Thinking about Michael Brecker on the anniversary of his birthday, I wrote this one-act surreal jazz play for him:
CHARACTERS
• JOHN COLTRANE – calm, barefoot, radiating depth.
• MICHAEL BRECKER – a recent arrival; searching, unsure.
• ERIC DOLPHY – surreal, fast-talking, playful; speaks in riddles.
• MILES DAVIS – drops in like smoke, smooth and cryptic.
• THE HOST – cosmic emcee, poetic and flamboyant (could be SUN RA).
• THE BAND – visible or invisible. Music flows continuously, modulating with mood.
LIGHTS UP: THE CLUB IN THE AFTERLIFE
(Dim blue light. Fog drifts across the stage. The “club” is undefined—just suggestions of saxophones, stars, glowing sheet music, and floating amps. A sign blinks in and out: “THE ETERNAL DOWNBEAT.”)
THE HOST (stepping into a lone spotlight, smiling wide)
Ladies and Gentlemen of the living and the no-longer…. Welcome to the downbeat that never dies. No charts. No clocks. Just soul on the stand. Tonight, we got a new arrival—So grab your ghost, your groove, and listen up.
(MUSIC begins softly: a meditative modal vamp, loose and free. ERIC DOLPHY appears stage left, crouched, plucking a floating bass clarinet.)
DOLPHY (to the audience)
Some say death’s a silence. Others say it swings. Me? I say it’s an eternal jam. Where the only thing that dies is doubt.
(Enter MICHAEL BRECKER, confused, holding his horn like a lifeline. He stumbles in like someone who’s been dropped from the sky.)
BRECKER
Where…? What gig is this?
DOLPHY
No gig, man. It’s the afterlife. The Big Band Beyond. And you—lucky soul—just made the lineup.
BRECKER
I didn’t think I was ready.
(JOHN COLTRANE enters slowly, barefoot. Calm. Glowing.)
COLTRANE
No one ever is. But the horn don’t lie.
(Pause. Music shifts—a soft riff from Naima.)
BRECKER
I spent years chasing your sound, John. Trying to understand your language. Trying to be… worthy.
COLTRANE (gently)
You weren’t supposed to copy. You were supposed to answer. And you did, over and over.
(A beat. Dolphy nods rhythmically, bouncing with excitement.)
DOLPHY
C’mon, man! Blow it! Let it out! Fear’s just breath that forgot how to dance.
(BRECKER hesitates. Raises his horn. Plays one note—sharp, uncertain.)
BRECKER
I don’t know what to play.
COLTRANE
Start with the truth. Always.
(Music swells as COLTRANE and BRECKER begin a call and response. BRECKER grows bolder with each phrase. DOLPHY dances in circles around them, scatting with his bass clarinet.)
(MILES DAVIS slinks in from the shadows, speaking without looking at anyone.)
MILES
You sound alright, Mike. Little stiff. You still thinking.
(BRECKER stops playing.)
BRECKER
I thought thinking was the point.
MILES
Thinking’s for taxes. Music’s for ghosts.
(He turns to COLTRANE.)
MILES
You finally teach this cat to breathe?
COLTRANE (smiling)
He’s almost there.
DOLPHY
Almost is jazz, baby. It ain’t math. It’s mystery.
(Lights dim. COLTRANE steps forward and places his hand on BRECKER’s shoulder.)
COLTRANE
You’re not here to impress. You’re here to become.
(Suddenly, all light fades but one beam on BRECKER. He raises his horn again. This time, he blows—long, raw, honest. A solo that bends space and breaks open silence. The other musicians nod, sway, smile.)
THE HOST (reappearing above it all, amplified, divine)
And there it is. The note behind the note. The cry between lives. Michael Brecker has joined the band. And the jam goes on…
(MUSIC erupts into ecstatic, free-form improvisation as the lights swell and the stage becomes a kaleidoscope of color, motion, and sound. COLTRANE. DOLPHY. MILES. BRECKER. THE BAND. All locked in the downbeat beyond.)
LIGHTS OUT.
[CURTAIN]
Note: On the email I sent out, it incorrectly reads, Mike would have been 78. We’re both turning 76 this year. My apologies.
Really cool, I know Michael would have approved.
Bret this was absolutely masterful and brilliant! Thank you. We have similar beliefs.