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.