The first rays of dusk suffuse Art Blakey’s Greenwich Village apartment with shards of amber gray light, and as the shadows dance upon his brow, Blakey’s face takes on a totemic grace. The snow-white hair fades out of the foreground becoming the color of frosted granite, and all attention is brought to bear on his face: the half-drawn shades of his eyes, wary and curious; the broad mouth, lips pursed together in one part snicker, one part sneer; the high sculpted cheekbones; the quizzical, bemused brow, projecting majestic dignity. As the light recedes, the ritual mask the drummer presents to the world drops away and something much older and more mysterious than Art Blakey peeks through the darkness. It’s the countenance of a spirit—a tribal elder of rhythm. You can see that spirit peek through on the bandstand, too, as Blakey leads his young charges, the Jazz Messengers, as he […]

December 2021 Issue