Reasoning
The "Party Over, Must Go Home" light in the corner of my eye had been flashing for about six minutes when I caved to the inevitable and Barbara and I went to collect our things and leave.
But we couldn't, because the most amazing music started coming out of an adjoining room. A bunch of musicians attend the Conference every year and these sort of impromptu performances tend to happen.
It was the sweet, intense voice of Lillian Boute, singing "Basin Street Blues" in a way that just dragged your heart sideways, that drew us in Then she left Henry Butler playing solo, running through songs that were genuinely familiar and music that I'd never heard before, but which seemed like something that I had really enjoyed in a past life.
The session closed out with an eight-minute flight of "Blackbird." Dangit, but I can't remember the name of the gent playing the sax.
All in all, this whole scene reminded me why I stopped taking piano lessons after four or five years. At that point, you can't simply read the music and push the keys. To advance further, you need to truly understand the message that those lines and dots and squiggles are telling you, and no matter how long I practiced or how hard I willed this to happen, I always wound up obediently translating notes into keypresses and no more.
Still, I can listen pretty good.
Many of my favorite Conference On World Affairs memories are musical. I was at the final-night party one year, mingling with about 200 people, and as often happens I found myself desperate to not talk to people and desperate not to have anybody talking to me, either.
I located the one empty room in the very big house. It was a small conservatory where the hired band had set up. But they were on a dinner break, so there was no reason for anyone to be in there.
I sank into an armchair and exploited Reason #41 why it pays to wear a hat: I lowered the front of the brim over my eyes and rested the back of my head on the chair. The OFF DUTY sign was clearly lit.
I was slightly annoyed when I heard footsteps approach. It was Dave Grusin, leading a college girl into the room. She was making noises that were clearly of the "I'm thrilled that Dave (freaking) Grusin is pulling me into the conservatory, but good form dictates that I pretend otherwise" variety. She was studying voice and Dave had put her next to the piano and taken the driver's seat, playing the opening bars to "Autumn Leaves."
She sang well. But the smile on my face under that hat came from a top, creative musician taking a sturdy old tune out for an ambitious drive. He played the melody. He played around the melody and over and under it, then chased after a shiny object off behind the treeline but came back with the melody in his mouth, and found a new way to play with it.
I was sitting back and drinking all of this in, minute after luscious minute. I didn't lift my head up until I heard eager clattering and footfalls: it was the hired band, plated of food still in their hands. They heard Dave (freaking) Grusin playing and dammit...no free catered buffet plate can compete with an opportunity to jam with one such as he.
The music went on and on and the room filled up. And the music that happened with the band and the other people was wonderful stuff. But if I wind up with the sort of death that gives me the chance to think about some stuff before the final curtain comes, one of the items on my playlist of memories will be those five minutes alone in that room with Dave Grusin's music.
Reasoning
The "Party Over, Must Go Home" light in the corner of my eye had been flashing for about six minutes when I caved to the inevitable and Barbara and I went to collect our things and leave.
But we couldn't, because the most amazing music started coming out of an adjoining room. A bunch of musicians attend the Conference every year and these sort of impromptu performances tend to happen.
It was the sweet, intense voice of Lillian Boute, singing "Basin Street Blues" in a way that just dragged your heart sideways, that drew us in Then she left Henry Butler playing solo, running through songs that were genuinely familiar and music that I'd never heard before, but which seemed like something that I had really enjoyed in a past life.
The session closed out with an eight-minute flight of "Blackbird." Dangit, but I can't remember the name of the gent playing the sax.
All in all, this whole scene reminded me why I stopped taking piano lessons after four or five years. At that point, you can't simply read the music and push the keys. To advance further, you need to truly understand the message that those lines and dots and squiggles are telling you, and no matter how long I practiced or how hard I willed this to happen, I always wound up obediently translating notes into keypresses and no more.
Still, I can listen pretty good.
Many of my favorite Conference On World Affairs memories are musical. I was at the final-night party one year, mingling with about 200 people, and as often happens I found myself desperate to not talk to people and desperate not to have anybody talking to me, either.
I located the one empty room in the very big house. It was a small conservatory where the hired band had set up. But they were on a dinner break, so there was no reason for anyone to be in there.
I sank into an armchair and exploited Reason #41 why it pays to wear a hat: I lowered the front of the brim over my eyes and rested the back of my head on the chair. The OFF DUTY sign was clearly lit.
I was slightly annoyed when I heard footsteps approach. It was Dave Grusin, leading a college girl into the room. She was making noises that were clearly of the "I'm thrilled that Dave (freaking) Grusin is pulling me into the conservatory, but good form dictates that I pretend otherwise" variety. She was studying voice and Dave had put her next to the piano and taken the driver's seat, playing the opening bars to "Autumn Leaves."
She sang well. But the smile on my face under that hat came from a top, creative musician taking a sturdy old tune out for an ambitious drive. He played the melody. He played around the melody and over and under it, then chased after a shiny object off behind the treeline but came back with the melody in his mouth, and found a new way to play with it.
I was sitting back and drinking all of this in, minute after luscious minute. I didn't lift my head up until I heard eager clattering and footfalls: it was the hired band, plated of food still in their hands. They heard Dave (freaking) Grusin playing and dammit...no free catered buffet plate can compete with an opportunity to jam with one such as he.
The music went on and on and the room filled up. And the music that happened with the band and the other people was wonderful stuff. But if I wind up with the sort of death that gives me the chance to think about some stuff before the final curtain comes, one of the items on my playlist of memories will be those five minutes alone in that room with Dave Grusin's music.