A J-a-z-z Thang

In yet another chapter of The Charmed, Delightful Days and Deeds of Destah, the other night proved to be a pleasant surprise. My whole life seems to be pleasant surprises. Call me optimistic, but I genuinely believe that good stuff is just going to happen to me, day-in and day-out. (Of course, I pray, well…religiously  several times a day to hedge my bet.) Big shots out to my employer, first of all, for even having me in this location on this particular day.

Here I was thinking that I was in for another ho-hum trip to Colorado. I wasn’t even going to be in Denver, but the much less glamourous locales of Greeley, Evans, and Thornton. (Note: Thornton turned out to be 15 minutes North of Denver). For many years, I have come to Denver on business travel with the notion that other than maybe attending a Nuggets game, I was going to bond with remote control in my hotel room and get some rest. Since my best friend moved to the Mile High City a few years back, it has been slightly more entertaining, but, make no mistake about it: I do not get excited about it like I might for Washington D.C. or Chicago. There’s not even a signature dining experience as far as I can tell, and buffalo burgers don’t count. Sure, you can get a pretty fair steak a few places around town, but it’s nothing to look forward to like, say, a cheesesteak in Philly, some mambo sauce with hot wings in D.C. or some deep-dish pizza in the Windy City. Denver is just, well…Denver. It’s a big city, but I’m still always secretly surprised when some mainstream, major metro-area entertainment or event rolls through town.

Alas, we’re talking about me though. I was there the night that Tubby Smith’s Kentucky Wildcats destroyed the #1 ranked Florida Gators at Rupp Arena in front of 24,000 crazed maniacs in blue. I lucked up into meeting and conversing with, on separate occasions, not one, but two Miss USA winners. Lest we forget, I was also there rapping away on my laptop in an adjacent room as a Kingston, Jamaica bank robbery was attempted, oblivious to the whole thing as the sounds of Roy Ayers and Donny Hathaway blasted through my iPod.

So, here I was in Denver the other night, fresh off a ho-hum dinner at a chain restaurant when my buddy calls and tells me to come hang out Downtown. We ended up going to have a drink at an Italian restaurant at the Adam’s Mark hotel, with the Branford Marsalis Quartet.

No, they were not performing. They were finishing dinner, and we pulled up some chairs and sat with them. Really! It just so happens that my buddy has known Branford for a couple years as both have roots in New Orleans.

Anyone that knows me knows that I’m a jazz enthusiast. Actually, some might argue that fanatic is a more accurate representation. When he told me that we were going to hang out with Branford, I had to “get my mind right” and make sure I didn’t turn into a groupie or something. (No, I just threw that in for dramatic effect. Showing emotion has never been a strong suit of mine. A friend of mine once said that if I were any more laid back, I might lay down and fall asleep.)

I was excited in my own little way. When recounting this evening’s events to another friend the next morning, she immediately asked, “Did you get his autograph!??” I don’t do autographs. I don’t have much use for someone’s signature on a piece of paper. I’d much rather just hang out and hear what’s on whomever’s mind or just soak up the whole scene than have some millionaire with an inflated sense of self hastily sign his name on a napkin while scarcely looking in my direction. That’s not my type of hype. I prefer the “un-plugged” type of situation. Off the record, unfiltered, no clichés, no prepared statements. Just a few cats choppin’ it up any number of topics: the Knicks, Al Sharpton, Single Malt Scotch-Whiskey, Chopin, taxi drivers in Southeast Asia, Mo’ Betta Blues. We were all over the place.


Another thing that all my close friends know is that Spike Lee’s Mo’ Betta Blues is my favorite movie. Again, some of my friends might say fanatic, but that has such negative connotations. At least I’m not like those Rocky Horror Picture Show clowns that dress up like a character and go to the movie over and over again and recite all the lines. Okay, so I do know all the lines of each character in the movie. Verbatim. But that’s only because I’ve seen it so many times. And I happen to like wearing nice suits and hanging out in jazz clubs. It’s not like I carry an instrument around or something. JEEZ!

It just so happens that not only did the Branford Marsalis Quartet do the soundtrack for Mo’ Betta Blues, Branford, and his drummer Jeff “Tain” Watts had roles in the movie.
“This was two masters of their craft playing at a time before their art was corrupted…,” well, not exactly. I just felt like throwing in that quote from Chad the Au per/Child Technician from one of my other favorite movies, Jerry Maguire. Two masters indeed, but not on the silver screen. But to a Mo’Bett-ologist like me, however, their lines are classic! The movie wouldn’t be the same without them. They even offered insight on some of the scenes, and the story behind their lines. Forget autographs. The best part of the night for me was hearing Branford tell a story about how the music being played during one of the most dramatic scenes was not exactly what the credits reported it as. “Everyone knows that Terrence didn’t play that, and that there’s only one guy who it could’ve been,” said Branford, grinning a knowing and pride filled grin, as he referred to a certain trumpet virtuoso that he knows very , very, very well. *wink*



Apparently, in one of those scheduling mis-haps that are often unavoidable in showbiz, the original musicians weren’t available to re-do that song during the film’s final editing. And now I know that. Vibe magazine doesn’t even know that story, and neither does Rolling Stone! (Not that they might care, but play along and let me enjoy this for a minute).

Real gracious cats. Branford did end up signing an autograph that night, but it wasn’t for me. Apparently, quite a few celebs come through the Adam’s Mark in Denver, and the waiter had a book full of autographs that he asked Branford to sign. Branford also left the guy some passes to see the show the next night.

Mr. Marsalis and Mr. Watts laughed about how Mo’ Betta Blues really glamorized the jazz scene. None of their venues are as spectacular as those in the movie. Theirs is not a profession accustomed to seeing upscale clientele. Perhaps it was in the ‘40s, ‘50s, or ‘60s when the Miles Davis’ and John Coltranes were headlining, but just like track and field gold medalists, jazz artists walk around in relative anonymity most of the time. (Speaking of which, I saw Carl Lewis walk through Salt Lake City Int’l a few weeks ago and almost no one noticed.) “If Spike showed the toothless lady, smoking the cigarette, and serving drinks to the overweight guy with severe body odor at some dive of a club, nobody would go see it,” remarked Branford.

It just so happens that I had seen the the group perform at a beautiful venue last year at the Philarmonik in Kuala Lumpur. (This spawned the conversation about the taxi-drivers and their penchant for directing you to the services offered by the local ladies). They put on a magnificent show in a beautiful hardwood architectured theater in the base of the Petronas Towers. Life is good!