The Very Thought of You...

According to today's New York Times Metro section, that was the song Kenny Barron played in the Steinway & Sons basement where they keep the "tweaked" pianos. They're all laid out, inviting, waiting for someone to give them life in Astoria, Queens. I am particularly fond of this song, especially the version played by Ellis Marsalis. He and Wynton, his son, collaborated on a brilliant 1990 effort, the third volume in "The Rhythm of Romance" set. All jazz standards. My father, who loved Duke Ellington's version so much, often hummed this tune under his breath. This song is like a soft breeze to me. Duke, who's middle name was Kennedy, called his piano playing "dreaming": These aren't notes, I'm dreaming. It's pictures, all of it. My father, in his incredible charming audacity, walked up to Ellington back in 1959 after a concert, and told him his name was WRONG.



"Kennedy should really be a last name," he said, with a cheshire cat smile spreading on his face.



Sir Duke spun around and said, "Huh? Was that meant for me?"



Dad answered, "Well, it is MY last name, so I figured I'd mention it..." With that, they began laughing. "You're quite a character, ain'tcha?" Duke asked. They later continued a very musical conversation at a bar and grill not far from 57th street. Perhaps this is where I get my ability to talk to anyone and anything without a care in the world? I wonder.

But, I confess, this piano "problem" is one of my regrets. I don't have many, but this one sticks out.



I remember vividly a sunny day in 1979 where I was told by one of the old nuns at my school that I would have a piano lesson. They were offered at lunchtime for those students who not only seemed to have musical interest, but whose parents requested a try-out, a "feeler" if you will. I sat down with a tall nun whose name escapes me, but I remember that her facial features were eclipsed by the squareness and severity of her habit and robe. I remember touching the keys and the sound didn't make sense. Then I looked at the notes in a primer and was even more lost. My feet dangled off the bench. I don't remember the rest of the lesson, but I do know it was my last since we couldn't afford a piano at home, and I was very upset that I couldn't go on the swings that afternoon. It was a nice Spring day, and I missed my friends.



The next time I seriously approached any keyboard-like instrument was 1991. An incredible musician by the name of Tommy Lepano let me "improvise" for about 2 hours to a Miles Davis recording. I don't know how I did it, but I found the notes. He played old jazz standards, and I sang. We fiddled with the idea of doing clubs or something of that nature, but the idea never blossomed. His energy was scattered between his jobs, his college classes, giving piano lessons, tuning pianos, and managing a few local bands. His voice, as I recall, was very similar to Donald Trump's. Everytime I watch "The Apprentice", I swear to GOD I hear Tommy's no-nonsense voice. We had a falling out over Mama's boy (they were best friends) and his insensitivity to women in general (he hated his mother and took it out on anyone female.) How interesting this memory is: today is Tommy's 36 birthday. Another Aries who graced my days and my life with some stunning memories. Thanks, Tom, wherever you are.



I feel like there is something inside me that has never truly been realized due to my lack of playing an instrument. I can sing, and I studied for a few years, but everyone has a voice. So what? When you play an instrument, you are playing everyone's voice because music is its own language. In this, I am slightly lost. Why did I not go back? I could have gotten a Casio or a Yamaha. Eh, I didn't. I kept going back and forth from the dance studio to the ice rink. I chose silence again. My infinite flaw.



All I know is I feel a sharp pang everytime I walk by Steinway's showroom on 57th Street. People regularly walk in off the street and are given permission to play those very instruments on display for possible sale. It's like a test-drive, but waaay better than any car. I have always wanted to go in, but I don't play. I can't. I probably never will. And Tommy is not with me anymore. Him on a Steinway? Those notes would be teardrops from heaven.

If I could turn back time...my god, what a strong clock I'd need.