Comments (0) Print

One of the worst aspects of being a good jazz musician is losing the thrill as a spectator. In much the same way that a professional magician often only marvels at the execution, because he already knows the trick, a professional jazz musician can often lose the thrill that lay listeners take for granted.

I don't enjoy how "bougie" my aural tastes have become. I wish I could enjoy the "Two-Buck Chuck" jazz as much as the vintage reserve. It is rare when I listen to music and don't analyze it to death. This rare occasion occurs with less and less frequency with the loss of the greats. For example, Betty Carter was someone that I could have analyzed, but every time I saw her perform, I lost track of everything but her voice and the story she painted. I caught her shows twice yearly and miss hearing her live.

Of course, there are several singers that I didn't like until I became a better listener. I hated Lambert Hendricks and Ross' "Everybody's Boppin'" when I first heard it but now, like a runny brie, I can't get enough of it. Similarly, there are several singers that I thought were fabulous until I became a better musician and their clay feet became obvious, so there is always mild anxiety when I hear an old favorite.

Last week, I performed at an SFJAZZ fundraiser at Wilkes Bashford, catered by Bix's. The band was comprised of high school students with special guest stars Dave Ellis, myself, and Mary Stallings. Mary is the only San Francisco singer I knew before arriving in San Francisco; perched next to the DJ at WYBC (the radio station at Yale) and soaking up the foundations of jazz, I heard Mary and Cal Tjader, and loved it.

Dave plays first. Then I sing and scat a fast blues. After some speeches, it will be Mary's turn.

The applause is long and sustained as I leave the stage. The crowd is thick, and fans swarm around me asking questions about Pearl's, praising my version of "Ave Maria" at Ave Montague's memorial and shaking my hand so insistently that I fear I will never be able to concentrate on Mary's song. I decide to get my coat and go outside and peer through the window, where I can watch undisturbed.

Mary, ever regal and unadorned in her white robes, takes place at the microphone and begins to sing "I'm Beginning To See The Light." She states the melody for only nine syllables before starting to improvise, much to the surprise of the green band. I can only see Mary's back. The people facing her are trying to sing silently along, but end up futilely mouthing something in what seems to be a completely different meter. The teenage band regains a bit of footing on the solos, but flounders a bit on the extro while trying to figure out if the song is really ending and how they are expected to end it. In short, there are seams all over the place, but Mary is irreproachable.

She recorded "I'm Beginning To See The Light" on the Cal Tjader album back in 1961; her voice was contralto and her intonation sharp with frays of Dinah Washington around the edges. Today her improvisations are more wandering, her timbre is as low as caramelized honey and her sound incomparable. It is easy to sound great with a great band. The true sign of good musicianship is to sound great with lesser players. Mary sounds better in 2009 than in 1961.

I have only seen Mary once in perfect surroundings. I was in Italy, performing on the outside stage at the The Umbria Jazz Festival 2000. Mary was singing in the pin-could-drop, hold-your-breath jazz room with Eric Reed and Donald Harrison. I hope that I can find a night off in which she is singing a concert. She is one of the few greats left that allow me to really feel the thrilling magic of jazz again.