TED NASH

I’m tired, but feel good. I’m out here with the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra, about half way into a three week tour. Rolled out of bed at 5:30 AM to make our 6:00 departure from the hotel in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. This is not a particularly exotic trip - Kansas, Indiana, Wisconsin, Illinois, Kentucky, Ohio, Missouri, Minnesota, Michigan. The heartland. It doesn’t matter where we are, people come out to be what of what we’re doing out here, and we play with the same enthusiasm whether we’re in a large, richly-cultured metropolis, or a small farming town, where the local museum features the sculptures of John Deere.

I am sitting in the front lounge of our tour bus. Joe Temperly is to my right, doing the NY Times crossword puzzle, and Wynton is across from me working on his iPad. Funny, because we have always teased Wynton about his lack of hi-tech acumen - I don’t think he even knows how to turn on a computer. We’ve just finished a passionate discussion about the music business - the business of music. Wynton’s energy and vision is very inspiring. 

People have slowly retreated into their own spaces - most have crawled into their bunk beds in the middle section of the bus. Its quiet, save for the muffled sounds of the radio coming from the driver’s section, and the hum of the the tires on the road.

I’m tired, but feel good. I am lucky that I have understood from very early on what I want to do. I look out the window of the bus and see farms, trees, stretches of land. It’s flat - your eyes can converge on a distance quite far away. Better than looking out an office window to a building exterior a few feet away. I think changing scenery and experiences, playing new music and meeting new people, keeps you young, despite how tough it can be it times. I think doing the same thing over and over every day is what makes you old. I look at Joe Temperly - 82 years old as of last week - and it reminds me of this fact every day.

I’m tired, but I feel good. I am fortunate to be playing with musicians with such a strongly creative dedication to this wonderful music.

It took me almost a week to listen to the takes that were the result of a two-day recording session out at Maggie’s Farm last week. I wanted to give it a little space. Plus, I was a bit too busy to get the chance to really sit and listen.

I finally got that chance a couple nights ago. I experienced a reaction different from those I have had on previous first-listens. With this recording (creatively played by Ron Horton on trumpet, Paul Sikivie on bass and Ulysses Owens on drums) I have found something of myself that seems new to me. This is not about complex orchestrations and arrangements (like Rhyme and Reason, which features a string quartet), or an eclectic combination of instruments (as is the case with my Odeon recordings), or a tribute (like The Mancini Project). This is just me, hanging out there, exposed. True, this is the first time I have recorded an entire album on just the alto, an instrument I convinced myself some years ago I didn’t like playing (which lead to my departure from the Mel Lewis Jazz Orchestra in the early 90s). Back then I felt trapped by the alto, unable to find that creative middle ground I could find more easily on the tenor. I do love the darkness, the air, the range of the bigger sax. It seems like there is more flexibility, more leeway in terms of phrasing and sound. So why is it I keep getting called to play alto? Why do people keep identifying me with an instrument I keep resisting? Maybe because I sound more like myself on it. Running from the alto was, perhaps, in some ways like running from myself.

It’s no wonder that for a few days after the recording sessions I felt waves of something similar to being on the edge of a cliff. Like a combination of insecurity and adventure. This just may be the most intimate and personal recording I have ever made. I am not hiding behind anything. None of us are. There is, in fact, nowhere TO hide: The band is very open and exposed, (having no piano or guitar filling up some of the spaces that usually get filled up).

Most of the tracks are originals I have written in the past few months, as well as one Sherman Irby composition called Twilight Sounds, and Kaleidoscope by Ornette Coleman. Some of the music I wrote for the film Chaography - Variations on the Theme of Freedom by Douglas Chang, and some I wrote for a recent gig at Kitano with this quartet.

Release date tentatively planned for late March or early April. I’ll let you know...

I spent last weekend at a camp located on a small lake somewhere half way between Ottawa and Montreal.  Like most camps there are cabins here and there, spread out among the trees; people making temporary homes in tents of various sizes; there is even a main lodge, as rustic as it needs to be to remind you of where you are.

But what makes this camp out of the ordinary is that in every cabin is a piano and a set of drums. In the tents and rooms are people interested not in fly fishing, or hunting, or canoeing - no, this campsite is filled, in fact overflowing, with people who want to play jazz.

Every year, for the past 18 years, people from all ages - from the youngest teenagers, to those in their 80s - have been coming out to learn, share, sing, talk and play everything jazz. I have been able to join the roster of more than fifteen teachers, spending as much as ten hours a day running ensembles, teaching clinics, participating in improvisation classes, giving private lessons and overseeing jam sessions that go deep into the wee hours.

I have attended three out of the past four years at Jazzworks, which is run by John Geggie, Judy Humenick and Anna Frlan. (I missed last year due to a tour with Wynton Marsalis, recording and performing music for the silent film “Louis”.)

This is a truly soulful, down-home experience. The day starts at 8:00 AM when the over 100 students, teachers and staff meet in the large hall for breakfast. Ensembles begin sharply at 9:00 (or maybe dully for those who had jammed very late the night before). This year I was in charge of one of the “originals combos,” which featured compositions by members of the ensemble. My group, which the musicians affectionately called the Nash Ramblers, met five times over the three-and-a-half days. By Sunday’s concert, our ensemble was burning through it’s 15 minute set. Yeah, not a lot of stage time, but we did have to share the five-hour concert with about fifteen other ensembles.

David Glover, our alto saxophonist (a regular at the camp) wrote the first tune, a very catchy thing based on the changes of Jobim’s Triste - so catchy, in fact, that didn’t stop signing it in my head for about four days after returning to New York, which I did just in time to record a Christmas record with Michel LeGrand - but that’s a subject of perhaps another blog.

The next tune was something our bass player, Alrick Huebener (another Jazzworks regular), was reluctant to bring into the rehearsal. We talked him into into doing so, which was provident, as this simple little groove tune turned out to be certainly one of our hits. Our closer, written by our guitarist Jerry Battista, was a slightly complicated boss nova that also needed a little work to become performance-ready. We came to the consensus that it would be better as a samba, which had our drummer Andrew Price consulting with drum instructors Jean Martin and Nick Fraser for technical advice on how to properly play a samba groove.

Our ensemble was rounded out by the classically-trained trumpet player Laurel Ralston (who at one point casually mentioned she also played flute, which, borrowing mine, she used to great effect on Jerry’s samba); and young pianist Deniz Lim-Sersan, a teenager who really has it together.

This year’s Jazzworks had the highest attendance in it’s 18-year history, which I believe reflects the wonderful dedication of those who run it, and the enthusiasm and open-mindedness of those who attend. A great experience for all who make the trip - students and instructors. I am looking forward to next year.

For more information about Jazzworks:
www.jazzworkscanada.com

A couple great nights at the Kitano. It was one of those gigs you hate to see come to an end. What a great reunion with my Jazz Composers Collective colleague, trumpet player Ron Horton. I think the last time we played together was a year and half or so ago with the inventive mini big band he co-leads with drummer Tim Horner. Playing with Ron is like putting on a favorite glove - a perfect fit.

Paul Sikivie on bass and Ulysses Owens on drums were swinging, always listening, and willing to stretch.

The gig was called “Inspired by Ornette,” and was less a tribute and more an expression of respect and inspiration for this iconic alto player's music. Although we did touch on some of Ornette’s originals, we played mostly music written by myself, as well as compositions by Frank Kimbrough and Sherman Irby. Several pieces I wrote for a film by Douglas Chang, in which I play a character loosely based on Ornette. The film is called “Chaography: Variations on the Theme of Freedom,” and will be in production for a while.

In anticipation of this gig at The Kitano, I wrote a couple new pieces. We had a rehearsal a couple days before, and just as we were finishing I realized I had completely forgotten to bring the new music, so we ended up basically sight-reading them on the bandstand. In retrospect, it was probably fortunate it happened this way, because we didn’t have a chance to preconceive any ideas as to form, solos, endings, etc., and it heightened our awareness, putting us on edge, in the most positive sense.

I plan to record this music soon for a release sometime in the spring, so look out!

A man contacted me the other day to sell me a bass clarinet. It might seem strange that someone would contact you out of the blue to sell you something. Well, that’s not actually true: my spam folder is filled with junk about pills that help people achieve something they want to achieve very passionately. But a bass clarinet is not a common item for a sales pitch.

But this sales pitch was different. The bass clarinet in question belonged to my uncle, Ted Nash, who passed away three months ago, and the man selling it was Les Rose, a musician who used to do recording work in the Los Angeles. Les bought this bass clarinet, a vintage Selmer low E-flat (a rather coveted instrument these days) from another studio musician who played the Merv Griffin show with my uncle.

Now, I wasn’t particularly in the market for a bass clarinet, not even the coveted vintage Selmer, Low E-flat. In fact, my other bass clarinet is an even MORE vintage Selmer, Low E-flat, with a converted double-octave key mechanism, that had belonged to the late Wilbur Schwartz, saxophonist/clarinetist with the Glenn Miller orchestra during the late 30s and early 40s. He also was the alto saxophonist on the famous “My Three Sons” TV series theme (no, it wasn’t Fred Macmurray).

Anyway, in the market or not, how can you say not to your Uncle Ted’s coveted Selmer, low E-flat bass clarinet?

Now, this sale came at a remarkably perfect time, as Bill Schimmel (who plays in my group Odeon) asked me to play a piece he wrote for accordion and bass clarinet, which we performed last night at his annual seminar and concert series, called Walton the Imperial: Crowned. Dr. Schimmel is the undisputed King of the accordion. In fact, Tom Waits made the statement: “Bill Schimmel doesn’t play the accordion, he is the accordion.” This was my first live performance with my new instrument, and I have to say my new ax is fantastic. I actually enjoyed playing the bass clarinet for the first time.

Bill’s piece is titled “The Tango accordion to Brahms.” Wild stuff. To give you an idea, when we were rehearsing it the other day, reading through Bill’s hand-copied score for the first time, we started improvising wildly - percussive squawks, outbursts of runs, intervalic jumps. When that came to an end I turned the page and saw:

I asked Bill, “What is this?” and he said, “That’s what we just played.”
Amazing.

In addition to our duet, the concert featured at least a dozen fantastic accordionists, with squeezeboxes of varying types - some with keyboards, some with just buttons. Gary Larson, in the Far Side, said “Welcome to Hell. Here’s your accordion.” He should have come out to this concert last night. He would have been in accordion Heaven!

Ah, yes - the final week of a six-week tour. These past few days have found us in Italy, probably our least visited of the bigger European countries in general. Wynton says it’s because the people here expect or desire more avant-garde jazz, but judging from the response we have had here it’s easy to say that just isn’t true.

Although we haven’t been playing much in the way of avant-garde music, we do include in our repertoire some pretty nontraditional compositions, like Vincent Gardner's Blue Twirl, inspired by the artwork of American painter Sam Gilliam, or Wynton’s Tree of Freedom, from his Vitoria Suite, or my Pollock, from Portrait in Seven Shades. What I love about our programming is that we will play one of these and then follow with something like Snake Rag from the 20s, and it makes sense, feels right.

We have been playing all outdoor venues, and most of them are set among ancient Roman ruins that are in better shape than some modern theaters we’ve played in. Since our concerts start typically at 10:00 PM there is no way to get to bed “early” (even if you wanted to) so much of the catching up on sleep is done on the bus, with several seven and ten hour rides. My seat on the bus is between two band members who have no trouble catching up, and whose adenoidal expressions are so extreme that even my Bose “Quitecomfort 15” noise canceling headphones do nothing to eliminate the vibrations that shake my seat like a bed you put a quarter in.

A couple days ago we played in Ravello - a town known for its lemons the size of Voit tether balls. From these they make their famous Lemoncello, a liqueur I had to try. And try again. (And again.) The climb up to Ravello was a bit disconcerting, but the payoff was enormous: the sweeping views of the Amalfi Coast are breathtaking. I mean, literally jaw-dropping. Our driver, a man in his thirties with greased-back hair, sunglasses, and a two-day shadow, provided warning honks as we navigated around sharp turns, many of them ignored by oncoming commercial vehicles, causing temporary impasses that were resolved by both backing up some and repositioning to squeeze by, practically scraping the short rock walls separating the road from a quarter-mile plunge into basil farms and olive groves below.

The high point of our two-day stay in Ravello was the afternoon party thrown by Jonathan Rose (of Jazz at Lincoln Center’s Rose Hall fame) in the villa he rents every July with his lovely wife. We enjoyed roasted peppers, various salads, octopus in olive oil, handmade brick oven pizza, local wines, and the aforementioned Lemoncello while taking in views of the Adriatic Sea.

Of course an experience like this has to be balanced out, and that happened the next day in Callabria. Although the concert was great, the hotel was a dive. My room was a cross between a dorm and hospital room. With no Internet to connect with what was happening in the world, and basically in the middle of nowhere, and being tired of computer chess, and being that it was the siesta, and being tired as hell, I decided to use the hour and a half we had after checking in until leaving for the venue to take a nap. As soon as I put my head down on the pillow one of our more diligent band members decided to use this time to practice. With walls the thickness of a wedding invitation, sleep was impossible. So I decided to use this opportunity to assess the contents of my suitcase. I don’t know why I pack so much. I never unpack in hotels (who does) and rarely venture past the first couple layers to see what else I have in there. Besides, there are no irons on the room, so just about everything is wrinkled beyond use. Then the practicing stopped. I quickly abandoned my explorations, and jumped back in the bed. Too late - the practicer had already fallen asleep (couldn’t have been more than a minute) and the decibel level of his prodigious snoring rivaled that of the instrument he had been playing. E la vita.

I write all this from the train which is zipping up the Mediterranean. Next stop: Atina

We are now one week into our second leg of this six-week tour. I am writing this in the Madrid airport as we wait to board our plane to Niza (Nice). The economy is really hurting here in Spain, but it’s great to see people coming out to our concerts. Hopefully, we are lifting their spirits a little, helping them to take their minds off hard times, if only for a couple hours.

With the exception of our performance in Valencia, all our concerts are outdoors, which means sound checks in the blazing sun, reeds drying out, hot brass in your hands, expanding bass strings, trouble hearing each other on stage, battles with intonation. But somehow we get it together. Perhaps because of these obstacles we try a little harder, and the end result is some pretty swinging sh**!

Our programming has been interesting, a kind of toggle between old and new, historic and contemporary. We will play a movement from Wynton’s Vitoria Suite, and then follow with Snake Rag from the 20s, and it doesn’t feel strange. While I tend to favor the more modern pieces in our repertoire, I get so much enjoyment hearing the band play these classics with both respect and modern breath.

It seems that whenever we come to Spain it is festival time, which also means the running of the bulls in Pamplona. When you come down to breakfast in the morning the hotel invariably has the TV on to some news channel, and it’s the same image you have seen year after year - narrow European streets filled with people, some more brave (stupid?) than others, making sharp turns, opening up into longer stretches where the bulls gather speed, people grabbing the horns and running along as long as possible, until literally diving to the side to avoid getting trampled by the bulls right behind them. Then the news program will change stories and you will be watching an update of the Tour de France. Something with a completely different energy, but sharing a similar sense of urgency. I have an idea - why not combine the two sports? Have the bulls chasing the bikes through the streets. “Toro de France,” perhaps?

Gotta get on a plane...

A couple days ago I was in Vancouver, a beautiful city. Had a great concert (with the JLCO), and a very nice hang at the jam session, where I met some interesting people, and reconnected with an ex-student of mine, Mike Allen. He sounds great as usual.

The last time we played here was two years ago. I remember having a day off and renting a bike. I drove the loop which circumnavigates Stanley Park - breathtaking views of mountains, ocean and skyline at the same time. I was looking forward to experiencing this again, but it rained. So I stayed in my room. I remembered something I wrote just after this bike ride and dug it up on my computer. I changed a few words, but this is essentially what I wrote that day:

The loss of innocence happens over time. It is not the result of a single act - the first time one discovers his body, or the loss of virginity. It is not the first lie told, or the the first time death is experienced, either up close, or on television. 

The loss of innocence happens over time. It happens when we limit ourselves, limit what we think we can do, limit who we think we are. Give up on things. I feel the loss of innocence when I look at the world we are in. Yes, I see the obvious ways, like the focus on sex in our movies and magazine ads, the priority in acquiring money and material things. But it’s also how people stop asking questions, wondering; how people accept something far less than what they want, who they are. This is true loss.

I feel sad at what I see at times, not so much at the individual acts that people equate with this loss, but in the collective sense, the growing feeling that I would like to go back to something that I was, or never was. Like I skipped over a time that was part of who I am, but never truly experienced.

When I rode my bike yesterday, I saw nature - mountains, water, birds.  They have seen much, but seem untouched by the loss. Even the people walking their dogs, laughing, taking each other’s pictures, seem at times unaware of the loss. Or perhaps they are ignoring it. But at some point they must feel it. The mountains showed me something: that despite what you see around you, you must remain yourself; not ungrowing or unchanging (as you must to survive, to adapt) but standing firm in the face of the changes going on around you, and become a stronger version of yourself.

I see my daughters come of age in this world, and see their own loss of innocence. Again, not in individual acts, but in their understanding a sense of what is going on out there, what they see around them. I suddenly feel sad that I have not lived with them these past 12 years.  Like I missed something.

With love I see an opportunity to come back to something. Through love we can find a deeper sense of ourselves. Sometimes I want to run away from everything but this love. I want to move into it, like a new home, and decorate it with joy and pain and growth and yearnings. Architectural Digest would do a spread and people would see the most beautiful palace. They would also want to forget everything and move into their own new homes, and decorate it with the feelings they have forgotten about, passions they were afraid to embrace. Then the gardens would be tended with this same fervor, and neighbors would see colorful flower beds, and fruit trees. 

The connections continue, old and new, during this second week on the road. In San Francisco I got to see my daughter Emily, a student at San Francisco Sate. Last time I saw here was in February when we played at Disney Hall. (Here’s a shot of Emily hanging backstage with Lawrence Fishburn, just before we ran over to the Grammy Awards.) Emily took time out from  studying

for her finals to come to our concert at Davies Hall presented by SF Jazz, and said she really loved it, which means much more to me than a good review in the Times. (Speaking of reviews, If you want a good laugh, check out this review/blog in the SF Weekly). In the greenroom hang after the concert a very distinguished man, clean in his gray suit and sunglasses, told me he loved the concert and that he plays the sax, too. Oh, cool, what’s your name. John Handy...

The next day the band did a run out to Santa Cruz, playing a concert produced by our friend Tim Jackson, who is always doing great things. I had a missed opportunity to reunite with my friend Daniel Robin, who not only played baritone in my high school jazz band, but lent me his horn for my appearance in The Exorcist II: The Heretic. I used it in a scene with Linda Blair (I’m not making this up). Daniel had his own gig that night (speaking not playing) and arrived at our concert just in time to see the bus pull away. I guess that connection will have to wait until next time.

Los Angeles. What can I say - my hometown. My Father (trombonist Dick Nash) picked me up at the airport. Always great to have family waiting for you when you get off a plane. After catching up with him for a bit at the house (where I grew up)  I had dinner with Scott Jacobson, whom I hadn’t seen

since I was 19. He was a great clarinetist, and we used to perform in all-city bands together, and play lots of duets. Lots of ‘em. He stopped playing at some point, and become an entrepreneur, starting a VERY lucrative business with his brother, of a nature that I will refrain from describing here (oh, no...totally legal). Later, when I checked into Roosevelt Hotel, I saw a man walk into the lobby that looked like he OWNED the place, with his pale blue sport jacket, hat and sunglasses, and his confident stride.  As he got a little closer I saw that it was none other than saxophonist Joe Lovano who was to be our guest at the Hollywood Bowl, playing tribute to the great James Moody.

The next day we played the Bowl. In attendance were not only my Father and our family friend Shelley Balloon (who I’ve known for almost 40 years), but gourmet spice man Mark Sleeper, who is a producer on a film called Luke Jacobs, P.I. (based on the novels by Ken Mask) for which I am writing a score; choreographer Sheron Wray (check out her Tedx program; Petra and her friend Philip, who I met with Ivette on a cruise three years ago; ten high school friends I haven’t seen in years, who came as a big group, and practically malled me after, in a nice way (local boy does good); and actor James Spader, who was very enthusiastic about the concert, and about saying hello, despite the fact that I called him David...

Later that night some of the aforementioned, and a few guys from the band, attended Winnie and Arthur’s soiree at Cafe WAS, where their teenage son Harry was tearing it up on trumpet with his cronies at the organized jam session. A few hors d’oeuvres, a little red wine. Nice. When we got back to the hotel, Susan John, director of touring for JALC, talked me into sneaking into the club in the hotel, Beach’s Madhouse, where some very decadent, fellini-esque partying was going down, replete with a transvestite Dwarf, someone dressed as a penis, and the queen of socialites (I won’t say who it was but her first name is a city in France, and he last name is a hotel. No it’s not Marseilles Marriott). Check out some of the video we grabbed surreptitiously.

The next day was free, and I drove down to Costa Mesa to spend time with my daughter Lisa who is finishing up studies at The Academy of TV and Radio Broadcasting. She a had a little time off between her gig at TK Burger and her evening class. By the way, she is a great singer - check out this recording she made on her laptop.

Visits to the West Coast can be exhausting. I am sitting on a plane now, heading to small town in Washington State, and I am looking forward to not knowing anybody...

Being on the road often provides a chance to reconnect with old friends, family, musicians we haven’t seen in a while. It's a little over a week into this six week tour, and already I have reunited with several people I haven’t seen since I was a teenager. That’s a long time ago...

First stop was Greensboro, NC, and Branford Marsalis was in the audience. He lives and teachers near there, and brought some of his students to come check out the band. It’s always inspiring to know that someone who understands this music at a deep level is really checking you out.  Branford is very down to earth and straight up, and it is always great to see him. This was a nice first concert - tight and swinging - setting the tone for the next weeks, which will take us all over the States, Canada, and Europe.

Next up was Ravinia, outside of Chicago, where we can always count on a visit by Wynton’s friend, TP, and his sons Anthony and Branford, both musicians. Besides being very cool, TP has the biggest hands
I have ever seen.

Third stop was Winnipeg, the home of our bassist friend Steve Kirby, who runs the jazz department at the University of Manitoba. The night we arrived we had off, and Steve hosted a big reception/jam session, which featured Jimmy Greene and Derrick Gardner as well as some younger musicians playing at a very high level. I ran into the classical pianist Judy Kehler Siebert, who hooked up a bassoon lesson for me with the teacher at the University, Allen Harrington (yes - don’t tell anybody, but I am teaching myself how to play the bassoon. No idea why...).

The next day was Carlos Henriquez’s birthday, and needless to say we had a great hang in the hotel bar after the concert.

Swinging back into the States we hit the West Coast. Portland was the first stop on this leg of the tour, and the first night was off, so I headed to Jimmy Mak’s, the most prominent jazz club there, and ran into our trombonist Vincent Gardner, sitting alone at a table, his trombone at his side. Drummer/band leader Mel Brown introduced the band as they were about to take a break, and I heard a name I hadn’t heard in years, Ed Bennett. Could it be, is it possible this was the guy I jammed with in L.A. when I was 16? Sure enough it was he, and we spent the break catching up. During the next set, Vince sit in and tore it up.

The next night, before the concert, I had dinner with my childhood friend Steven Drew who I hadn’t seen since I was a teenager. He and his wife Kathleen drove down from Seattle to see the concert. Lots of catching up there. One memory we recalled was the pyromaniac stage we went through when we were something like 11, making smoke bombs, and setting fire to what ever we could get our hands on, my dad chasing us around the backyard, yelling at us while stomping out our efforts.

In the Portland audience was the great bassist and arranger Chuck Isreals, with whom I played when I first moved to New York. I joined his National Jazz Ensemble (really a precursor to the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra) when I was 19 and got to play with Tom Harrell, Jimmy Knepper, John Scofield, Sal Nestico, Bob Mintzer, Junior Cook and Bill Hardman. In fact, this is where I first met Joe Temperly. Knowing Chuck and his wife Margot were in the audience (and because we love playing it) we performed Chuck’s imaginative arrangement of Monk’s Four in One.

Next stop - Grass Valley. This is where my daughters Emily and Lisa grew up. I traveled to this old mining town, the center of the gold rush of the late 1840s, several times a year to spend time with them, and fell in love with this place. Set in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas, Grass Valley (and it’s sister town Nevada City) is rather an enigma. Located half way between Sacramento and Reno, this community is a mix of Silicon Valley retirees, hippies out on the “Ridge” still living the 60s, families, red necks, artists and business owners. Although largely conservative politically (it also has the distinction of being the whitest county per capita in California), it has a strong artistic element. It’s just a little too far off the beaten path to get a lot of traveling groups like ours, and you can certainly tell by the enthusiasm of the audience that they are a bit starved. Without questions this has been one of the most appreciative audiences I have every played for. The last time Wynton and I played here was ten years ago, when I was artistic director of the first (and last) Nevada County Jazz festival. The reason it didn’t continue wasn’t because of lack of interest (we sold out both nights), but because of some political/power struggles between the arts council groups. Julie Baker, who used to own an art gallery in Grass Valley, became director of the Center of the Arts in Grass Valley two years ago and has been trying ever since to get us there. The stars finally aligned, and we had a great concert, and wonderful reunion with many friends.

Last night we played in Sacramento. Cynthia Poindexter, who I haven’t seen since I was 17 or 18, drove 100 miles from Lake Tahoe to see the concert, and reconnect with me. I used to play with her late husband, Rick Poindexter, in Los Angeles when I was a teenager, and Cynthia worked in the coffee shop, Ryan’s, where my friends and I would meet up at midnight after whatever we were doing. My song “Always Open,” on my first record Conception was written for this diner.

I think I’ve written enough. To be continued...