“SLOW NIGHT TONIGHT.”
“It’s a Tuesday. Happens.”
The club wasn’t particularly big, maybe a dozen tables and some booths along the south wall. But there were more people in the band than at the tables. Maybe it would pick up, but maybe I’d win the lottery too.
“Wonder why they needed me at all.”
“Probably insurance reasons.”
I was doing door duty at a jazz club on a Tuesday. Guess it’s pretty clear how my life was going these days. The bartender, Sam Menzies, was living an equally gifted life too, it seemed.
“Anything interesting happening this evening?”
The bartender looked at me and shook his head. He passed over a shot of what might have passed as whiskey in some other joint. I shook my head.
“A teetotaler?”
“Coffee’s my thing.”
“I can put a pot on, if you like.”
“Might be nice. I’ve got to drive an hour after I finish up here.”
I was in Portsville, Ontario. Near Mississauga. I’d been doing some volunteer work at the Jazz Room in Waterloo, taking money, helping out, some light cleaning. The owner of the space found out I was looking for some paying gig, and he knew the owner of the Blue Noodle in Portsville. It wasn’t a particularly well-paying job, and it still required me to clean up afterwards, but money was a little tight for me lately. The art scene was running dry, and I hadn’t heard from Vijay in a while, so no money on the private detective side either. But I enjoyed listening to music for free. And jazz was usually non-intrusive. Sometimes it was even good.
Tonight wasn’t anything special, just the house band, and they were okay, but they were trying something tonight, and I wasn’t into it. The keyboardist was doing a Bud Powell bit where he was playing Bach in a jazzy style. Sometimes you can pull it off, but this guy couldn’t.
I was about to sit down at the bar for some fresh coffee after the band’s performance when a man on crutches abruptly jostled me. Tall guy, brown suit, yellow tie.
“Sorry,” I said reflexively.
Judging by his brusque demeanor and shoving past without an apology, I assumed the guy was American. Looked like he was carrying a horn case. He had a fiberglass cast on his right leg about halfway up his calf. It was slim, able to fit through the pant leg, which was rolled up at the top of the cast. And the cast was wrapped in colored tape. Yellow, to match his tie, or vice versa.
“What’s that guy’s deal?” I said to no one in particular.
The bartender, hearing me, since no one was playing at the moment, said, “That’s Curtis King.”
“King Curtis?”
“Naw, said the bartender, waving me away. He died before you were born. That’s Curtis Potter. Started going by ‘Curtis King’ a few years back. Maybe to capitalize off the other ‘King.’ Maybe to get away from Harry Potter.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of Curtis Potter. Trumpet player.”
“Not only, but yeah. Has something like six Grammys.”
“What’s he doing here?” I asked.
“He’s here all the time. Friends with the owner.”
“Huh. Like brushing against almost royalty.”
“Have you met Lily?”
“Not directly.”
“She’ll be in later, so if you’re cleaning up, you’ll see her.”
“I heard her on CBC. She’s great.”
“Oh yeah. Lovely lady.” Sam leaned in closer. “And still beautiful after all those years of retirement.”
Lily Morgana was like a modern Billie Holiday. She was doing really well up into the mid-2000s, but some kind of sickness or scandal dropped her off the map for a few years. Retired some years back, but like all celebs, she still showed up here and there. Sometimes sang for special events and the occasional fundraiser for a meaningful cause.
“Didn’t she become a teacher or something?”
“I dunno. She’s big into art and music history, so don’t try to mansplain anything to her.”
“Got it.”
The band looked like they were getting ready for another set. But, interestingly, Curtis King was having a huddle with them. There was some handshaking, some fist dapping, and general friendliness. Except for the piano player. Looked like they had some bad blood, and when they went up on stage, the piano guy sat down and didn’t play with them.
The set was subdued. King was fantastic, mellow but melodic. It wasn’t anything like I expected from a trumpet player. Not the normal flamboyant, elitist, boisterous sound you might expect. It was slow, whispering, and a little sad. He played a couple of classics: “My Funny Valentine,” “Blue in Green,” “Bye Bye Blackbird,” and “Harlem Nocturne.” He played the trumpet with a mute in it the whole time, taking it out for the last one.
It was great. I loved it. Made me feel like the main character in a noir film.
The last song was where it got a little weird. There was a brief pause in the playing. Curtis King mopped his brow, and he huddled with the other musicians. Then he stepped back up to the mic and spoke to the small audience.
“I’ve been working on a new piece. It’s a little experimental, but I figured it was time to share. See if y’all like it.”
And then he played the piece, with no accompaniment from the band. He played it on the trumpet, without the mute, but still quietly—quieter than any trumpet I ever heard.
And what a song it was.
The song was in a minor key, starting off slowly, increasing in tempo, but never getting very loud, nor fast. The song took its time; it wanted everyone to know what it was doing to us. To our souls. If a trumpet could write a sad personal essay about the death of a loved one, this is how it would read. I knew Curtis King was a great trumpet player, and a fantastic all-around jazz musician, and I’d just assumed he knew how to compose, but I’m not sure I’d ever heard anything so sad and mournful in any kind of song, from any kind of instrument. It reminded me a little of the fugues played in church. But this was no church.
I don’t remember when I’d started recording the song on my phone, but when it was over, I looked down to check the time, and realized it was still going.
“What … what kind of song was that?” I said to the bartender.
“Pretty sad, eh? I think he’s really done it this time.”
“I’ll say.”
“Hey,” said the bartender. “Are you crying?”
I sheepishly wiped my face with my hand. “What? No! Must be my allergies.”
“Sure, pal.”
I looked at him sideways. “Like you never got weepy at a song.”
“Sometimes,” he said. “‘Nature Boy’ always gets me. Problem is, I’ve got a little tinnitus going. Nothing sounds that good anymore.”