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 On a cloudy November afternoon, the runaway dog headed south through a Victorian Brooklyn neighborhood. Shuttling down sidewalks, a black spindle unwinding in lengthwise turns. Legs, wisps of yarn, whipping down, then up into the skein. Scuff and click of paws un-synced to their motion; lightning flashes before the charge splits air.…
by Christopher Bacas The boss' daughter, Cherie, came with a warning label. A coworker, who babbled endlessly about evil Ayatollah Khomeini and our hostages, told me: "She's a piece of work. Just let her take whatever she wants and stay the fuck outta her way." One night, twenty minutes before closing, a woman's head appeared…
by Christopher Bacas In 1980, a college music student, I took a job at a Bar-B-Que joint. It was a mile walk from my place. I went in once or twice a week for a closing shift. A full size covered wagon sat on a pedestal in the parking lot. It looked shabby, but functional.…
by Christopher Bacas Every wedding merges rivers. In that confluence, ancient rites, family histories and baked-stuffed chicken breasts tumble in eddies and whirling spouts. As a hired hand, I looked for calm water, the safety of land and superior canapés. Under crystalline light, I sailed the blacktop channel called I-95. My port, a giant shul…
by Christopher Bacas After any commercial job, I was a whirling particle; negatively charged. I wanted to appear simultaneously in a distant vector of the universe (preferably, garage level). Spooky action proved impossible. Quantum properties aren't conferred at loading docks. A single sound launched our universe, though. I wonder who was on that gig… One…
by Christopher Bacas Catering hall loading docks smell of cleaning fluids, grease and rotting food. They rise from the shores of milky lakes continuously replenished by mop buckets. There's a dumpster nearby, mouth drooling effluents and green frame askew. Up concrete steps, through swinging doors, across a slippery red tile floor, PISO MOJADO! sign tossed…
by Christopher Bacas I left a Texas college somewhere between my Sophomore and Junior years. My body and saxophone continued to attend for another year and half. Degree requirements unfulfilled, I eventually packed and left with some South Carolina buddies, padding my stereo and lps with tangled knots of dirty laundry. High on speed, we…
by Christopher Bacas My first paid gig: volunteer fire hall, Saturday night. The leader picked me up at my house and drove to a small township outside the city. Barry was related to a woman who worked with my mother. In the orphanage where he spent some years, a teacher drilled hymns and choral music…
by Christopher Bacas The last place I saw Mike was a joint facing the water in Fell's Point. Taking up first floor of a Civil War-era structure, you enter to a rectangular bar opposite a raised stage with chest-high sides. Tall stools scatter from front windows and along the wooden bar to the back room.…
by Christopher Bacas A friend asked what he'd been up to. Mike cleared his throat. “Snortin' coke, fuckin' whores and goin' to the track.” Duke Ellington said 'Jack Daniels' was Paul Gonsalves' punch line. The former might have been Mike's. He knew Beethoven symphonies and Coltrane solos, Victorian poets and Tupac lyrics. While welding bolts…
by Christopher Bacas After Allen fired Mike, I replaced him the next Friday night. Mike showed up for the gig anyway. That's how we first met. He was not tall, solid, short grey hair, onyx eyes, and all Baltimore: the accent, the indestructible Hunky genetics, the edge that let you know it might get real,…
by Christopher Bacas In Novokuznetsk, our hosts, the “Symphony Society”, a group of music-lovers, artists and bon-vivants, met us at the station. Among them, an accordionist with impeccable skills. Isolated in this far eastern town, he was hungry to play and produced his instrument soon after we arrived at the venue. His knowledge of Jazz…
by Christopher Bacas (Here are “Midnight in Moscow”, Chapter 1 and Chapter 2.) Backstage, old friends were stopping by, bringing hugs, booze and sweets. In an embossed box tied with ribbon, a Kievski (Kiev-style) cake rested on a gold foil base: stacks of merengue ovals held with mortar of the richest, densest buttercream imaginable. One…
by Chris Bacas (Midnight in Moscow, Chapter 1 is here.) En route from Petersburg, adrenaline and second-hand nicotine kept me awake at first. Eventually, I slept through the cabin heat and sparking wheels; waking up in Moscow weak, achy and slightly dizzy. Everything finally caught up with me. For that day, we planned on Red…
by Chris Bacas I asked my friend about April weather in Siberia. “You will need jacket” he said evenly and without article. Part of a festival celebrating Victory in the “Great Patriotic War” and the incredible efforts at the Far East factories, our gig was booked for springtime. Due to unforeseen circumstances, the trip was…
by Chris Bacas During a blaze across Florida, our leader hosted a band party; his way of saying thanks. Z's Florida house was modest and tastefully appointed. It sat next to similar homes in a jungly subdivision laid out like a medieval city. On the winding way there, our bus idled next to an unusual…
by Chris Bacas Like a county road crew, a bunch of guys performing repetitive tasks under a fixed hierarchy, we couldn't indulge in brinksmanship on management's dime. One-upping colleagues on the bandstand wasn't going raise your profile. How cocky could I feel about an 8-bar solo on “Swanee River?” Team sport took a special commitment…
by Chris Bacas Z was a generous and kind man. Still, in a diner, he could embarrass me to death. Last off the bus, joining us at a crowded table, he rubbed bleary eyes, grabbed utensils in his fists and banged them loudly. We lowered our heads while sugar packets and jelly cups scattered. Sometimes,…