into visual images. He said to me, “John, you know that riff you almost always play in the fourth measure of “Sophisticated Lady”? Well, I think I got that on film the other morning. The light came across the water just right and a blue heron kind of looped through my viewfinder all at the same time. I could actually see your riff while I was hearing it and hit the shutter.”
He spent all his time on this music-into-images thing. Was obsessed by it. Don’t know how he made a living.
He never said much about his own life. I knew he’d traveled a lot doing photography, but not much more until one day I asked him about the little silver thing he had on a chain around his neck. Up close, I could see the name Francesca on it. So I asked him, “Anything special about that?”
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