Few people know about George Monarch, one of the all-time great Jazz pianists of the 1930’s. Maybe you’ve heard of a song of his, Stalwart Ragtime, Chicago Whoopee, Jungle Cat Hop, or Jumping on Braille. Jumping on Braille is George’s most famous piece, with a fast melodic line pumping alternating thirds and fifths, and a strong bass line in minor B. It’s found on “Greatest Jazz Piano Hits” albums, usually shoved in-between Jelly Roll Morton and Fats Waller, sometimes it’s left off completely. Most critics lambaste George for his heavy tapping on all of his records. The extra heavy metal soles he pasted on his shoes weren’t an excuse for an MFA or PhD holder in American and Afro-American Music. The way he tapped his foot wasn’t just a mistake, it was unprofessional.
George was seven when he first took a liking to Jazz. Right after dinner, he’d jump off his seat at dinner, take ten steps through the living room, turn right, then move straight forward until he hit the little knobs on his mama’s Fisher 500 hi-fi radio. Sometimes, in his hurry, he would knock over the plastic desk lamp (long ago replacing a glass one) on account of his bad eyes. When he was born, the doctor pronounced George blind. At 3 months old, when he started reacting to the light from his grandmother’s imitation-crystal chandelier, they changed his status from blind to regrettable. When he was old enough to talk, it was obvious he wasn’t blind; he just wasn’t able to see either. George lay in a pathetic inbetween; he never knew the futility of laying in total darkness, and he knew basic shapes and colors, but he never knew what his mother’s face looked like, nor could he ever look in the mirror and count the freckles on his half white-half black face.
George would lovingly stroke the knobs on the radio, listening to each *click* *click* *click* until he hit Let’s Dance with Betty Whyte, live from the Savoy. Once he heard Betty's sultry voice he'd let a shrill squeak escape his tiny purple lips. George would bounce up and down on his metronomic legs, closing his eyes he would sort out the sounds in his mind: Badum ba ba ba badum bup bup: the drum break; Brrrr buh brr be brrr: the trombone line; Weee op beep bop: the trumpet solo; and standing in the front the piano singing “Dance! Dance! Dance!” In the very back of it, though, George could hear another sound that most listeners didn’t even know about: the sporadic and feverish popping and tapping that made George smile every time. The faint explosions were the feet of Lindy-Hoppers falling and flying off the well-waxed mahogany floors of the Savoy. George could hear them all. A fat man, sweating profusely, unwilling to stop dancing, in his black, wood heeled loafers. A young woman, who, in her hurry, forgot to take off her high heels, too entranced by the music to even think of stopping. A kid about twelve or thirteen who snuck in and can’t keep his balance because of the lemonade and gin he drank an hour ago. And a thousand more feet, some louder than others, some hard, some soft, some fast, some about to die out into the night and head on home. To him, it spoke louder than the piano or the trumpet or the cymbal and snare drum, it was that turbulent feeling he got way down deep at the very center of his body that would fly out in yelps and ugly frantic dances.
On Christmas Day, 1939, George headlined at the Savoy. He was young then, still seventeen –but he looked like he was thirty and he played like he had spent thirty years at it too. George’s fingers danced like butterflies on the piano, and if he had any friends, they surely would’ve put two and two together and nicknamed him George Monarch “Butterfly.” But George had only his piano, and at times even it would not make him happy. Sometimes, George would crane his neck to his right, let out a cuss, and scrunch up his face like he had just bit into an orange thinking sweet when he found sour. It wasn’t that George would mess up, in 10 years he never missed a note, but there was just something he couldn’t find in the white and black keys he was so proficient at.
In the Savoy, the crowd was still on the floor after the set closed for the Original New Orleans Jass Swingers. They all looked up at the set, every instrument being cleared one by one, except the piano George would need. A round unattractive man rolled up the steps and grabbed the microphone in front of the packed dance hall.
“Mah name is Geoge Marnach, and I’m goin’ play to you folks out there a little known tune called, Jumpin’ on Braille. I hope you like it.”
The crowd started whispering, George didn’t look like a musician, he didn’t even look like he listened to jazz, but he ignored the confusing ball of hums and mumbles and started his set. He opened with the solemn start of Braille, that many critics would later say, “produced within the listener a feeling of dissonance, as if they are learning the notes for the first time.” George had used a modified bass line from Moonlight Sonata, dropping the harmonic E so that it sounded even darker. The crowd’s noise had ceased. They saw a jumbled, large, roly-poly man turn into a Mozart, a Brahs, right in front of them. Just as they started to settle in, the butterfly flew. George liberated his right hand with the melody and let it fly into a hurried line, going up and down, up and down, his hand reaching far and pulling back over and over[1]. The crowd waited for the first dancer to jump on the floor, but no one could. They pulled back even further, some even sat down. They didn’t know what was happening but they couldn’t break the moment with a ill-placed question, or miss a beat because of a lingering thought. They stared at George, sweating now. Beads rolling down his face and landing on his hairy arms. Still flying over the keys. He’s worried now. They can see it. Something isn’t right. He cranes his neck to the right, bites down real hard into that sour orange. Trying to listen to-it, That-sound-when-he-was-little-the-tapping-the-explosion-the-real-music.He-is-playing-faster-now-men-women-covering-their-mouths-in-the-audience-tears-now-jumping-down-his-face-and-he-is-closing-his-eyes-thinking-of-butterflies-ten-years!-the-woman-in-high-heels-his-mama’s-Fisher-500-and-now-he-is-shouting-he-cannot-keep-it-in-anymore-mouth-towards-the-ceiling-wide-as-the-gates-of-heaven-he-is-yelling-to-the-crowd-now- DANCE!DANCE!DANCE!
[1] the sheet music for Jumping on Braille suggests you have a second person play the melodic line as well.
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