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Rating: The play button, the volume all the way up, headphones on.
We arrive at the Blue Note early, as always. While we're getting our tickets, an English lady arrives. She says—in broken Italian—I'm Matthew Garrison's mom. Over there, a few meters away, her son is playing.
We try to pass off—first one, then the other—as the dad of the saxophonist we hear. I don't know why they don't believe us.
No matter, let's go eat. And then we return. First ones in, as always. Because one of the nicest things about this place is that you're a centimeter from the stage.
In less than a centimeter on other occasions, I've seen McCoy Tyner, definitely not doing well, or Marcus Miller, or Simona Molinari, who isn't quite in the same Olympus as the previous ones, and then maybe the other tenant of this house peeks, you never know.
We enter first and make the blunder.
The blunder is not ordering a plate of fries from the very kind waiters that cost you almost more than a government employee's salary.
No, the blunder is deciding where we sit. Because right in front isn't the best. There's a speaker, a monitor that's a bit annoying. We usually prefer a side. Even in the case of Simona Molinari, I'll tell you about it one day.
And, which side? Well, my mate played the piano, there's a fine piano, that side. Less than ten centimeters from the piano.
And there we go, all happy, to wait. For the three to arrive.
Yes, three. DeJohnette, a.k.a. one of the holy trinity (him, Peacock, Jarrett), on drums, Ravi Coltrane, son of John and Alice, on tenor and alto sax.
And Matthew Garrison, whose mom we saw earlier, on bass.
A doubt crosses our minds: WHO THE HELL IS PLAYING THE PIANO?
Answer: no one.
So we witness a magnificent concert less than a centimeter from three gentlemen who definitely know their stuff, not having much to look at except what little is glimpsed under a black piano.
I can assure you that Ravi had some very strange shoes and Jack a fantastic watch. I practically didn't see Matthew. Except when he got off the stage, I gestured one to him, meaning do an encore and he replied yes, we're number one.
Period, end of the chatter. The first piece—they don't announce it—starts with Jack playing a bell, letting the sound fade into silence. Then he sits down. And begins—with grace—to keep the beat. And Ravi starts. And I think of something.
They alternate various things, including Blue in Green from Kind Of Blue. We'll have—on one piece—Jack on the piano. He isn't very young anymore. He often plays with his eyes closed. When he speaks, you often can't understand what he says. When he's seated at the drums, he has a grace (did I say that already?) that you can't resist.
They leave the stage, calmly, talk among themselves. They return for a wonderful encore.
Finished, waiting for the next concert (at the Blue Note there are two a night) Jack stops to talk to a girl. Since I have to pass in front of him to leave, I ask him for an autograph. I hand him the pen, he can't write with it. But he manages. There he goes. No surprise there. It's grace.
If you're curious, it's the photo I've attached.
The play button, the volume all the way up, headphones on.
The end of a rainy day. Gray, cold with anger.
That idea. That sound, distant, heard in the first piece.
Love, from First Meditations (For Quartet), John Coltrane.
A man, talking to himself. And talking to everyone, because he speaks with his heart.
I don't think I'll stop pressing replay anytime soon.
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