Favorite Quotes

‎"Just recently one of my friends passed away and I went out to the cemetery. On my way back the undertaker asked me how old I was. I told him and he said 'There ain't no sense in you going home!'"-Milt Hinton

"You may have holes in your shoes, but don't let the people out front know it. Shine the tops." -Earl Hines

"Wagner's music is better than it sounds." -Mark Twain

"I was unfashionable before anyone knew who I was." -Paul Desmond

"I have won several prizes as the world's slowest alto player, as well as a special award in 1961 for quietness." -Paul Desmond

"Nostalgia ain't what it used to be" -Stan Kenton

"In 1939 I met Mona - that's my bride-./ And nothing's been the same ever since./ We fell in love, she blew my mind./ Took the money/...Then she went shopping...and I've been broke ever since." -Milt Hinton

James Moody (1925-2010)

One of my heroes, jazz legend James Moody passed away earlier today. Besides being one of the warmest and kindest people I've ever met, he was also one of the wisest.

I wanted to share with you what he said to me when, as an intern at the Blue Note Jazz Club, I had the chance to interview Moody for a video we were making. We asked him if there was a moment in his life when he knew that he wanted to be a jazz musician.

"No," he said. "I was born that way. I always wanted to be a musician as far as I know. And, when I was coming up there weren’t that many [records]…there was one record like every six months or year. Now, there’s a record every five minutes or something, you know…

"My thing is listening to other musicians and trying to be better than I am tomorrow than I am today. And I would like to advise the younger musicians to stay with what they’re doing, to have good teachers, study, and don’t be in competition with anyone else except yourself. Because -like my goal in life is to play better tomorrow than I did today- if you put yourself in competition with everyone else, you’ll be in for trouble. Because I don’t care who you are, where you are, there’s always someone that’s a little more enlightened than you are. Always. And maybe not one, two, or three, but many…Just try to enlighten yourself. Don’t be [saying], ‘Well I want to be the top man,’ you know. Because you might be for a second, but there’s always someone climbing behind you.
Like Satchel Paige; you remember him? He said that he never did look back because you never know what’s gaining on you. So…

"And," in that classic Moody Donald Duck voice..."Pwatice, pwactice, pwactice!"

The last time I saw Moody was this past January, at the National Endowment For The Arts Jazz Masters Award Ceremony, where I was helping out.

Moody was talking with me and some friends when the legendary Gerald Wilson came over to join the conversation. After a minute of Moody and Wilson reminiscing, Moody asked us how old we all were. Then he asked me.
“21,” I said.
Then he looked at Gerald Wilson. “How old are you?”
“92,” Wilson replied.
Then Moody looked me in the eyes and said, “Boy, you may be 21 today but you’ll be 92 tomorrow. Make it count.”

I will never forget that moment for the rest of my life.

I've thought about it many times since and many, many times today since hearing of his passing. I was playing a gig earlier this afternoon when a friend called "I'm In The Mood For Love," Moody's signature song. It was the second tune in our set, a set which started promptly at 4PM. Therefore, we must have been into our second tune, "I'm In The Mood For Love," no later than 4:05. We played "I'm In The Mood For Love" for at least five minutes.

A few hours later, I came home and found out about Moody's death through an online article. The article said that he died at 1:07PM, west coast time. It took me a minute to put two and two together, but when I did, a chill ran up my spine...because, after all, 1:07 on the west coast is 4:07 on the east coast...We must have been mid-song.

To one of my favorite people, the ever-inspiring James Moody - you certainly made it count!

(A well-wisher on Moody's facebook page wrote something tonight that really struck me. He, working at the Blue Note many years ago, confessed to having smoked weed with Dizzy Gillespie on the roof of the club. While on the roof, the man asked Dizzy how much he missed his friend Charlie Parker. Dizzy responded simply that he'll miss his friend Moody even more. A video of the two has been posted on Moody's website. The caption above it says: "Moody and Dizzy - Together Again!")

Unforgettable Moment: Sonny Rollins & Ravi Coltrane

It was just after Sonny Rollins' fantastic 80th Birthday concert at New York City's Beacon Theater. I somehow found myself at the after party, which was being held in the concert halls' adjoining hotel - just a few floors up. The party was quite a scene itself -Sonny cut cake for everyone!

A friend and I were talking with Ravi Coltrane when, after a little while, it was our turn to say hey to Sonny and take a picture with him. After our picture was taken, my camera was used for Ravi's pictures with Sonny. After the pictures were finished being taken and the photographer handed me back my camera, I noticed that Ravi, in mid-conversation with Sonny, took off his glasses. As he did this, I noticed a surprised, almost shocked, expression come over Sonny's face.

After a couple of seconds passed, I heard Sonny say to Ravi, "Wow. You know, with your glasses off...I never realized how much you look like your father."

Memorable Meetings: Jim Hall

I was crossing 5th avenue at 12th street the other day when I noticed an old man walking his dog very slowly, hunched over quite a bit. As I got closer, I noticed that that man was jazz guitar great Jim Hall.

He was stopped for a moment, so I walked over and said hey. We ended up talking for quite a while and were having a nice conversation (he introduced my to his dog, Django), joking around a bit. He asked me if I'd like to see something funny.

We were standing very near to the New School University's Jazz Building and we saw a student with a bass coming towards us.

Jim looked at me and said, "I've had spine troubles recently - people don't really recognize me anymore."

He laughed, went up to the bass player and asked, "Excuse me - Is that a walking bass?"

The kid gave him a dirty look and continued on his way. Jim looked at me and we both started laughing. Through his laughter, he said, "I always do that. I think it's pretty funny. They just think I'm the dirty old man now, haha."

He was such a pleasant guy and it was such a joy to spend a few moments with him, one of my heroes.

Memorable Meetings: Paul Bley

I recently went to the Blue Note to hear jazz legends Paul Bley & Charlie Haden play duo. Walking out of the club's bathroom about ten minutes before the show, I saw Bley walking from his dressing room to the bathroom. He was walking very slowly and looked a bit frail, so I helped him to the bathroom, holding the door for him on his way in. We spoke briefly. Here's a little snippet of our conversation - the following bit being my first words to him.

Me, to Paul Bley: "You're one of my favorite musicians in the world."

Paul Bley, to me: "So there's some people you still haven't told me about?"

Unforgettable Moment: Meeting Oscar Peterson

I'll never forget the night I met Oscar Peterson. I was 17 years old; a senior in high-school. A few weeks prior, I had talked my Dad into flying up to New York to see Peterson perform at Birdland, for what turned out to be his final New York performance.

We got tickets to both sets, and we got great seats, right up front. I had heard that Peterson's playing was, by then, a shadow of what it used to be, but I didn't care. I just wanted to be in his presence. I just wanted to see him in person, and hear, in person, the sound of his fingers blanketing those keys.

I watched the curtain in anticipation for what seemed like forever, and to be totally honest, that's not too much of an exaggeration; I made sure that my Dad and I got to Birdland more than three hours before the show. When Peterson finally appeared, I was amazed, to say the least.

An interesting side-note to all of this is that when I was first getting into jazz, I had been listening to a lot of Peterson but hadn't learned much jazz history yet, and for some reason, I grew up for a little while thinking that he had already passed away. I quickly and thankfully learned that I had been wrong, but even in the years that followed - leading up to this night at Birdland -, something about that whole situation had only added to his legend, in my mind. Therefore, I remember the feeling that overcame me that night at Birdland, as I watched Peterson approach the piano. To me, he was not only one of my very favorite pianists, but he was also a historical figure...and he was alive! And I was in his company! I felt so lucky.

His set was beautiful.

Sure, he couldn't play all of those fast runs that he used to, and sure, he did repeat certain phrases again and again, but I couldn't care less; first of all, we were listening to Oscar Peterson! Secondly, whatever it was that he was lacking that evening, he more than made up for with soft, delicate, and seriously heart-felt emotion.

It was interesting to look in eyes as he repeated a phrase. I could see in them a deep pain and frustration. Looking back on it now, I realize that a repeated phrase was often one of two things: 1) a repeated phrase was often the result of his attempt to reach for something he was hearing; I could tell by watching the way his face reacted to what he was playing that he could hear what he wanted to play in his head, but that his fingers simply couldn't always carry out those thoughts, and 2) a repeated phase was sometimes a reluctant giving in to his capabilities at that point; for example, the repetition usually came at the end of a phrase - he'd begin many phrases by playing what he was obviously hearing in his head, but something would happen in the midst of that phrase - the look in his eyes would change immediately and I could see that he was now struggling - that would cause him to end the phrase in a way that was nearly identical to many of the conclusions of phrases that he had already played. To me, I was overcome with joy at watching my hero, but watching him during these moments was extremely sad and often painful.

However, the ballads were beyond beautiful, and his touch was so soft, so smooth, so wonderful, and it was at those moments that I could tell that he was making the piano sound how he'd like it to.

When the first set ended and most of the house had cleared out, I asked the owner of the club if I could meet Mr. Peterson, for he was my hero. "Of course," the man said. "Oscar's backstage and he wants to meet anyone who wants to meet him."

"How nice!", I remember thinking. The man led me backstage. There were about three people in line in front of me, one being Ron Carter. I remember the nervous anticipation I felt as I watched Peterson so humbly accept compliments. Even in his wheelchair he looked like a giant. I remember staring at his huge hands, knowing full well who else's' hands those had shaken. After he took pictures with a few fans and spoke with Ron Carter, it was my turn.

I was lead to the empty seat right next to him and I sat down. I was so nervous that I didn't know what to say. I'm not even sure if I said "Hello" before exclaiming, "You're my hero."

He was just as nice as he could be. We shook hands and I told him that I was a young pianist, that he was my favorite, that I'd flown up from Atlanta just to see him. Upon hearing this, he said, in an almost painful and totally serious manner, "Aw, you flew all the way up here just for that?", hinting in an obvious way that he was not happy with his performance. It was heartbreaking - I didn't know what to say, but I certainly did make sure to tell him that it had been a wonderful performance, which I truly thought it had been. It felt a little strange speaking these words of encouragement to Oscar Peterson, one of the greatest pianists in history, but seeing the humanity of this musical giant was very touching. His honesty about his performance - to a totally random teenager nonetheless - taught me a lot.

This was one of my first encounters with a jazz legend; one of the others had been a few months prior at a Keith Jarrett concert when Jarrett yelled at an audience member for coughing and yelled an exaggerated "thanks" to an adoring fan as he hurried into his car from the backstage door of the concert hall. As I sat there with Dr. Peterson, thinking about all the amazing things he has done in his lifetime yet also realizing how down-to-earth, friendly, honest, and grateful to his fans he was (and still was after all these years!), I felt a sense of relief; knowing now that humility, kindness and honesty was possible for even the greatest of men, and, in Peterson's case, actually being a down-to-earth and kind person was a responsibility and a priority.

We took a picture together and he signed an autograph for me. Then he put out his hand, shook mine, and looked me dead in the eye. "I want to wish you the best of luck with whatever you do in your future." I'll never forget that; he said it with such sincerity.

I will treasure those few moments for the rest of my life and am forever grateful that I got to look Oscar Peterson in the eye and tell him that he is my hero.

6/4-5/2010: My Preservation Hall Experience

I’ll never forget the first time I got chills inside Preservation Hall. It was the first night of my two nights’ run there. My Dad and I arrived at the Hall about an hour before the doors opened. When we arrived at the Hall, there was already a long line of people waiting to get inside. The gate was still locked shut, and as we peered through the cracks in the gate, the Hall looked empty; maybe we were too early. But finally a man came to the gate. He opened it for us and welcomed us to New Orleans and to the Hall. After entering the Hall’s gates, we took a quick left and entered the Hall itself. He was a very friendly guy, very casual, and looked almost surprised when, after asking if he could get me anything, I asked – obviously nervous and very cautious – if I could warm up on the holy Preservation Hall piano. “Of course,” he said, smiling.

Sitting down at the piano bench brought me back to myself, yet I couldn’t help barely touching the keys of the piano when I first warmed up; I felt like I was in some sort of holy room and I didn’t want to mess anything up.

The man had walked out back to finish getting ready for the night, and my Dad had left the Hall itself to look around outside and see the Hall’s grounds. There I was; alone in Preservation Hall. I looked around. Behind me was the famous Preservation Hall Jazz Band drum set. In front of the set sat a group of rocking chairs. I wondered who’d sat on those. I looked all around me; at the church-like benches, at the walls – showing so much authentic wear and tear. I looked at the benches, the pillows on the ground, the empty seats, the walls; I could hear the sounds of last night, yesterday, yesteryear in my head. I saw the people – the musicians, the crowds – dancing, clapping, and above all, smiling. I knew that a lot of joy and history had gone down in this room, and as I sat there, alone at the holy piano, I could feel its’ echo vibrate all through me. That’s when I got the chills.

An older man, dressed in a sharp looking suit came in a few minutes later; the first of the band members had arrived. He opened up his instrument case and pulled out a tenor saxophone. He played a few notes before placing it on one of the rocking chairs. He graciously welcomed me to Hall and told me he looked forward to hearing my playing.

The great trumpeter Leroy Jones was playing that night. (I played solo piano in between each set of Leroy Jones’ group on Friday and the Preservation Hall Jazz Band on Saturday.). Listening to him and his group was a joy; I’d never heard such pure music that swung so hard at such a low volume. “Serious stuff,” I remember saying to myself. I noticed that after each set the musicians would retire to the garden right behind the Hall. I noticed too that during my first set, one of Jones’ band members stayed behind and listened to me play. He must’ve enjoyed it, because by the group’s next set break and my next set, a couple more members stayed and listened to me. By my last set, Jones’ group had taken over a row of side chairs, listening intently to my soft, quiet stride, throwing me “Yeah, you right”’s after each tune.

There were many moments during that weekend that I remember thinking to myself, “I’ll never forget this moment.” The next night, the Preservation Hall Jazz Band called me on stage to sit in with them for the last few tunes of the night. As we ended the night with a wild version of “St. Louis Blues,” and I looked out into the audience and saw people dancing, clapping, hollering, smiling, I got the chills again.

These people weren’t the same people I’m used to seeing over and over again at New York City jazz clubs. These people weren’t musicians. These people were regular people, really swinging to jazz music, a music that had been declared dead more times than once.

I’d watch the people as they took their seats. It was easy to spot a newcomer to jazz; a youngster who had been dragged there by his parents, a curious person, or a person who was there simply because they had to go there (How could you visit New Orleans and not go to Preservation Hall?) I’d watch these people, and I’d watch them as the music overtook them for the first time. First I’d see the smile. Then I’d watch the foot-tap. I’d see the first time that their shoulder would move, up and down, to the rhythm of the song. I’d watch shy looking children start clapping and yelling loudly as they sat next to their parents who were doing the same. It was almost as if they couldn’t help it – that the music had really entered them, had filled their insides with joy. “And they said this jazz is dead,” I thought to myself; “How could it be?”

I once had a talk with McCoy Tyner. He asked me if I love playing the piano. “I do,” I told him.

He smiled, looked me dead in the eye, and said to me, “Well never give it up. It’s a life force.”

I never realized how true that was until I watched these people. Jazz music is a feeling that is different from all others; in this sense, it’s impossible for it to die. I thought to myself how no matter what is bothering me, no matter where I am in the world, I can sit down at the piano and feel at home on its bench. I remember a quote by the great Nat Hentoff of how Ben Webster’s ballads were once his cure for illness, and I realized how jazz, more than any therapy or medicine I’d ever been prescribed, has cured me most.

Jazz certainly is a life force. If you’re one of the doubters, obituary-writers, or simply don’t believe me, I suggest you go to Preservation Hall where you can see it, hear it, and feel it for yourself.