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Gonzo Report: Trick and Alderighi's 4 hands make light work of old songs
There's no place quite like Dizzy's
Alderighi and Trick entertain, educate and immerse at Dizzy's.
“Gerbil porn will be the instrument of my demise,” I mutter in the parking lot of Dizzy’s on Morena Boulevard, where Stephanie Trick and Paolo Alderighi are performing this evening. Getting to the club, which is housed in the Musician’s Association Union building's Arias Hall, has been arduous because of the rain and the corresponding lack of road skills on display, not to mention the closure of chunks of Morena and the confusing detours. I’m off balance, having spent too much energy wondering why dipshits can’t take their foot off the accelerator or put away their phones while driving. My conclusion, alluded to above, is that a new installment of rodent rutting has dropped somewhere on the interwebs, and these morons are in a hurry to get home and watch it in private, thus threatening to make me a statistic. An unlikely explanation? Sure, but not as unlikely as a piano growing four hands and playing itself, which is what I envisioned when I first heard the term "four-handed piano."
Instead, I find Trick and Alderighi, each using two hands and sharing a piano. As it turns out, they’re as fun to watch perform as the aforementioned self-playing instrument was in my imagination. By the time I hand my 10-clam entrance fee to Chuck Perrin, the founder of the club, I am happily out of my headspace and into the moment. We chat, and I ask the standard questions about how long he’s been doing this (25 years). When the conversation turns to music and the musicians who’ve performed at Dizzy’s, I find I'm infected with his enthusiasm — particularly for drummer Terry Bozzio (Frank Zappa, Missing Persons). The positive interaction resets my attitude; now I can concentrate on the show. What I can’t do is get a beverage or something to eat, because there’s no bar, no restaurant — not even a vending machine in the hallway. You can bring stuff in, but you won’t hear the clanking of dishes or orders being placed. It’s all about music with minimal distractions.
I talk for a bit with Carol, who drove from Alpine to San Diego alone because none of her friends wanted to make the trek. She turns me on to some broadcasts out of her former state of Alabama, and I make a mental note to check them out. They're live performances by lesser-known musicians who are not-at-all-known to me — at least for now.
In honor of Black History Month, Trick and Alderighi perform numbers from Black artists, many hailing from the Harlem renaissance. I happen to be reading the book Jazz by Toni Morrison this week. Not out of preparation for this show or as a nod to subdivided history, but because she’s Toni fucking Morrison and few can match her lyrical prose, her ability to express in words what for most of us can be only heard and felt. Up on the stage, the two musicians appear to use different techniques on their shared piano, at least from a visual standpoint. But what's heard has a marvelous unity: their control of dynamics and dexterity result in pristine acoustics, and their grins attest to the nonverbal link that they share.
They give introductions to each song, noting why it’s important. They talk about Louis Armstrong singing “Jeepers Creepers” to a horse in the 1938 film Going Places, and about how Boogie Woogie was invented by car mechanics whose trade gave them enhanced strength in their left hands, and about Nat King Cole as a pianist, someone I always thought of solely as a singer. They give a context, a backdrop. But it’s the performing of these songs that are over a hundred years old, and seeing them being enjoyed by a room full of people of all ages from all walks of life, that makes it immersive, that shifts the mindset.
After the show, I chat with Adam and Sarah, our conversation sparked by the former’s shirt — featuring Elvis coked to the gills with then-President and Nixon — and my own Donna Summer tank top. The duo is possibly old enough to drink, but not by much, and they ask me about other open-to-all places like Dizzy’s. I tell them about the Spacebar workshop and a few other venues where I’ve enjoyed jazz, as well as some of the local rock haunts. Trick and Alderighi are also friendly and approachable. When Adam and Sarah try to purchase a CD, Alderighi insists on making it a gift and inscribes it for the couple.
I watch Perrin putting away chairs with help from some patrons and consider telling Adam and Sarah that, while there are other clubs out there — more all the time, it seems — there’s no place quite like Dizzy’s. Then I figure they’ll see for themselves, and that’ll be better. Because, like music in general and jazz in particular, description usually falls short of experience. Unless you’re Toni fucking Morrison.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Gonzo Report: Trick and Alderighi's 4 hands make light work of old songs
There's no place quite like Dizzy's
Gonzo Report: Trick and Alderighi's 4 hands make light work of old songs
There's no place quite like Dizzy's
Alderighi and Trick entertain, educate and immerse at Dizzy's.
“Gerbil porn will be the instrument of my demise,” I mutter in the parking lot of Dizzy’s on Morena Boulevard, where Stephanie Trick and Paolo Alderighi are performing this evening. Getting to the club, which is housed in the Musician’s Association Union building's Arias Hall, has been arduous because of the rain and the corresponding lack of road skills on display, not to mention the closure of chunks of Morena and the confusing detours. I’m off balance, having spent too much energy wondering why dipshits can’t take their foot off the accelerator or put away their phones while driving. My conclusion, alluded to above, is that a new installment of rodent rutting has dropped somewhere on the interwebs, and these morons are in a hurry to get home and watch it in private, thus threatening to make me a statistic. An unlikely explanation? Sure, but not as unlikely as a piano growing four hands and playing itself, which is what I envisioned when I first heard the term "four-handed piano."
Instead, I find Trick and Alderighi, each using two hands and sharing a piano. As it turns out, they’re as fun to watch perform as the aforementioned self-playing instrument was in my imagination. By the time I hand my 10-clam entrance fee to Chuck Perrin, the founder of the club, I am happily out of my headspace and into the moment. We chat, and I ask the standard questions about how long he’s been doing this (25 years). When the conversation turns to music and the musicians who’ve performed at Dizzy’s, I find I'm infected with his enthusiasm — particularly for drummer Terry Bozzio (Frank Zappa, Missing Persons). The positive interaction resets my attitude; now I can concentrate on the show. What I can’t do is get a beverage or something to eat, because there’s no bar, no restaurant — not even a vending machine in the hallway. You can bring stuff in, but you won’t hear the clanking of dishes or orders being placed. It’s all about music with minimal distractions.
I talk for a bit with Carol, who drove from Alpine to San Diego alone because none of her friends wanted to make the trek. She turns me on to some broadcasts out of her former state of Alabama, and I make a mental note to check them out. They're live performances by lesser-known musicians who are not-at-all-known to me — at least for now.
In honor of Black History Month, Trick and Alderighi perform numbers from Black artists, many hailing from the Harlem renaissance. I happen to be reading the book Jazz by Toni Morrison this week. Not out of preparation for this show or as a nod to subdivided history, but because she’s Toni fucking Morrison and few can match her lyrical prose, her ability to express in words what for most of us can be only heard and felt. Up on the stage, the two musicians appear to use different techniques on their shared piano, at least from a visual standpoint. But what's heard has a marvelous unity: their control of dynamics and dexterity result in pristine acoustics, and their grins attest to the nonverbal link that they share.
They give introductions to each song, noting why it’s important. They talk about Louis Armstrong singing “Jeepers Creepers” to a horse in the 1938 film Going Places, and about how Boogie Woogie was invented by car mechanics whose trade gave them enhanced strength in their left hands, and about Nat King Cole as a pianist, someone I always thought of solely as a singer. They give a context, a backdrop. But it’s the performing of these songs that are over a hundred years old, and seeing them being enjoyed by a room full of people of all ages from all walks of life, that makes it immersive, that shifts the mindset.
After the show, I chat with Adam and Sarah, our conversation sparked by the former’s shirt — featuring Elvis coked to the gills with then-President and Nixon — and my own Donna Summer tank top. The duo is possibly old enough to drink, but not by much, and they ask me about other open-to-all places like Dizzy’s. I tell them about the Spacebar workshop and a few other venues where I’ve enjoyed jazz, as well as some of the local rock haunts. Trick and Alderighi are also friendly and approachable. When Adam and Sarah try to purchase a CD, Alderighi insists on making it a gift and inscribes it for the couple.
I watch Perrin putting away chairs with help from some patrons and consider telling Adam and Sarah that, while there are other clubs out there — more all the time, it seems — there’s no place quite like Dizzy’s. Then I figure they’ll see for themselves, and that’ll be better. Because, like music in general and jazz in particular, description usually falls short of experience. Unless you’re Toni fucking Morrison.
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