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Where Coconuts Fall (2001) (Henry Threadgill & Make a Move)

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In the summer of 1967, I was asked to arrange a medley of the great American national songs: 'America the Beautiful', 'The Star-Spangled Banner', 'America (My Country 'Tis of Thee)', 'God Bless America'. I put a lot of time into it: I'd been listening to a lot of Thelonious Monk and Stravinsky, and my arrangement had some of the same kinds of angularity and dissonance. (I was also listening to Cecil Taylor, but at that time I found I wasn't able to do much with Cecil's music in terms of integrating it into an orchestration for a concert band.)

The bandleader was away, so he never heard the music before we performed it. I did the arrangement and a sergeant named Marcato was leading the rehearsals in the absence of the band director. The guys in the band were knocked out. 'Damn, Henry,' they told me, 'this is really sophisticated stuff!'

We went to play the medley in Kansas City. We knew the premiere would be a big ceremonial occasion, but we didn't know who would be there. It turned out to be a gathering of all the big military brass—the generals, the colonels, the majors from all the divisions stationed in the region—as well as political leaders, including the governor and state legislators, the mayor and the city council, and religious dignitaries from the Catholic Church and various Protestant denominations. They were all seated up on a platform in front of a large audience.

The band director showed up just in time for the concert. He hadn't even had a chance to look over the score, much less approve it. The plan was for him to conduct it on the fly and hope for the best. We launched into the arrangement and didn't get more than eight bars into it before the Catholic archbishop stood up and yelled at us: 'Blasphemy!' He was furious. The pristine white and crimson of his chasuble and his ornate pointy miter only made his outburst all the more shocking. 'This is an outrage!' he thundered. 'Pure blasphemy!' The conductor, unsure what to do, signaled to the band to stop.

I was standing in the wings. Once I was promoted to arranger, I didn't even have to play in the band myself anymore. I was just along for the ride. I figured I'd hear my arrangement and then hang out in Kansas City.

The crowd murmured in confusion as the archbishop glared at the governor and the other politicians. Flustered, they turned to the clutch of generals. 'Who's responsible for this travesty?' the politicians demanded. The generals jumped off their feet. They were certainly not going to be called on the carpet over this mess. They looked over to the band director, and he looked at Sergeant Marcato. And Marcato pointed at me and said, 'Threadgill's the one who did it! He wrote the music.'

I peered out from the wings. 'Um, what's the problem?' I asked.

They stopped the entire event right there. As the audience shuffled out, there was a sort of huddle around the archbishop with the band director and the army officers. I didn't know what was going on. Blasphemy? A piece of music? What did that even mean? How could an arrangement be blasphemous?

The band was herded back into the bus to return to Fort Riley. The band director informed me: 'Threadgill, you're back in the band tomorrow. Report for band in the morning.'

'What? Back in uniform?' I was confused. As the arranger, I didn't even need to wear my military dress. I had been dressing in civilian clothes for months.

'Yes,' he answered in a severe tone. 'You're in the second clarinet section, in uniform, tomorrow.'

I tried to engage him in civil conversation. 'What is this about? What's going on?' He refused to discuss it further. I wasn't sure what was up, but I knew I was in trouble. I knew how the chain of command works. These people kick spit on asses. When the archbishop jumped on the generals, they had to find somebody to take the blame.

We got back to the fort in the early evening. I remember that even the sunset looked ominous that day. The next morning, I scrambled to get ready for band rehearsal, trying to get my fatigues on straight, looking for a reed that would work for my clarinet. We started at nine o'clock and rehearsed until noon, when we had a lunch break.

The rehearsal studio was a big, beautiful room, and by midday the sunlight was streaming in through the windows. As we sat back down for the afternoon session, I was thinking that despite the abrupt reversal of fortune, it was actually a pleasure to play in the group again, to rediscover the reflexes of section playing in a large ensemble.

The band director taps on the podium and we sit up attentively as he raises his baton. Just as he is about to give the downbeat, the door opens and there's a messenger in full dress carrying a dispatch bag. 'At ease and attention,' the band director tells us. We place our instruments down to listen to the messenger.

He opens his leather dispatch bag, pulls a number of documents out of an official-looking envelope, and starts reading. There's a laundry list of orders. 'According to so-and-so… The 5th Army such-and-such… In accordance with the…' It went on and on. And then: '… According to the Military Code of Justice, Private Henry Threadgill—'

I look up, surprised to hear my name. 'Who? What did he say?'

'Be quiet and listen,' the band director reprimands me.

'—has been assigned to the 4th Infantry Division in Pleiku.'

'Pleiku?' I sputter.

The director snaps: 'Shut up and listen!'

I have thirty days to get my life together, the order continues, and then I have to report to Oakland, California, on a particular date.

'Wait one second!' I say. 'Listen—' The bandleader tells me again to close my mouth, but I ignore him. '—I play clarinet. This is a high-priority instrument. In a concert band, this is the highest-priority instrument there is. It's like a violin in an orchestra.'

The band director gives me an icy stare. 'We know what you play.'

'What do you mean, I'm being transferred? I applied to be stationed abroad, either in France or in Panama. I was told I couldn't join those bands because there was a shortage of capable clarinet players here. Now you're letting me go?!'

'I've got nothing to do with this,' the band director says.

I'm completely numb. The guys in the band sit there in complete silence, trying not to look at me. I know what I want to say: 'What in the world is going on? My arrangement was just a piece of music! Doesn't anyone have a sense of humor here? You're telling me that you're shipping me off to war because of a piece of music?'

But there's no one to say it to.

And that's it. They order me to get up right there and leave the rehearsal hall, go back and clear out my bunk, turn in my clothes, go to the quartermaster, stop by the finance office, get all my papers. And I'm on my way back to Chicago for thirty days to arrange my affairs before I'm deployed to Vietnam.

~Henry Threadgill & Brent Hayes Edwards [buy]

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