Tonight by the Tracks: The Foibles of Practicing the Saxophone When You’re Me

I’ve found a new place to practice my saxophone along my beloved railroad tracks.

If you’ve followed the musical side of this blog for any length of time, you know that I do most of my practicing in my car, parked by a CSX line that threads the countryside from Grand Rapids to Lansing. Living in an apartment has forced me to find a suitable “studio” away from my living quarters, and since I’ve loved trains since I was a kid, the tracks are it. I don’t mind this arrangement at all. I’ve been getting in my practice this way for years, even a couple decades, and I like it so well that even if I owned a house, I would probably still venture out to the tracks frequently.

Anyway, these past couple of months I’ve begun parking in a little turn-in next to the tracks between Alto and Elmdale, which is like hanging out halfway between Huh? and Nowhere. I love this spot. Parking parallel to the tracks, I can see the distant signal lights both behind me in the mirror and in front of me through the windshield and can spot the headlamps of approaching trains from far off. It’s great.

Of course, the sight of a car parked off to the side with its lights out and the dim outline of a person sitting inside it looks a bit suspicious, and once in a while, the cops stop and check me out. I don’t mind–they’re doing exactly what they should be doing, and usually they’re pretty nice about it. The guy who investigated me tonight was a good example.

I was sitting there ripping through “Ornithology” with my Aebersold CD when a patrol car pulled up and melted both of my retinas with its spotlight. Okay, no sweat. I kept on playing, figuring that doing so would provide the quickest explanation for what I was about.

I figured right. When the policeman walked up to my window, he was laughing. “What’s the matter? Wife won’t let you practice at home?” he said. I explained my living situation and how I had been parking by this stretch of tracks for many years. “Yeah, I think I’ve seen you out here before,” he said. “You know, my father-in-law plays trombone, and my mother-in-law gave him crap for playing it last Thanksgiving.”

“Hey,” I said, “someone understands!” I handed him my license and let him run his routine. Then we wished each other well, he took off, and I returned to my practicing. It was a clear January night with a new moon, not very cold, and through my side window I could see Orion the Hunter striding through a riot of stars in the southern sky. In my rearview mirror, a green signal light announced the approach of a train still miles down the line. Such are the perks of practicing by the railroad tracks. Why would I ever trade them for playing indoors?

Sax Practice by the Airport–Now Verboten?

It seems that practicing the saxophone now poses a threat to homeland security.

Surprised? Not nearly as surprised as I was when I first found out last night.

I surely wasn’t aware of the risk I presented when I parked my car near the railroad tracks at the end of Kraft Avenue, a stone’s throw from the hurricane fence that circumscribes the perimeter of the Gerald R. Ford International Airport. I’ll grant you, it’s an unusual location for a person to hang out at, but it’s by no means anything new for me. I’ve been parking there with varying frequency for roughly 25 years, practicing my saxophone and watching the trains go by.

Of course I’ve been checked out numerous times by the police. I haven’t minded at all; rather, I’ve appreciated that the cops have been on their toes and diligent in doing their jobs. The officers, in turn, have invariably been courteous and usually friendly, and often enough I’ve enjoyed some pleasant conversations with them. Once they determined that I was eccentric but harmless, they always drove off and left me to practice my horn in peace. Over time, a number of them came to recognize me. (Cop, peering in at me: “Oh, it’s you. Enjoy your evening!” Heads back to car and drives away.)

I’ve never had any problems at that location. Not ever. Until last night, that is, when suddenly and inexplicably everything changed.

What I’m about to share is not a rant. I’m not angry, just sad. Maybe once I gain a better understanding of whatever federal laws and/or local ordinances I’m dealing with, I will feel angry at having been jerked around. Or maybe I’ll just have a better understanding of what happened. Right now, though, I have the sense that the policeman I encountered last night was simply doing what he believed was the right thing. He didn’t project a nasty, belligerent, or power-drunk attitude; he was simply adamant that I had to leave my practice spot by the railroad tracks and not practice there in the future.

Just like that. It’s kind of like being told that the old fishing hole where you’ve fished for a quarter of a century is suddenly off limits. You’re given a reason, but it doesn’t ring true, and you get the sense that something you value has been taken from you without your ever having a voice in the matter.

Why all of a sudden? If homeland security was really the issue, which is what I was told, then why did none of the scores of other police officers I’ve encountered in that location over the long years ever mention it to me? Even in the tense months following 9/11, no cop ever requested that I relocate due to security concerns. Not that security–albeit not homeland security that I’m aware–hasn’t always been an issue in that spot. Some of the cops told me that vandalism had sometimes been a problem, and on a couple of occasions I was able to answer questions by the police concerning other visitors at the site. I’d like to think that my presence there has proved, if anything, helpful at times rather than a liability.

So here’s what happened: I was hashing out the Charlie Parker solo to “Dewey Square” yesterday evening when a police car pulled up behind me and the spotlight appeared in my mirror. No sweat; as I’ve mentioned, I’m used to having law enforcement check me out. I set down my horn in the passenger seat, handed the officer my driver’s license upon his request, and then waited while he ran a background check on me. He returned to my vehicle in a couple of minutes and handed me back my license, and at that point I figured things were clear and I could get back to my practicing.

Not so. The cop informed me that I was trespassing (perhaps because I had pulled off the road closer to the tracks, where I could see the semaphore lights, but that had never been an issue before); that I was parked in a high-risk zone less than 100 feet from airport property; and that in order to avoid compromising homeland security, he needed me to move.

Say what?

I reiterated to the officer–I had already mentioned it to him when he first appeared at my window–that I had a long and trouble-free history of practicing at this site; that I was here because the place was convenient and I enjoyed watching the trains go by; that I had been checked out countless times by the police over the years and never experienced any problem; that some of the cops had become familiar with my unusual but harmless habit; that never once had any of them asked me to move; and that this was the first time anyone had ever mentioned the issue of homeland security.

The officer in turn suggested that I relocate to the airport viewing area on the far side of the airport, where I could watch the planes. I appreciated that he was trying to offer what to him seemed like a reasonable solution, but I repeated that I liked to watch the trains. Again he raised the security issue.

“Look,” I said, “I’m not out to argue with you. I’ll leave if you insist. But I’m trying to wrap my mind around what you’re telling me, because for as many years as I’ve been coming here, and as many times as the police have checked me out, this is the first time I’ve ever been told me to leave.”

The officer said he was sorry, but that I would have to find another place to practice. Henceforth I would have to consider this location off limits.

Wow. After 25 years, suddenly out of the clear blue somebody sticks a “No Fishing” sign right in front of my nose at the old fishing hole.

Very well; I had made my case, and it’s my policy not to argue with law enforcement officers. They are, after all, the embodiment of the law, and even when I don’t agree with them, I will comply with them. As I’ve already said, this cop didn’t come across as nasty, just inflexible, and I don’t know what realities he was dealing with. Perhaps a recent change in local ordinances, or even federal law, required him to deal with me differently than what I had experienced in the past.

Then again, maybe nothing at all had changed and the guy was just being a jerk. I don’t know–right now. But I will make a point of finding out. If I need to secure some form of permissions from CSX or the airport, I’ll pursue that avenue. I hate to have a convenient and enjoyable practice place that I’ve resorted to for so many years get suddenly and seemingly arbitrarily yanked out from under me.

Even more, though, I hate the erosion of freedom that such an event reflects.

The Return of the Trains: Sax Reflections from the Railroad Tracks

It’s good to see the trains again.

As a jazz saxophonist who loves to practice his horn in his car parked by a set of railroad tracks out in the countryside, I noticed last year that something was missing. Used to be, I could count on seeing the distant semaphore light turn green and watching as the white pinpoint of a headlamp miles down the tracks brightened, drawing closer until I could hear the rumble and then the roar of the locomotive and the clatter of freight cars rushing past. I enjoyed that experience at least once, and normally two or three times, during most practice sessions.

But as the bottom dropped out of the economy and Detroit’s auto industry languished, the giant spigots that sent the trains hurtling along the pipeline between Lansing and Grand Rapids closed to a trickle. Those hundred-car, three-locomotive strings I was so used to became, just like that, a thing of yesterday.

Until lately. It gives me much pleasure to say that the trains are returning.

I still don’t see them with the frequency I used to, but I am noticing that there are more of them, and they are growing longer. Two days ago, parked by the tracks in Alto, I paused in my practice to watch as a train boomed by in front of me…and kept on booming. It was one of those hundred-car affairs, just like in the good old days, which really aren’t old at all but certainly were enjoyable.

Now those days seem to be on the way back. It may be a modest return, but the spigots are reopening. It’s heartwarming to think, as I sit by my beloved tracks working out my saxophone chops, that I’m once again likely to hear the sound of another horn, far off in the distance and growing closer, and to feel the powerful, exhilarating, reassuring rhythm of a train rushing by.

Of Sax Practice and Railroad Tracks

I just returned from a nice, two-hour saxophone practice session out by the railroad tracks.

The railroad tracks?

Oh, I guess I haven’t told you about my practice habits. They have as much to do with where I practice as what I practice.

Living in an apartment, I try to be considerate of my neighbors. I like to think that they’d enjoy my music, but realistically, there’s only so much that even the most ardent jazz lovers can take of listening to the same licks, patterns, and scales repeated ad nauseum, blaring down the hallway and through the walls. So for years, my practice room has been my car. My routine has consisted of driving to the outbacks of Kent County and parking at various locations along the CSX tracks between Kentwood and Lansing, where I practice my horn and watch for the trains to roll by.

I love trains. Obviously, I also love playing my sax. It’s nice to be able to combine those two interests in a productive way. Tonight, as I do so often, I parked at one of my favorite trackside spots near a small community called, appropriately, Alto. I didn’t see any trains, but I had a most productive practice hashing out some diminished and diminished/whole tone licks, and woodshedding the Charlie Parker tune “Ornithology” in several keys.

I always return feeling good about my playing after a session like tonight’s. The time goes so fast! And that’s as it should be.

The best way to make a living is to earn money doing things we’d pay money to do. Playing the sax is one of those things. I can’t say I make a living at it, but it certainly supplements my cash flow; it’s part of the picture of my livelihood. I’ve been at it a long time now, and most of that time I’ve been practicing in my car by the tracks–or, during the warm months, often outdoors. If I ever do buy a house and gain an honest-to-goodness practice room of my own, I think I will still maintain my railroad track sessions. I’d miss them far too much not to. Habits are hard to break, and there’s no reason to break a good one in the first place.