The Divine One

Already a strange day for coincidences. A friend from grade school (indeed, our mothers were college roommates, and her father and my grandfather were both local judges) called to say while working in Napa Valley that she was working with another friend who I know from St. Louis (and a former bartender at Hammerstone's, where the Voodoo plays, no less), who is also out in Napa, and traveling back and forth. And they both randomly attended a house concert that I gave in June 2011.

Then the kicker later on. I saw and heard the wonderful Anne Hampton-Calloway at Jazz at the Bistro tonight. She did a great tribute to the incomparable Sarah Vaughan. Incomparable is an overused word, but if it ever applied to anyone, it applied to the Divine One. Anne put on a great show, with lots of tidbits about the sassy Ms. Vaughan. Toward the end of the set, she talked about finally hearing her live, after years and years of collecting her wonderful records. She had heard her at the Blue Note in New York. During that run, Sarah was diagnosed with lung cancer. In fact she had to cut the last day of performances short because of her illness. Those were her last public performances before she died a year later, in 1990.

I had to reconstruct the timeline and refresh my memory (including a little Wikipedia), but the inescapable conclusion is: Sharon and I also attended one of those shows in Sarah Vaughan's last ever run. It was my birthday treat that year. We were not flush, to say the least, in those days, so a night in New York at the Blue Note in Greenwich Village, a few blocks from where I was to attend law school a couple years later, was a pretty dad-gummed big stretch. But she did it up right for me that night. We took the train in, ate at the club, saw the show, and in general had a total gas.   Although she was ill, you could not tell it from the performance - it was something I'll never forget - what a voice! We reveled in the whole experience - with Sarah Vaughan, you did not so much as listen to the music, but soak in its luxuriousness as it rained down on and enveloped you.  And we were absolutely determined not to be the "poor country bumpkins" for that show but rather to be "real" New Yorkers for a night - right down to the tip.  After discussion, we had decided to leave a sizable tip because we were so pumped up from the show and the night. We later figured out that I had miscalculated, and left way more than we intended (and we had intended to be generous). Our server sort of caught us on the way out and asked if we had meant to leave that much, and we smiled and said "Sure thing!" or something like that, and she gave us more than the normal level of "thank you" (hey, she flagged us down in the first place).  We only figured out later that we had goofed, and I'm 99.9% sure it was me who messed up the calculation. Although we could barely afford it, Sharon was great just chalked it up to an unforgettable night. We knew she had died shortly after we saw her, but neither of us knew (until tonight) that we had literally seen one of her very last shows on her last public engagement.

The Blue Note has been good to us over the years. I took my parents to see a stand-out performance by Arturo Sandoval there - they were blown away. I think they're expectations were that it was going to be pretty good, but it was truly spectacular. Then, just last year, on a school visit trip, Nathaniel, Sharon, Lynn and I went to see Stanley Clarke, which was mind-blowing. We've seen him twice since, including in St. Louis and then two weeks ago in DC. In short, whenver Stanley Clarke is within listening distance, we go - it's just that simple. In New York, he played with a 15 year-old phenom from Russian Georgia - we were pleased to see him again in DC (at a ripe old 16), and felt truly 'in the know' - he was also with a 17-year old drummer. We'll be able to say 'we saw them when...'  And we were able to say, "Well, when he was 15 he played this way, but now he's really grown....

Back to Ms. Vaughan: The song Anne introduced was the Sondheim classic, Send in the Clowns, which Sarah was doing at the time. I honestly don't remember if that was on the set we heard, but this clip (recorded in 1987) of Sarah singing that song really does capture what that night felt like.  Or rather, as close as a YouTube clip can - although I tried a little above, words cannot describe hearing the Divine One live - I'm glad we got the chance.  On reflection, as it turns out, that was the ABSOLUTE BEST way to have spent our limited shekels (even including my over-tip), because I still remember it nearly 25 years later like it was yesterday.  Thanks for that, Sharon!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DdnRRW2gINw

A "Life Changing Experience"

About 10 days ago, Nathaniel had a couple of days off from school, around the Columbus Day holiday. A lot of his weekend was spent hanging with his friends. On Thursday night, with no school the next day either, he called to say he and his friends, Pete and Nick, were going to a place near Pete's, together with Pete's folks, to hear some music and did I want to come along?

The draw was this: apparently, they thought my good buddy and jazz guitarist extraordinaire, John Farrar, was playing, and that there was a chance his kid brother Jay was going to show. For those of you not in the know (as I wasn't when I first started playing with John many years ago now), John's brother Jay was in Uncle Tupelo with Jeff Tweedy, and then that band broke up and Jay and Jeff went their separate ways, Jeff forming Wilco and Jay forming Son Volt, both of which bands have had enormous commercial success. Uncle Tupelo is widely credited with creating the "alternative country" genre, and although Wilco may be more generally well-known, Son Volt has a raft of absolutely dedicated fans. They record and tour frequently and have been on Letterman, Austin City Limits and so on and so on. They're big time. And Pete's family in particular are dedicated Son Volt fans, and my son is not far behind.

So I naturally accepted the invitation. Nathaniel tells me to meet at Pete's, as it's walking distance from there. I know Pete's neighborhood, and I don't remember a lot of clubs around there. Then Nathaniel texts me that it's BYOB - and the Holohan family will hook the boys up with sodas, etc., but I might want to chuck a few beers along. And there "might be" food. Curiouser and curiouser.

When I show up to Pete's, I ask his dad Michael what's the deal with this place. He seems mildly surprised I don't know about Joe's Cafe, and says to me slyly, "Well, this is going to be a life changing experience." He wasn't kidding - or far off (or should I say "Farrar off" - sorry couldn't resist).

We walk around the corner (literally) to Joe's Cafe, and Michael is giving me the scoop. Joe's is a private club run by Bill Christman. Bill is a local artist who's had this place going for a number of years. It had in previous iterations been open to the general public, but because of

its proximity to Washington University, it morphed into more of a college hang than Bill really desired. So he shut it down, then reopened it as a private club, open only to members and their guests. Bill kind of has to know you, and who you're bringing. I think Michael even went by earlier in the day to give Bill the heads up that he was bringing three 15/16 year old boys, including his son, as a way to specially vouch for them (they are cool, if I do say so myself).

Around the corner the group encounters Bill, sitting outside the club, with a sign that says "Members - $5, Guests of Members - $10."  The boys are introduced and given the all-clear. I also pass the screening process (not a foregone conclusion, mind you, but Michael said I was a good musician - I think that helped). Michael had been explaining that this place also served as a studio for Bill's eclectic art. Bill designed Beatnik Bob's Museum of Mirth, Mystery and Mayhem at the City Museum in St. Louis. And this place is like walking in to the City Museum, except imagine it in a much smaller space, but the same amount of stuff, and everything crammed together. Everywhere you look there is something really cool. The stage is like a vaudeville stage. Neon lights glow everywhere. We nestle down to great seats, and Michael shows me around. Outside, in the side yard, there is more stuff than you can possibly imagine. Think of going to Gringo Jones near the Botanical Garden, mixed with the City Museum, and a bar with a vaudeville stage. For those who grew up in Southern Illinois, remember old "Big John" in front of the grocery store, towering 30 feet in the air? Well, I found him - he's buried up to his waist in

Bill Christman's side yard, still holding his grocery sacks, but with other stuff all around his big ol' muscular arms. Don't worry - he looks very very happy to be there (at least, he still has that same big grin). Behind him there's an old elevated train car, up on tracks. It just goes on and on. Oh, and did I mention some folks were set up outside cooking up the most delicious BBQ - not part of the club, but clearly "friends of Bill" and the community - $5 or so bought a meal that was pure heaven!

So when we go back in, Michael tells Pete he should give the guys the tour, and I say yes, you've got to see this place. Nathaniel looks up and says he's been before. Michael and I are incredulous that he could have failed to mention it to me, and he says, in absolute earnestness and seriousness, "Why? It's just a place with a bunch of stuff in it." The line of the night - and pure Nathaniel, for those who know him.

So the band filters in. It turns out John is not playing at all, but it is a country group called Colonel Ford. Jay is not the main feature, but just "one of the guys: in the band, playing pedal steel guitar. (Not to worry - there was no shortage of Farrar's - Dade Farrar plays stand up "slap" bass with Colonel Ford, and is a great singer in his own right.) Colonel Ford plays country - and I mean country, complete with fiddle player Justin Brannun who had just won the Grand Masters Fiddle Contest in Nashville earlier in the month. They were playing George Jones, Buck Owens, the whole nine yards. They describe themselves as playing in the "Hillbilly" genre on their Facebook page. I didn't even know that was a genre - I guess that's what you'd call pre-Rockabilly as I think about it. Anyway, everyone had a gas, especially the boys (interesting, as this is not "their" kind of music - but they like good stuff no matter what it is).

Here's a Youtube link to a performance at Joe's Cafe by Colonel Ford earlier this year - I can tell you this video does not do justice to the visual and audio experience of hearing these guys in this venue. You can't help but smile when you're there....

Or, as Nathaniel succinctly put it on Facebook:

"Colonel Ford + Jay Farrar = Fantastic"

Indeed, a man of fewer words than his father. But he says it all.

Gig from Heaven

I've had plenty of gigs from the other place (h-e-double toothpicks, as my brother used to say). But Saturday, June 26 was quite the other way.

I must say that I was not in the right frame of mind going in. Work had been difficult (not killer hours, but a stressful time). The gig had been "on the books" for a long time, which presents its own challenges (you think you have oodles of time, so you end up wasting it all). This particular weekend, it was one of four performances, with prior two weekends leading up being three-fers themselves.

So the gig in question was playing a concert in the series that the White County Historical Society had set up. I grew up in White County (Carmi, to be precise), and the local historical society had gotten a nice grant from the Smithsonian for a presentation on "Roots Music". They supplemented the museum presentation with concerts, and wanted me to do one on the history of blues and/or jazz, more or less. I had something of a free reign within that general directive to do what I wanted. A week or so before the concert I reviewed the write up I had done on what the program involved, and realized I had bitten off more than could reasonably be accomplished in a short evening:

"Program Description: We will trace the history of jazz and blues in the 20th century, giving an historical perspective of the music. That perspective will include the influences jazz and blues had on each other as distinct genres, the similarities and differences between jazz and the blues, and the influences of both on other popular music genres in the 20th century--most notably rock and roll, country, "soul" music and the big band/swing music of the 1940s.
We will also touch upon what makes jazz "jazz"? What kind of music do jazz musicians read? Do they in fact read music? How do they voice chords in a jazz style?"

Luckily, I saved myself by including a last line: "But mostly it will be about playing and listening to great music."

The bass player had unexpectedly canceled less than a week before the show. I lucked out and found a great replacement (not easy for a summer Saturday - it's wedding season!). When I sent around a tune list for the guys, David remarked I had enough for a three-day jazz festival. But I had not figured out exactly what we were doing by that time.

But I had been sorting it out in my head and had a decent idea. I drove to Carmi Saturday afternoon. I was exhausted when I arrived, so I took a nap, then about 4 p.m. jotted out the rough sketches of what we would play, in what order, and what I'd say in between. I'd made 50 copies of the program and the players' bios (John Farrar, guitar, Eric Marshall, piano, and David Certain, bass - no drummer because the acoustics of the First United Methodist Church would not have worked with that). I was wondering if I was wildly optimistic. I thought it a possibility 20 people might show - I would have been very happy with 50.

Nervous is not the right word to describe my feelings as I went down to the church. I didn't know who would show, I didn't know if the program would go over, I didn't know if I'd get tongue-tied. I thought people might just be polite after the concert (people in Carmi are not the types generally to say they didn't like something like that). I wondered if the musicians would be annoyed for having to drive 2+ hours from St. Louis to get to the gig. I didn't know if they'd show up five minutes before it started (or five after!).

But as I arrived at about 6:20 or 6:25, I was the last musician to arrive. Concert attendees had started to show. We got all set up, and I was miked up for talking. The wonderful grand piano dedicated to my grandfather Max had been rolled out prominently, with the lid up so it could be heard in all its glory. My max goal of 50 people had showed up by about 6:35 for the 7:00 show, and they were reproducing my program in the church office like mad for the anticipated crowd. The musicians went back to the church school area (like a giant "green room") and we just chilled out and talked before the show.

And we walked out at 7:00 p.m. sharp (you don't start late in Carmi!). The place was packed (137 they told me later - great crowd!). We smacked them with Back at the Chicken Shack, a Jimmy Smith blues. It was an hour and 20 minutes of jazz and blues, a little tutorial on some historical facts. We ended with the Chuck Mangione '70s classic Feels So Good, and I don't think the St. Louis guys were prepared for the reaction (neither was I, but they were completely flat-footed). They had no idea that was my "coming out" tune back in 1979 at my freshman year One Niter. Mike Croghan went nuts for it, as did everyone else. So much so, David looked at me and said "we need to do an encore" - so we demonstrated the I Got Rhythm changes using the Flintstone's theme. You get a sense for when people really like a show - and Carmi really really liked this show. And the musicians loved playing to this crowd who just ate it up, and could have sat there for another couple of hours, or so it seemed. And it was a real jazz program! Who knew?

Lots of great friends there too (Sarah (Lewis) Johnsoton, Scott Fechtig, and Jana Potorff, etc.) Wish Scott Wylie could've made it, but we hung out with him, Sarah, and the jazz musicians at the Yellow Tavern afterwards.

Anyway, it was exhilarating. My favorite concert in a long, long time. Thanks Marjorie, Gary, Mom and Dad, Croghan, Sarah, Scott, Jana (and Doug Hayes, for running the mike)! I'll remember this one for a long time.

On the Edge of Being on the Edge

What does it mean to live life "on the edge"? Sometimes, when feeling particularly smug, I think that I do. But I know deep down I don't, really, compared to many.

But I had a self-congratulatory moment like that while on vacation in Turkey. (Hey, isn't being on vacation in Turkey in itself on the edge? I guess not for the 75 million Turks of the world.)

On the second night of our recent sojourn, I found myself with a small opportunity. I knew we'd be doing things "as a group" for most of the trip (not on the edge!). Which was going to be fine. But if I was going to do anything on my own, off the beaten track, I could sense, "this was it." So I asked our guide, Ozlam, about the jazz club in Istanbul that had been recommended to me by a friend of an acquaintance. She said she'd help me get there.

Maybe it's the way I look. (Someone once remarked, hearing me play in a club, "Hey, you sound great--but you look like a lawyer playing the trumpet.") Ozlam looked up the address on the map. She went over it with me carefully. She wrote down her cellphone number and made me tuck it in my wallet ("Please, please, call me if anything happens!"). Oh, and about that wallet--take out all your credit cards, she advised. Not getting the warm and fuzzies.

So about 10:00 p.m. (after the evening group meal) she loaded me into a cab and gave the cab driver the proper coordinates (in Turkish, naturally). And off I went, into the night in Istanbul with no hope of communicating with my driver.

Over the bridge and water to the north part of Istanbul. Feeling a little nervous. Ozlam had told me it was at the base of a tower. Unfortunately, not knowing Turkish, I didn't realize she had only told the cabbie to take me to the base of that tower--no club name, no precise address, let alone even the right street. I couldn't communicate well enough to make him understand my precise destination. So I paid the fare and got out. I did not see the club, so I fished around in my wallet for the address--unfortunately, I had removed the small slip of paper with the address when I took out my credit cards. (At least I still had Ozlam's number--Whew!) Asked for directions. "Up there and to the left." Those directions were meaningless, as the street layout was Byzantine. Literally.

Edgier still. Should I just pack it in and go back to our hotel? I've made a good faith effort here--who would know? Giving up would make a funny little story in and of itself. But when am I going to be in Istanbul again? So I snaked down and about (after a couple of false starts, a couple more questions of patient waiters at a couple of restaurants) and eventually made it to the club. A guitar duo playing classic jazz. (And a cover charge that would have made the owners of the Blue Note in New York blush.)

"Do you have reservations?" they asked. "No," I replied. I looked around - the place was maybe a third full, on a weeknight. Reservations--are they crazy?!?!

So I settled into my seat, taking in the amazing little scene:

A perfect, small club, with brick walls, a small bar, small round tables and a little stage with a piano and drum set, unused that night (but well worn, otherwise). The smell of clove cigarettes in the air (John Garvey, anyone? "BE QUIET!" Garv would have implored). Wonderful musicians from Europe playing wonderful American art music at the crossroads of Asia, Europe and the Middle East. I emailed my friend Matt Farmer in Illinois (coverage in Turkey was amazing), who immediately replied I should request Steely Dan's "The Fez". And guess what--in the half hour since I arrived, the place had become cram-packed --a mostly young (but all vibrant, happy, and happening) group. Reservations indeed!

A couple of over-priced beers later, the place was buzzing with energy (but quiet--it's all about the music--but they're into it, man). The group swung into "Some Day My Prince Will Come," and I thought of my man, Miles. I looked up by the entrance to the door, and saw the sheet music for the tune that is the club's namesake: "Nardis" Then in little letters, its composer (well, at least by attribution): Miles Davis.

In Istanbul.

Listening to a tune Miles made famous.

At a club named after a Miles tune.

Miles, who plays the trumpet. And who grew up in Alton, Illinois, a stone's throw from where I live now.

On the edge. And right at home.