Awkward Brush with Greatness: Meeting Dizzy Gillespie in London, circa 1981

     It happened at Ronnie Scott’s, the big-name jazz club in London.  I was in my early twenties, on my first and only London and Ireland adventure. It was a sort of honeymoon because my girlfriend Robyn and I had to pretend to be married to sleep together in religiously conservative Ireland. 

We didn’t have a large trip budget, but we felt so lucky that Dizzy and Betty Carter were playing while we were in London, that we decided to splurge and go! I had seen Dizzy live several times, but never Betty Carter, my favorite and the woman who Carmen McCrae called “the only REAL jazz singer.”

      Ronnie Scott’s was very large and posh in comparison to the name jazz clubs in the States. The place was only about half full that night.  I found it strange and disappointing that there were so few people there to see two of the greatest living jazz artists. The more Guinness I drank, the more this upset me. After the third pint, I waited until Dizzy’s band took a break and ran down the red-carpeted stairs to the restrooms.

     It seemed a small men’s room for such a large club. There was only one man besides me at the short line of urinals. I joined him, but I directed my gaze toward the urinal cake. Even in my youth, three pints was a lot for me and I knew I would be there for a while. As the urinator to my left finished and walked away behind me, I heard him say something to another man just coming through the restroom door. When the new guy pulled up next to me, I rather suddenly realized that I was pissing next to Dizzy Gillespie: one of my heroes, a virtuoso trumpet improviser, a founding father of Modern Jazz and founding uncle of Latin Jazz, Charlie Parker’s other half, composer of Con Alma, Salt Peanuts, Night in Tunisia, Groovin’ High, Manteca, Tin Tin Deo, Woody’n You etc. etc.  

     Luckily I didn’t turn and inadvertently piss on him. But I did something just as stupid. I was drunk, remember, and not an experienced drinker. After we both finished and zipped, I felt somehow obliged to apologize for the small audience turnout upstairs. But what I said was, “Too bad it couldn’t have been a better night for you.” Oh, my God, almost as soon as I said that I knew it didn’t come out right. I stammered, “I mean, too bad there weren’t enough people here.” That was bad too, but not worse, as if any number of people would be enough.

    Dizzy shrugged it off, and looked right at me, as if to say with a nod, “I get it. Don’t be so nervous.” Then the maestro proceeded to wash his hands. I thought, “Here is my moment to recover.” So, while he was washing his hands I leaned next to the sink and said something about how I had learned all his tunes. “Even Con Alma?” said Dizzy as he dried his hands.

“Yeah that’s a tough one.” I said, excited that he had spoken to me. I could see he was about to leave the restroom, so I instinctively put out my hand to shake his. He pulled his hand back and said quickly, “You haven’t washed your hands yet.”

     Ok, THAT is what I did that was stupid, not just misspeaking such that my unsolicited and unnecessary apology came out as an insult.  Now I was guilty of a hygiene crime!

   Again Mr. Gillespie shrugged it off. Instead of just leaving quickly he waited until I had washed my hands so we could shake. While I was wiping them dry, Dizzy said:

     “You know in France they wash their hands before they go. Because then it’s clean!”

     This made me laugh and we shook hands. He even whistled softly at Robyn as she came down the stairs, probably wondering what had happened to me. I couldn't wait to tell her. Meeting Dizzy Gillespie makes up for any possible embarrassment my youth and alcohol level could cause.

   

Cervantes' Muslims

      I was surprised at how the Muslim characters in Don Quixote were handled. Even in the "story within a story" of the long-suffering, Spanish, captive-in Barbary sea captain, no Turkish or Arab character is a caricature.
      In Part 2, Cervantes challenges the crude logic of Western xenophobia. Quixote and Sancho meet up with a band of German pilgrims, one of whom turns out to be Sancho's former friend and neighbor Ricote the Morisco. (The Moriscos were those Muslims left living in Spain after the Christian victory; they were forcibly expelled—on pain of death—by royal decree from 1609 to 1613.) Ricote, a humble shopkeeper, has disguised himself as a pilgrim in order to retrieve a small "treasure" he had to leave behind when he and his family were forced to flee. His wife and daughters are in Algiers; he hopes to settle them in Germany, far from the "terror and fear" they have endured in Spain. His story is a poignant one, the refugee's timeless lament, and Sancho listens sadly, sharing a wineskin with his old friend, until they "go their separate ways." Cervantes never belabors the point, or descends into sentimentality, but offers a moving affirmation of ordinary human ties flourishing in spite of fanaticism.
    I know, who has time for timelessness anymore?