What's All This Jazz?

I keep drifting back to Somewhere Joe, checking for a new post, scanning the great comments he elicits, taking another long visual drink of that beautiful commercial shot of the colorful condominiums that melt into the wavy reinterpretation of their oranges in the water. As soon as his page loads, I snap to, not yet quite habituated to the beautiful jazz piece that flicks me simultaneously on both earlobes. It is noneother than Bobby Short's "Satin Doll" from his Late Night At The Cafe Carlyle album, a five and a half minute slice of music heaven. Finding the artist, the song title and the album was nothing short a full blown garden party of my well honed investigative skills. I toast me: Tink. I am so good, in fact, that I have programmed Super New Blogger's comments section to track down the physical address of every contributor. Don't worry---I studied to be a priest and am ordained solely in my respect for confidentiality. I probably shouldn't tell you that I can also see what you are wearing. Snavy, for instance, is completely naked right now. But hey, so am I.

Back in the '80s I was throwing pots for a living. Please, no tetra9hydrocannabinol jokes. I've heard them all. I also waited tables. Please no fly in my soup jokes, either. What does being a table waiting potter have to do with this story, you ask? Well, there used to be a jazz happening at the resort where I waited tables. And I was introduced to jazz. Not only was I introduced to the medium, I was introduced to the people who made it happen.

Now a few not onlys:

Not only had I never heard of Joe Williams or Mike Melvoin or Pete Christleib or Ray Brown or Kenny Burrell and a host of others, I was not a jazz fan in the least. Until I saw them play. I am here to tell you, there IS a God and her name is Jazz.

Not only did these great artists, these very approachable people all take time to talk to "the help," they loved on every person who came to appreciate them and accept their personal love along with their love of the music they made.

And talk about being friendly. I will never forget walking out with my cork bus tray to take an order on the floor and running smack dab into Joe Williams himself. I grabbed his hand to steady myself. I held hands with the man. He laughed. He was so gracious. He gave me his room key and then winked. Okay, maybe I stretch the truth a bit. He didn't wink. But from that moment on, we were in each others' brains.

One person in particular was very special: Pianist Gene Harris. Gene and his wife, Janie were pure and simple and joyous. Promoters of the annual jazz happenings, Jim and Mary Brown always made sure that every person in the room felt welcomed and included in the family that each weekend became. I got to sit with Gene and his wife for a meal. We supped together. From that moment on we were in each others' brains.

Gene died in January 2000 of kidney failure. Born in 1933, he was younger when I met him than I am now as I sit here and remember him to you. So guess what happened when I found out that he passed from this world. That's right----I cried.

Joe Williams died the day before my birthday in 1999 in Las Vegas. Speaking of BET on Jazz, I bet he didn't see that coming. So guess what happened when I found out that the great Joe Williams had passed from this world to visit his old buddy, Gene----do I even need to say it?

Now here is how being a potter ties into this whole thing: My pottery went home with many of the artists. Mike Melvoin's wife loved my pots. No room key, but she did wink at me. The entire experience was just that----one great, big wink.

Thanks to Somewhere Joe for inspiring this. What happens here is amazing...



This is an itsy-bitsy picture of Janie who keeps the soul of her late husband going at the annual Gene Harris Jazz Festival, occurring this year in early April over in Boise.

Okay, well.....New Super Duper Blogger won't let me download an image right now. I will try to edit later.

In the meantime, here is one of me naked: (JUST KIDDING!!!! SHEESH, PEOPLE.)