In the context of the twelfth paragraph· (lines 81-85), the statement in lines 84-85 most nearly means that: from tourists. from scientific studies. theystudythe effects of tourism. on wildlife viewing guidelines. ACT-69F 33 GO ON TO THE NEXT PAGE. 3 lO�CT 微信号loviact 独角兽在这里 3 Passage tit HUMANITIES: This passage is adapted from the essay "Ben Webster" by Ira Sadoff (©1992 by Ira Sadoff) He's almost as wide as he is tall. His forehead is broad as an anvil. He glides onto the stage absent mindedly, as if he were on the way to somewhere else. He wears a worn-to-shine brown double-breasted suit 5 ai;id a porkpie hat. He doesn't know we're out there, any of the ten of us, in a small Amsterdam cafe in 1973. He may not know blacks and whites can use the same bath room everywhere now, that the Vietnam War is winding down, that people may want to hear his music again. He 10 was chased here a decade ago, by racial prejudice, by the lack of work, by television and rock and roll, by free jazz. He's a relic of jazz history. He snaps his fingers and nods to the rhythm sec tion. They're out of tune, they don't play together, they 15 play figures and chord changes from the fifties, they're a little too loud, and worst of all, they're bored. He's done these same tunes night after night and they want to play something more modern, more dissonant. He growls at them and keeps snapping his fingers 20 until they pick up the beat. Then he lifts up the saxo- ·· phone, opens his eyes as if for the first time, and moves to the edge of the stage, where a Dutch girl is drinking coffee and talking with her boyfriend. He moves the sax in her direction; he serenades her. He plays "Pre- 25 lude to a Kiss," a ballad he learned with the Ellington band forty years before. It makes you want to wince, unti_l h�'s eig�t n_o_tes _into the_ melody._ !_hen you find you're hypnotized by the pure beauty of his instrument, by the remarkable voice, by the wordless story the 30 melody tells. By the unrelenting melancholy, the his tory of the familiar tune played as if you've never heard it before. This is Ben Webster, two months before he dies on September 9, 1973. He's the musician who can always move you, who's relentless, who knows the 35 secret of melody. Who, like many of our artists, dies alone and impoverished and completely unappreciated. Jazz is an expression of the history of a people, because every musician must understand its history before being able to play. But rather than exalting the 40 indivic;lual imagination, rather than exalting the per versenotion that complexity and eccentricity are them selves virtues, that design and pure intellect prove the greatness of the art, jazz depends upon improvisation and community. A familiar tune is given an interpreta- 45 tion. The individual experience of the artist intersects with the community. Call and response, originated in West Africa; lets artists interact with each other, respond to each other's ideas. They can break in on one another, they can cut each other up, they can alter the so whole tone and rhythm of a piece. When I listen to the music of Ben Webster, though, I forget all the intellectual jus的cations for jazz; those rules S1mply don't apply Webster reduces me to pure feeling, to mood and attitude. I don't care what tune he 55 plays and I don't often care who's playing with him. I can't claim to hear notes I have never heard before; I don't hear configurations, inventions of melody I've never imagined. Instead I hear a voice. A human voice. A timbre, an imagination, a way of playing that com� 60 prehends the nuance, the suggestion of phrase. His tone is thick and reedy, throaty, aJmost as full of air as note. Our understanding requires patience. He might play a series of quarter,notes and then suddenly linger on the penultimate or final note of a phrase as if to say, "Look 65 at what's inside this note." Sometimes the note will bleed onto the next phrase, the next chord change. But always Webster's signature—the raspy sound and the deliberation of phrase—gives a ballad the texture of what jazz musician Rahsaan Roland Kirk would call 70 "the inflated tear." Webster moves me by the sheer force of personal ity. I see the torchy ballads in small, dimly lit cafes. I imagine a life that's full of hurtful memories. And I can see a lonely hgure holdmg back hIS rage. The outsider 75 who knows that love is the only possible salvation, but salvation is only something to long for. You only have to listen to his renditions of "Where Are You?" or "When Your Lover Has Gone," to follow the quest and be consoled by the experience. And though his tone BO darkens over his forty-year career, though he chooses gruffness over grace, the tunes change only in minor ways. He might cross out a note, a phrase, stretch or compress it, and although the change might represent an improvement, the change is not essential. Webster's 85 greatest gift as an artist is his ability to inhabit the tone of a tune each time he gets up on the stand.
