Ode to Charlie Haden: or stand up and be counted.

Charlie Haden.
Charlie Haden.
Youcrazymutherfucker!
What did you do?
Why did you do it?
You said NO to injustice.

Portugal '71
You and Ornette Coleman.
Iconoclast. The hammer of jazz. Outcast soon to become bedrock. You did not want to play for Portuguese fascist swine. Genocide. Black people die. All are quiet.

 Ornette says "Think of something you can do". You do something. You face the crowd. The sea of faces.

"I want to dedicate this song to the black peoples liberation movement in Mozambique, Guinea- Bissau and Angola."

ERUPTION!!!!!!!!

The multitude becomes one howl of joy, of anger, of crying to God for deliverance!
You played the audience. They were your instrument. You plucked and slapt and grooved. They were yours, they grooved to you. You. A white man. Said no more. You spoke the unspeakable. Gave voice for the silenced and mutilated.

Fuck fascism!
Fuck genocide!
Fuck silence!
Fuck you fascist dogs!

But you do not mix politics and music. Not in Portugal, 1971. For this, you could not leave the country. Incarcerated in a foreign and hostile land. No friends. The American Embassy was closed that day. You were on your own.
Shoved in a cell for what must of seemed like days. Into blinding unfriendly interrogation room.

This must be it. I died today because I said enough.

But no Charlie Haden. Not that day.
Your friends came back for you. The man in charge says with an evil smile.
"You are a lucky man today Mr. Haden."

You stood up to be counted. Not to sit silent. And you almost paid the highest of prices. For that which we take for granted. You are gone now. You lived a long, amazing life. If there is a heaven, I want to meet you there and buy you a beer. You and me and Ornette and Jack Kerouac and Christopher Hitchens can drink up and laugh and pity this world that never seems to understand. Never gets it right.

Hey, there's Miles Davis. He walks up and puts his hand on your shoulder and says, "YouCrazyMutherFucker!"