![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimmHJqdfhoCOv67_3ttV7Mh_C4hXDi4mMSkKzideQ_u7Zh1tWfUcjrUEuVwe8lkbLhKaW407CiPEYdHxDFXk2PnpPInIAuuErpigBFszobBGayww5S0JPtgG_k5yP0lqaDC9OmaZK7qRE/s320/0-001+004.jpg)
Photographer William Claxton, sometimes called Clax, was a major force in record album jackets--fashion and advertising as well--for 50 years. Some of his covers for Pacific Jazz and a fine reminiscence he wrote were recently featured at Steven Cerra's splendid Jazz Profiles blog, here. I wrote my own small tribute, with some of Claxton's classic photographs as visuals.
I see a forest of umbrellas dance
in the second-line strut of many brass bands.
Click.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFV1NnDDY-iaJPHXaR-3XCmkMzMX_Ry0x6uXA5aIb6B_77YKrxDkGNDV71yYw0rRHOeQ7VR3lLiD29-9W6Yck6U3MUk04iP4QiUBu7RQjJUpxWs3wqOZcZ-pV9OkWxN3qti6w2jsMjTHg/s200/0-001+058.jpg)
Alto spiked deep in his arm, Art trudges
up the steep street: Jazz's
weary junkie Sisyphus. Click.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqoVACTINK26QdjLspxSTHcIbJSqz9LnXASs-jGIVwEUAtR38o88qhJ1CvkZLNIiyqF9Dm66_1auMdHXUaL7YJbt5doTQkIs8jR-BtBYy0OaM46QgmGF71vwFneGjLGIq25mlTvj7Uy7M/s200/0-001+044.jpg)
In the silent bell for Round Seven,
Red hears Heaven's
black keys instead: click.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcPcagjbTgKLS71zUjP1Sb-hRQTtIg8dTMACqGxt3H3mN6AxRwt3aLgM6hyfzFjt1e9WQu5RGJBADraSbsDXn9TJjM4tzac1rE_VIXUhyphenhyphenglIQMJ25udmgMhZOjj807Fy2Xx84XXgR73a8/s200/0-001+046.jpg)
Chet and... what was her name?
... curled into their separate dreams,
and yet they clicked.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpRE4rvLz-WXnj2OYhFhSJHxXP9Rr9crsR5QTMuafjeGPgR9PE-da-F8rpP0bPRotxslM5QJa3MnKYGFIKzcSwOT77meSSNMWsyVNdRetkWTdFFjnW44e5WiaXrJ_Jf9e0YTd0-Lg88bI/s200/0-001+016.jpg)
Monk grinned from the trolley.
Sonny leaned like a Joshua tree.
Ornette stubbornly stared, and I clicked.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOS6pjqisv4lWXZOruwnPL-QwWCjOQgILDnmvLj_Q7xOtjPXWUILURmNR3zMQgijLrRAmmBK3-dTHTlHPbiiETP-8fGOjTPSzflTYYgCkULpQ8w9nq1_dbpwnIlTWNYXVL2EThMDNFLeM/s200/0-001+018.jpg)
I shot from the Haig to Bourbon Street,
to Manhattan's top salons, a fete
of photos. And each shot clicked.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJiV_mlpvuGd8dYJ0RhneHXWeWM4GdBKK4D5k47oHb7CeWhV2CUDaPG4eRRR8f3m6h7V2-2-AyqFjlMspOiIHQ0FuJGqFq6aqsKyvBOhyphenhyphenYDd3JQa2jTma8beLib2JKikEHeKyKC8mwYM/s200/0-001+015.jpg)
I was West Coast most, I was
the Lighthouse and Pacific Jazz.
My lenses decried the cliques
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizZJZots-yYzTMJtrDvXHIafQQh5BUtSFghLMXDQX7jUAqBiC7kZ9-C7V9J9hb4zo3uZl9ckt2C05bea6qRl_mlyke-A2DvR2H1stpIawIJaLPUuFgvhCMo3RgRuz0WJoFSDvHyBIR1Zw/s200/0-001+051.jpg)
invented by fool critics;
I worked both coasts, and in my Rolleiflex
the twain met, clickety-click,
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinUv_IoIxHvNyn09fAwCvkZwqTg7-adRU-stBVHuT07bAahyBeH8WYgJycHWGtXodc6GIx6PXPz5kDdgtXDs0N7tbpkxI1JU7kh0_eH3mSIS0xkUicP1o3BnsWtHf_WzHSDQrBleWAquQ/s200/0-001+053.jpg)
like the U.P. tracks. Five decades.
A million photos. Nikon, icons; heads
of the state of Jazz, heavenly bodies. Click.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFHdQU5oP7ihaoUvxU39_haSPrLSLzxw-v886MbGD0iBXLVD3Xh_T7yTTxFubJB4gEPZMGYl51OH9MRhLow6XSNfxKwpMonJK3ruOB_KaZNqggy80s7Y67TxT9q70Io4jhPnGyvqZqWtc/s200/0-001+033.jpg)
Click. Click. Paul goofing at the piano, Zoot
rapt in sax and smoke, and always Chet--
his hair, his thousand-yard stare, clicks-
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdvLuvf6ET62jJk-XBjANNzIwp-6X3TNTkd3OTmrhRm3P5V3GodeaMN6SHhyphenhyphenDw0MRo647HDhMAKeXwrQ8Ek4wpIuS7zO4KXrzynqTvtx2kZmdcDqS4YQ9VaGKcvM7FDdkIEJMQ3dFOlsc/s200/0-001+050.jpg)
distant ghost. I snapped Trane
stepping up and Dinah getting down,
Cannon at the Apollo and Pres on the edge... click,
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOK-1aASQzYcXWLvA80OGx6WFh-UG_MNRxmn6pRuXLxWW_7H2jhFXw2nGrhRBF6ipKgtx3TTgPLO0Rfv1bWDsqcUG1SesYTTQrAWmZysNEGJPNxEqLhIdVJ4Lmie5Q7hKKGU2OpkV5tsE/s200/0-001+045.jpg)
gone. Shadows and light, all of my days.
But at night I worked cameraless, eyes
trapping an image with each blink:
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJRwLfvHE9WYDEUKjt3G-_Rb4Waf8hdjcGb6DG_5EaJBKSZA6vIhakawDrDiKoCiyLPh5xRtkY8UGYjzZoBJC6s1X8itv3M7Gd6BGcCaIT_A9eBKFHu9nfz2hCJaq-A4iqVhunQkbQbQ/s200/0-001+042.jpg)
Billie bright-eyed and Max suddenly still,
Gerry's big horn at rest, and all
of Ben focussed, and Duke... beyond. Blink,
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQXVfYlzPvoBh2C36Z9MB3lKlQCIWZhDn-SgjqPqdoOahR7A7oSepuIHctL9muqwhcxz4AhRGBlIUzdnIInmN3ZnUiVsj2lXzK85a9xlr4HW1_D_bmI-jABz4EQJOZsIB6T2cQEIzjw2s/s200/0-001+020.jpg)
blink, a photographer's dream,
eye am the REM cam
flickering... blinking...
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib979XFuiPkovM1H8DMX7sI1rlYZd8odgJ1evqWmH949U1nyEV9ViMYnVb61gXlabQJLY1W3CU_H6hdAhMXxQDhj3rImIcV1WpfhIxyQAmEJZzEnIiXbr4aqFuzjVAi3IemeC2NXQ2bc4/s200/0-001+002.jpg)
till I wake back
in Shorty's world, me, Clax,
still alive and clicking.
2 comments:
Very nice. Even I, upon whom poetry is normally as lost as Amelia flying circles around Howland Island, dug this piece. Thanks!
And backatcha. Generous words from a notoriously tough critic!
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