Bulworth didn’t win any Oscars. In fact, most people won’t recall that Warren Beatty wrote and self-starred in this 1998 satire as the colorful, morally-flexible, fast-rapping senator who comes close to finding redemption as he unravels the free-spirited Halle Berry. For Tarikh and Paul, however, who happened upon this movie by chance, Bulworth was more than Halle Berry and her hot short dreads (and she was hot, very very HOT). Instead, Tarikh and Paul were drawn to the mercurial character named Rastaman the Griot, who, by most standards was no more than a bum. But for Tarikh and Paul, Rastaman was the seed of a way of being that would stem from that moment into the present. This hyper-awareness, affinity for the fringe, love for the unloved, is the reason Tarikh and Paul are too cool to be true!

Back on planet Earth, this translates to 18 years, 2 festivals, 4 recordings, 200+ shows, 2PAC, Free Jazz, 200+ basketball games, 4 cities, 99 problems, 1 million 468 thousand crown and cokes, and the administration of several thousand lashes on unfortunate charlatans who crossed their paths. But not so strangely, the number boils down to “one” when it comes to Jennifer. Hence, this is why we will all gather to celebrate their togetherness on April 16th.

Rastaman the Griot (spoken to Bulworth), “You got to be a spirit! You can’t be no ghost.”

-Paul Im

                   Most people don’t know what a promoter actually does. But they know that events, especially great ones, don’t just magically happen. Whether conceived on the back of a bar napkin or in a corporate board room, events are planned. They are promoted from start to finish. When promoted perfectly, the event becomes seamless, the audience doesn’t even realize that anything exists other than the magic happening on stage. Transfixed by the beauty of the music (or whatever the medium), the audience doesn’t—and shouldn’t—need to know anything else that is happening.

                   I’ve been a promoter for ten years. My training began with getting fellow Berklee students to attend my own shows and has progressed to promoting international jazz festivals, a Los Angeles jazz club, dance concerts, and fundraisers. The best way to describe it is, basically, we learn as we go. I learn from the success and failure of great promoters like Rocco Somazzi, Darlene Chen, Chris Baca, and Catalina Popescu. I listen to them revel in how they managed to pack a club or fill a concert hall for Ravi Coltrane and Cassandra Wilson, but I also listen to their complaints when an agent oversold or a radio DJ read the copy wrong, or the band got stuck in a typhoon in Malaysia and didn’t make it in time. I soak it all in.

                    This last weekend, I promoted the great Blue Note recording artist, Aaron Parks, at Cafe Metropol. It was not a completely successful weekend by any means, but it was certainly a memorable one, a weekend that tested my strength and resilience, but also tugged at my heartstrings.

                    On Friday afternoon, I picked up Aaron and we headed for the Artist District at the Eastern end of downtown Los Angeles. After an uneventful sound check and a rather disconcerting conversation with the drunken piano tuner whose choice description of the piano was that “it’s like an old whore, too broken in to be fixed.” Fortunately, Aaron was a true gentleman who found the positive in everything. Since he was here for two nights, he mused, he might as well get to know this instrument, not just play it. They got to know each other by the end of Saturday night.

                      Despite aggressive promotion with both social media and traditional press channels, Friday night was a disaster. Too many empty seats to count. LA wasn’t ready for Aaron Parks this last weekend. These are the nights promoters fear most, the nights when the talent is world-class and the turn out is not. Afterwards I stayed up until 7am, unable to sleep, feelings of frustration and despair churning in my stomach. I tried to wash it away with a few vodka tonics, but it wasn’t helping. I told myself, “Fuck this. I am going to quit. I am over it. If people don’t care, why do I care?” I felt an intense sadness and raging bitterness all night.

                     On Saturday I woke up at 10am with less than three hours of sleep, showered, and decided to hit the streets with newly printed makeshift tickets. I was going to fill the club no matter what. I was determined. I headed to Hollywood on the 101. I convinced the indie-rock chick at Amoeba Music on Sunset to announce my ticket giveaways on the store intercom. A few people lined up to get their free tickets and ask about the event. I sneaked into a celebrity pool party on Cahuenga by bribing the bouncer, and asked the beautiful, blond, sunkissed bartender to give away tickets for me. I had a Mojito and tipped her well. I hit every hotel concierge and every valet within a 10 miles radius of my club asking to them hawk tickets for me. I called everyone on my cell phone, including ex-girlfriends, to invite them to the club. “Bring your new boyfriend—what’s his name? Travis?” With the advent of social media and constant connectedness, I almost forgot how to promote the “old-fashioned” way. I held the stack of paper tickets in my hand and felt its weight. I talked to CD buyers in jazz sections at record stores from Hollywood to Silver Lake and gave them tickets, hand to hand. I looked them in the eye, and invited them personally. A jazz fan to another jazz fan, we manged to connect for a moment without broadband or online ticketing. A little grassroots goes a long way. Hitting the pavement paid dividends. After the long day on the streets, I spent an hour with close friends, Michael and Charmaine. We sipped decaf iced coffee and enjoyed their beautiful Hollywood bird sanctuary and organic garden. My favorite jazz singer in the world who happened to be on tour in LA stopped by and shared conversation. Then I hit downtown boutiques in Little Tokyo and Grand Central Market with tickets in hand.

The result: a full house that night.
I was reborn.

                     As I was closing down the piano and the rest of the sound equipment after a stellar and inspired performance, Aaron came over and told me that, like me, he has Tourette’s Syndrome, although less severe. Over a carafe of Oregon Syrah, we talked about what it’s like to have Tourrette’s and play music. He told me he admired how I can emcee without fear and do what I do with this condition. People sometimes tell me this, but, actually, I don’t often think about it—my mother taught me from an early age to not make much of it—but I was glad he brought it up. I admired him because he is one of the world’s best—and youngest—piano players who is destined for a great career. I liked him because we shared something in common.

                   Being a promoter is not safe. But it’s FUN. All promoters chase the jackpot of the full house, the standing room only ovations, the encores. Good promoters can make that happen more often than others. I don’t know if I am a good promoter, but I do know this: being a promoter is about connecting with people, and luckily, unlike some other professions, you can always recover from a slow night. With effort, you can always be reborn. The only requirement is you must have faith.

Aaron Parks & Paul Im at C-Met 2009

Ernie Watts at C-Met

             The church that Trane built in the 1960s was intact and flourishing last night at the Café Metropol in Los Angeles. At the altar was a jazz legend in his own right, the great Ernie Watts, holding fast to the rich legacy of John Coltrane, but powerfully releasing his own musical energy to a sell-out club of long-time fans.

            For me, presenting Ernie Watts was a dream and a blessing. As a promoter I cherished this opportunity. Like the hand-written letters soldiers would carry in the packs to remind them of the things at home that truly mattered, I carry these moments with me to remind me to stay focused when things might not make sense again in the future.

I met Mr. Watts after one of his performances with Kurt Elling while they were touring last year on their Grammy Award-Winning album. I’ve gotten to know him and his wife Patricia through mutual friends. But in a way, I met Mr. Watts many years ago through his music and his work. As an aspiring saxophone player, I stumbled upon Ernie Watt transcriptions at Whittaker Music in Long Beach. I bought them only to realize when I got home that I couldn’t copy what he played. Inspired nevertheless, I listened to his records with Charlie Haden’s Quartet West and many others.

             During the first set, Mr. Watts introduced one of his original compositions called Tributary. He said, “This piece is a tribute to John Coltrane.” He then added, “But then again, all of my music is basically a tribute to Coltrane.” As a saxophone player I knew what he meant. The church of John Coltrane is never far away from any saxophone player. Mr. Watts felt the power in Coltrane’s music from a young age and his connection to Coltrane and his music is well documented in the history of jazz. Listening to Mr. Watts, I felt the connection in a profound and visceral way.

            The church Trane built was alive and well, his creative spirit embodied in Mr. Watts’ expression. Yet when he played last night, while we felt Coltrane’s spirit, we knew that we were listening to the one and only Ernie Watts. I was mesmerized by his immaculate tone, brilliant passages and soulful expression on his saxophone, but furthermore I felt the compassion in his playing. Mr. Watts plays with empathy.

            The quartet played two sets of almost all original compositions. The club was packed with eager listeners. Later that night, my friend—who’d masterfully engineered the sound for Mr. Watt’s performance—and I drove in silence all the way home. No words were necessary. The music and the spirit spoke last night at the Cafe Metropol, and we, like everyone else in the room, had listened.

You read The Game three times
              because that is how many times
              it should be read.
Three times
              is the magic number.

Pickup Artists travel in threes.
Drive M3′s.
Pickup lines come in threes.

              Prompt,

              Follow,

                          and BAM!

the pickup line.

If you followed all the rules of The Game,
              it was believed that
                          BOOYA!
              Panties would fall,
              like rain.
              Bitches everywhere,
              ballers reign.

You wait three days before you call that number
             on the napkin, in your iphone.
You wait three days because
             Pickup Artists wait three days.
You take her to a three-star somewhere,
             balling like 50.
You continue with your triple lines
             in chapter three of the book
             you read three times.

You bang triple-gram rocks.
You slowly put your hand on the small of her back,
             where the tramp stamp is stamped.
You lean over to close.
             A.B.C.
             Always Be Closing

             Always Be Closing

You follow the rules in Chapter 33 on how to close.

Three AM
You wonder what happened.
You reach for the book.