Is There Death After Life?

About ten years ago I was in a car accident that I'm fairly sure killed me. Unlike most near death experiences I've read about, there was no magical tunnel filled with light nor even a single Vestal Virgin galloping down from the Heavens to assumpt me. There was just a lot of blackness, and my head hurt a lot.

It was an interesting experience. I was enroute from a tiny town in western Queensland where I used to work to Brisbane. It was late at night and my plan was to drive straight through -- a twelve hour drive at a comfortable, law-abiding speed. My one real concern was that I might hit a Wallaroo, thus possibly breaking a headlight and being forced to pull over somewhere until daylight or risk colliding with one of the many jugganaut-sized road trains that cruised the highway at night. In case you're wondering, outback stories had it that Walleroos are nuggety little beasts, unlike their Kangaroo cousins that are routinely knocked down without causing much damage at all. So anyway, I'm coasting along this one long, straight stretch of highway and in the far distance I see a Wallaroo standing on my side of the road. I gradually swerved over onto the wrong side of the road and believed if it jumped at all, it would jump off the road rather than panic and jump in front of me. And then the wheels of my van dropped off the edge of the bitumen.

It had been drizzling with rain that night and the blacksoil beside the highway had turned to mush. I managed to pull the front wheel back up onto the bitumen but the back right-hand wheel refused to mount the highway again. At 90km per hour, this had the effect of slowly dragging the whole van sideways until that moment where I felt that's it -- I'm fucked and I let go of the steering wheel.

The van flipped completely the first time it rolled. It was completely airborne and I instantly lost my bearings of what was up and what was down, except I knew I was definitely more up than down and that this was a major, major concern. When it did crash back to the ground, it was the corner of the roof right next to my head that hit the ground. The windscreen vanished and I was showered with rocks and mud as the van skidded on its roof before launching into a second roll.

In the darkness, and aware that I was now rolling off into the darkness beside the highway, my biggest fear was that a wooden guidepost would spear me through the hole where the windscreen used to be. I was also a little non-plussed to be forced to endure another roll-over, though I was remarkably calm, I think. True to the anecdotes about dying, my life did indeed flash before my eyes. I remember consciously telling myself I wasn't in the mood to die just yet and that it was very important that I live long enough to see Mrs P and the offspring again.

After the van finished rolling that second time, I had one of those feelings you get on wild sideshow alley rides -- that feeling that yes, that was fun, but I think I want the ride to stop now kind of feelings. I also was acutely aware of the statistical chances of surviving yet another roll-over. A bit like playing Russian Roulette, firing two blanks and hoping the third is also a blank. But gravity continued sucking and over I went. The van rolled completely over a third time and ultimately landed back on its wheels and pointing back up the highway in the direction that I had come from. I think. I wasn't entirely sure.

I felt my head for fractures and expected to feel bone through my skull, such was the pain. There was a lot of mud and grit in my hair but that was about it. The rest of me felt relatively unscathed as well. A large, heavy trolley-jack in the back of the van had pounded my back through the seat and I was pretty fucking sore, but I was able to climb out of the wreck and was still alert enough to think what to do. It was the middle of nowhere and I didn't expect any traffic to pass or, should I say, I didn't feel up to standing on the side of the highway, wet and freezing while I waited for a rescue vehicle that likely wouldn't pass until morning anyway. I also knew my important papers (banking things, cheque book, etc.) had flown out somewhere back in the night and I needed light to find them. Ironically, while every single square inch of the van had been battered to smitherines, BOTH headlights still blazed brightly and didn't have so much as a single scratch!

There was also my poor ol' dog to consider. He'd been chained in the back (on a long chain) and bounced around with the trolley jack, tool box, etc. The side door of the van had broken completely off and out there, standing at the fullest distance away from the wreckage his chain would allow, was the dog. I decided to climb into the back of the van and try and get some sleep before daybreak. I was only wearing shorts and a t-shirt (and deserts are freezing at night in the middle of winter as this was) and so I needed the dog to climb in with me to keep me warm. Man, if that dog could have talked he would have said no fucking way am I getting back in that thing with you!

Eventually, I was able to drag him in the back and settle him enough that I could sleep. Poor bugger is dead now, but this is one of a few times I can genuinely say I owe my life to him.

When morning came the daily McCafferty's bus came past just as I'd expected it would. I flagged down the driver and he radioed back to the cop at the next town. Within 40 minutes, there was a cop there to take me back to town and arrange towing for the van (it was totally wrecked -- even worse than I had imagined) and for my dog to be looked after as well. He took me straight to the hospital and I was immediately checked over by a nurse.

All limbs were in the right place; there was no blood. Aside from a shocking headache, all seemed to be well. We chatted and joked about medical things (as much as one does after suffering a severe head injury) but she eventually told me to keep quiet. She had one of those this isn't good looks I've seen nurses on TV hospital shows get, and I was worried. When I asked what she thought was wrong, she told me she couldn't find a pulse: none. I had to laugh because my head, throbbing as it was, was all the proof I needed that blood was circulating somewhere in my body. She abandoned her stethoscope and checked my pulse the old fashioned way: with her fingers on my jugular. Yep. There is was. Barely. I've since heard that shock will make a person's pulse disappear like this.

But of course, it could be the case there was no pulse because I was, in fact, dead. It's an interesting thing to ponder, especially given the various Hells I feel I've endured every now and then since that fateful night in the middle of nowhere. Movies like The Matrix weird me out a lot these days too. I wonder why?

How To Play The Saxophone

First things first. If you're a white guy you'll need a stupid hat, the more stupid the better, preferably a beret. Sunglasses are optional, but all the really really good players wear them, especially indoors. You'll also need some "gig shirts" -- Hawaiians are good, in a pinch anything with a loud floral pattern is acceptable, as are T shirts from various jazz clubs and festivals. The good thing about the latter is that you can get them mail order, so you don't have to go to all the trouble of actually seeing live music. And sandals are an absolute must, even in winter.

Once you've assembled the proper attire you can begin practicing. One of the most important things about playing is being able to convey emotion to the audience. This you do through various facial expressions. The two emotions you'll need to convey are (1) rapture-slash-ecstasy and (2) soul wrenching pain and sadness (i.e., the blues).

You may find it useful in the beginning to borrow a page from the method acting school. So, for example, to convey rapture try thinking of something nice, like puppy dogs or getting a rim job from Uma Thurman while Phil Barone feeds you Armor hot dogs with truffle sauce. To convey the "blues" try thinking of something really really appalling, like ulcerative colitis or Alec Baldwin. You should practice your facial expressions in front of a mirror at least two hours per day. You may feel a tad stupid at first, but you'll never get the chicks if you don't jump around on stage like a monkey with your face all screwed up like there's a rabid wolverine in your colon, believe you me. And bottom line, chicks is really what music's all about.

Next, you'll need the correct ligature. Some people think that the ligature is just a stupid piece of old metal that holds the reed on the mouthpiece. Well, those people are idiots. Besides your beret the ligature is the single most important piece of musical equipment you will ever buy. Mine, for example, is 40% platinum and 60% titanium; one screw is rubidium and the other plutonium. It makes me sound exactly like Booker Ervin would if Booker Ervin were (1) not dead and (2) on Mars, if (2)(a) there was oxygen on Mars. You may have to spend years and years and thousands of dollars finding the proper ligature, but in the end it will definitely be worth it.

Now: reeds. Optimally you'll want to move to Cuba, grow and cure your own cane and carve your own reeds by hand. If you're just a "weekend warrior" however, you can get by with store-bought. First, buy ten boxes of reeds, 100 in all. Next, open all the boxes and throw away 60 reeds. Those were unplayable. Take the remaining reeds and soak them in a mixture of 27.8 % rubbing alcohol and 72.2 % pituitary gland extract for a period of 17 weeks. Throw away 20 more reeds. Those were stuffy. Take the remaining 20 reeds and sand each one for exactly 13 seconds with #1200 grade 3M sandpaper. Throw away 14 reeds. Those squeaked. Take the remaining 6 reeds and soak them for another 17 weeks, this time however in a mixture of 27.8% pituitary gland extract and 72.2 % rubbing alcohol. Sun dry the 6 remaining reeds for 3 weeks, optimally at an equatorial latitude, and throw away 3 more just on general principles. You now have 3 reeds that will last you several months if you play each one only 20 minutes a day in strict rotation.

Now, you say you just bought a horn. Although you didn't say what kind it is I'd sell it immediately and get a different one. The best one to get would be a Selmer Mark VI made at 4:27 PM on June 14, 1963, serial number 635543. If you can't get that one though, generally speaking the older and more expensive the better. The following brands are good: Selmer Paris Mark VI. The following brands suck: any other Selmer, Yamaha, Conn, Beuscher, Yanigasawa, Cannonball, LA, Jupiter, Elkhart, King, Martin, Keilworth, Boosey and Hawkes, Couf, Silvertone, and Holton. On no account should you play the horn before you buy it: go strictly on reputation and price. If you can't get a Mark VI and need further information, there's some broad in there who's owned every freaking saxophone ever made, Sherry or Sheryl or something, she can probably tell you which one's the best.

You will also need some accoutrements: a flight case capable of withstanding atmospheric pressure of dP = - Dg dz where D and g are, respectively, the density of air and the acceleration due to gravity at the altitude of the air layer and dz is a horizontal layer of air having unit surface area and infinitesimal thickness; a metronome; a tuner; a combination alto, tenor baritone sax stand with pegs for an oboe, bass clarinet, flute, English horn and bassoon; Band in a Box; every Jamie Abersold play along record ever created; a reed cutter; swabs, cleaners, pad savers, pad dope, pad clamps; a Sennheiser Digital 1092 Wireless Microphone; an effects rig with digital delay and parametric EQ; and a 200 watt (per channel, minimum) amplifier and 18" monitor.

It will be helpful if you listen to lots of sax players. Unfortunately, listening solely to players you like is absolutely the worst thing you can do. To really understand the music and its traditions you have to go back to the beginning and listen to every bit of music ever recorded. I'd start with madrigals and work forward. Once you get to the 20th century pay particular attention to players like Jimmy Dorsey and Sidney Bechet, the well-springs of the modern jazz saxophone. In no time at all, or by 2034, whichever comes first, you'll be able to understand the unique be-bop stylings of players like Ace Cannon, Boots Randolph and Grover Washington Jr.

Finally, to play the sax itself, blow in the small end and move your fingers around.