Over thirty-five years, saxophonist Chris Bacas has appeared at festivals all over the world, including the Nice, North Sea, Cork, Santiago, Montreal, Moers, Texaco, Annapolis, JVC New York, and Central PA Jazz Festivals. Chris began touring in 1983 working with the Glen Miller Band, The Tommy Dorsey Band, the Artie Shaw Band, and Buddy Rich's legendary Big Band until Rich's passing in 1987. Chris was a member of and recorded with the Smithsonian's Jazz Masterworks Orchestra under conductors David Baker and Gunther Schuller. In 1999 Chris was soloist in the Mary Lou Williams' "Mass" at the National Cathedral with Marian McPartland. Since 1989, Chris has appeared on over fifty recordings, including three ("Two Choices," "Leave a Message," and "Exits") as leader/co-leader. 2018/19 releases: Voyage with Stefan Bauer, Triocracy, Here and Now with Ryo Sasaki. Chris is touring Germay reading his stories and playing saxophones under the name "Brooklyn Vibes" Email: bacas.chris [at] gmail.com
by Christopher Bacas My answering machine whirrs. From an echoing room, the chainsaw-voice shouts into a speaker phone: THIS IS GOD. ANSWER THE PHONE… SON….OF….A….BITCH PICK… UP… THE… GODDAMPHONE…… CALL ME…GOD ‘click’ Creator of the universe overloads a magnetic comb-and-wax-paper. Failing to make contact, he curses his fragile creation, then himself. W was that God.…
by Christopher Bacas “I don’t think everyone should have money. It shouldn’t be for everybody—you wouldn’t know who was important. How boring. Who would you gossip about? Who would you put down? Never that great feeling of somebody saying “Can I borrow twenty-five dollars” —Andy Warhol It starts with the phone. On a nightstand, in the…
by Christopher Bacas “Eets beeg place. Millennium Theater. Brighton Beach. You see it. We start seven. Very good band. Leader has gigs coming up. I tell him you coming.” Ivan gave me specs and I agreed to make it. Lack of guaranteed money, opportunity, entertainment, enlightenment or even a ride home won’t stop a true…
by Christopher Bacas Guinea and Redhead were part of a large food chain. Beyond campus’ freshly-baked sidewalks, a Cowboy Mafia ferried contraband from the south. They landed small prop planes on ranch land outside of town, cut powder with dental anesthetics and broke up the bales. Their wares clumped on our cafeteria trays and glinted…
by Christopher Bacas I stayed out late the night before I left for college, saying goodbye to friends whose future included institutions even more punitive than mine. My parents packed my belongings in two long, green army duffel bags purchased at “Sunny’s Surplus”, where you could buy Afro picks with folding handles, decommissioned grenades and…
by Christopher Bacas The William Penn High School Marching band was a juggernaut, the coolest team in school. Its director, Holman F James, strode the football field, unzipped windbreaker, cigarette dangling, the Greatest Generation’s bandmaster. A sterling musician, he played trumpet and piano, wrote or arranged all the music and choreographed our field shows. He…
by Christopher Bacas In the fall of 1970, I brought a Bundy tenor saxophone home from school. I was nine and in Mrs Farrar’s 5th grade class. To celebrate, my father slid an LP called “Soultrane”out of a blue and white cardboard jacket. The first sounds from the record player’s single speaker: a muscular folk…
by Christopher Bacas In the Municipal building on Livingston Street, two floors are reserved for Housing cases. In each court, dozens of people work and wait, a Bosch tableau with an international cast. HPD lawyers work the perimeter. They bring Respondents to the bench, confer with them in the hallway and negotiate with Petitioners on…
by Christopher Bacas As a child, I feared dogs. A neighbor kept his German Shepherds, Heidi and Sarge, in a large pen along the alley. The yard and house, his parents’, were the biggest for many blocks. On the alley side, the chain link fence stood 10 feet. The dogs would charge out of their…
by Christopher Bacas Because we remained so long in Housing Court’s trash-strewn orbit, Management assigned us our own agent. Every week, I saw Hassidim in our lobby. One was bigger than the others, with a jellied midsection spilling over pants, bowing his long black lapels. He moved like a man barely acclimated to walking; legs…
Subway Haiku Five times doors open And five times they quickly shut The Speaker crackles Crossroads of the world Four languages on my bench Train to JFK Many tired folks, Long hours and they can’t rest yet, “start spreadin’ the news” Every type of eyes: Closed, squinting, staring, empty, Downcast, roving, hard Dude: Yankees’ cap,…
by Christopher Bacas We make unplanned pilgrimages; a friend, job or tragedy send us barefoot around sacred mountains. Eyes fixed on the path, we’re prevented from losing our way by loyalty, diligence or grief. Anyone we pass is possibly the most important person we will ever (not) meet. A job: play half-hour concerts; moving from…
by Christopher Bacas Eviction begins with a sheaf of papers, hand-delivered, addressed to the tenant, known thereafter as “Respondent”. Attorneys employ a process server to ensure proper service. Any improprieties are grounds to dismiss and the Petionner files anew. Respondents often agree to waive this technicality. They are standing in front of a judge in…
by Christopher Bacas On Flatbush Avenue, the dollar vans squawk and beep, threading through traffic. City buses stream rectangles of blue-white light across the storefronts. From dim upper floors, blinds drawn, shadowed, comes music: brass band with coro. Tuba burps madly: a bullfrog virtuoso looking for lovers. Beneath an awning, they sit by a glowing…
by Christopher Bacas We never saw Billy again. There was a new management company. They moved in their super, a tiny Mexican guy. He was always cheerful and had a female companion; daughter, sister or wife, who looked seventeen. He understood few English words and phrases. When possible, the young lady translated. If she wasn’t…
by Christopher Bacas When the real estate agent parked in front of the office it was dark; an August day dwindling to eighty-five humid degrees. Air conditioners whirred and dripped from upstairs windows. He got out and stood by the stairs, tie and shirt collar crisp and taut above his suit jacket. In waves of…
by Christopher Bacas There’s a sidewalk grate in Beverly Road station. Train sounds rise; squealed intervals evaporating as you pass. Underground, sun squeezes through the grid like skin pressed on a window screen. On the brightest day, its gutter brims gold, but never overflows. During heavy rains, the station’s walls sluice water that puddles next…
by Christopher Bacas The month ended anticlimactically. We’d done shitty business for the hotel and, due to some nastiness caused by remnants of our ship crew, hadn’t endeared ourselves to staff. Heading inland, the rhythm section came unmoored. Bass and drums baited each other; refusing to listen and digging in hard. Their beat was a…
by Christopher Bacas We weren't out too long before a brief break and another personnel change. After a pre-dawn departure, I arrived at a Midwestern airport and staggered toward baggage claim. A man paced back and forth between carousels; long black hair hanging over the collar of a wide-open trench coat. Head down, he puffed…
by Christopher Bacas The first time I saw A was backstage at Ravinia, summer of 1984, holding court, in blazer and turtleneck, amid a thicket of horn players; his new band. He came out of retirement to front a group playing his music. One of the true masters of his instrument and a complete musician,…