There have so many pianists that have shaped the legacy of jazz music but there is one who towers above them all. Without Bud Powell there would be no Wynton Kelley, no Horace Silver, no McCoy Tyner, and no Chick Corea. Certainly Barry Harris, Tommy Flanagan, and Sonny Clark would have sounded much different. Even the pianists you might think are not influenced by Bud, such as Bill Evans and Keith Jarrett, owe a great deal to the master. Early Bill Evans recordings reveal a close stylistic affinity with Powell, and Jarrett has recorded many of Powell's compositions on his trio dates- enough to let you know that he has more than a passing fancy.

The first Bud record that I owned was s Verve "twofer" called The Genius of Bud Powell, which comprised his trio and solo work from 1949-1951. I was just fifteen, new to jazz, but from the opening off-to-the-races intro of Tempus Fugit, Bud had won yet another disciple.

It would be impossible for me to overstate his importance to jazz pianists. The connection I felt to him was instantaneous and thrilling. These sessions, recorded in such a brief span of time, are the lexicon from which future pianists would study.

His technique is prodigious, but not as frightening and daunting as that of Art Tatum. He's just mortal enough to allow you to have a smidgen of belief that it is attainable.

The technique, however, is the tip of the iceberg. Check out his clarity of ideas. He rarely repeats himself, even on the extended choruses of All Gods Children Got Rhythm, Tea For Two, and Parisian Thoroughfare. His attack is hard, yet he never forces the beat. He is secure in the center of the beat, rarely clams a note, and is so confident in the up tempo numbers that they hardly sound fast at all - just musical. His ideas, in fact, are so well-formed that he becomes a be-bop impressionist - painting in colors we could not dream of.

These sides, and I've heard them hundreds of times, never get old to me. I am as dumbfounded listening to them today as I wax 35 years ago. His ballad playing is like no other pianist I've ever heard. Phrases come in clusters, seemingly unrelated to the beat, but that is only an illusion; his time is never less than perfect. He appears to have found a way to use the maximum amount of pedal without ever slurring notes. He is romantic but never scmaltzy.

His personality looms over everything. From the startling originals, Hallucinations and The Fruit, to the clever re-working of the standards Tea For Two and Cherokee, he is in command and the music has such forward momentum that you almost get the feeling that his sidemen - Max Roach and Ray Brown - giants in their own rite, are merely along for the ride. This is bourne out on his solo sides of 1951, in which the tunes are so alluring, and his time so strong that on first listen one can be forgiven for not noticing the absence of a rhythm section!  Bud, you left us far too soon, but thank you for all that you have given us. We can never repay you, and we will never forget you.

On Saturday, after a week of heartfelt goodbyes, going away parties, and more tears than a Terms of Endearment 30th year anniversary revival, we have left New York City.  I was glad that my last memory was of the Northern Blvd Best Buy — it will lessen the nostalgia.  Around 2:30 PM we crossed the George Washington Bridge into New Jersey thus concluding my life in New York City.

I remember my first night in New York some 26 years ago.  I stayed with my cousin who had an apartment at the Esplinade Hotel on West End Ave and 74th st.  It was a cold, rainy night, and I was holed up in his bedroom.  He was working late so I was by myself, or so I thought. 

 I had this clock radio that a neighbor had given me as a going away present.  It still works — we keep it in our upstate house.  I turned the radio on and tuned to a Rangers-Islanders playoff game.  Not that I gave a rats ass about hockey in those days, but I was so excited to be in New York that I would have listened to Ed Koch reciting the Gettysburg Address had it been on.  (I should note that these days I have a much greater appreciation of hockey and intend to root on my San Jose Sharks….doesn anyone even know the way to San Jose?)

So I’m listening to this game and it’s the second overtime.  All of a sudden the Islanders scored to win the game and  I heard this blood curdling scream emanating from the adjacent bedroom.  I can’t begin to describe the agony and utter despair that was contained in that five second outburst, but suffice it to say that I had never heard anything like it.  It was like a dying wildebeest going though heroin withdrawal while giving birth to twins.

I smiled and thought, “Now, I’m in New York!”

And now for one of my all time gigging lowlights.  The year was 1993.  America had just elected a president from Hope, Arkansas, gas was $1.16 a gallon, and a little corner of the internet known as the World Wide Web was born at CERN.  In sports, the Dallas Cowboys romped over the Buffalo Bills in Superbowl XXVII while the Chicago Bulls completed their first 3-peat of the decade with a 4 games to 2 victory over the Phoenix Suns. 

Back in those halcyon days I played in a club date band led by an eccentric drummer named Ronnie Allen.  Club date, of course, is a misnomer.  East coast musicians refer to any gig that is an affair — wedding, bar mitzvah,  or party —  as a club date.  West coast musicians call these gigs casuals, (equally misnamed) while Canadians call it “jobbing.”

Ronnie was a nice enough guy but he was a nickle and dimer.  Your check would arrive in the mail [late] and it would invariably be five or ten dollars short.  You would have to call him and ask him to make up the difference, which he would, but in the meantime you had expended a lot of needless energy. 

Ronnie had these corny catch phrases that he would employ at the end of various songs.  If it was a lively tune he would shout out, “That was better than a Jane Fonda work out!”  After a latin song he would say “Schaeffer is the one beer to have when you’re only having one.”  In Spanish.  If you were playing a 50s song he wanted to make sure that you knew what the ending was.  Right before the completion of the song he would look at you and scream in rapid fire, “Bah-bah-bah-bah-bah-bah!”  This was his universal signal to play a triplet ending.  He looked like a Mongolian psychopath but it seemed to work for him.  Suffice it to say there was nary a dull moment around Ronnie.  You couldn’t turn around without finding him beside you, telling you what to play or do next.

All of this was fine.   These were his gigs, and apart from shorting us on the money he could do with them what he pleased.  As it happened I was on a gig with Ronnie and his big band on October 23rd, 1993, the day that the Philadelphia Phillies played the Toronto Bluejays in game 6 of the World Series.  

We were at a private club in Princeton, New Jersey playing a black tie affair for their alumni association.  By the way, don’t think that this is impressive.  As a musician you have to wear a tux at almost every club date you play.  All it means to us is that it will be harder for to get at the hors d’oeuvres since the uniform brands us as band or waiter.   

Upstairs from where we were playing there was a lounge with a TV tuned to the Series game.  During our breaks we would go upstairs and watch what we could until we had to retreat back to the bandstand.  In the 7th inning the Phillies fought back from a 5-1 deficit to take a 6-5 lead.  I can recall seeing most of this comeback on one of our breaks. 

On our final break we went back upstairs to see if the Phillies could close it out to force a game 7.  God did I want them to hold on to that lead.  I would have been able to watch the deciding seventh game from the comfort of my living room sofa without a bandstand in sight.

The Phillies brought in their erratic closer Mitch Williams to pitch the 9th.  He allowed a walk and got the next hitter to fly out before giving up a single to Paul Molitar.  Each pitch seemed to take minutes to deliver.  I stood in silent agony and endured endless meetings at the mound with catchers, infielders, and coaches.  I knew that our break was close to ending — I was just praying that Ronnie would let it go just two more minutes.  Just…two…more….minutes….

“Gentleman.  It’s time to grace the bandstand.”

NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! 

Couldn’t he, just this once, have taken a longer break?  We went downstairs and played to an empty room.  The entire party was watching the game.  Of course they were.  WE WERE ONLY 35 DAMN MILES FROM PHILLY!! 

So I’m thinking OK, Saunders, you missed the end of the game.  Fine.  Be cool.  Just let Williams get the last two outs.  Just go down nice and easy, Toronto.  Like the man says, “nice and easy does it every time.”  Just two outs.  Niiiiice and eaaaasy.  Easy does i….

Just then people began streaming down the stairs and I’m thinking, please God, no….please…

“What happened?!” I screamed at a passer-by. 

“Joe Carter just won the game with a two run homer!  It’s the greatest ending of a World Series ever!!”

And there you have it.  I missed it.  To this day I can’t hear the name Joe Carter without grinding my teeth.  My best friend has since given me a video tape of the game, but 17 years later I am unable to bring myself to watch it.  I’m not there yet.  

But you know, as much as I would like to, I cannot blame Ronnie.  You can’t fault a guy for doing his job.  These days, if I was leading a band I would do the same thing.  Notice how I say these days.  In those days I would have lost the gig before missing an ending of a World Series game.

The Associated press reports:

The Miami Heat announced this morning that Chris Bosh & Dwyane Wade may miss the 2010 -2011 season when they were discovered early this morning dazed and confused with multiple leg fractures crawling along a drainage ditch adjacent to the New Jersey Turnpike.  In an unrelated matter, Lebron James announced that he will host a one hour special on ESPN next Thursday night at 9 ET entitled “What’s Next?” It will be broadcast live from the Prudential Center in Newark, New Jersey.  For those who can’t get to Newark, it will also be shown on a 500 foot Diamondvision that will be set up on the construction site of the Nets’ new arena in Brooklyn. 

 In yet another odd companion story, Russian billionaire, Nikolai Prokhorov announced one of the biggest real estate deals in modern times with the revelation that he has purchased Akron, Ohio.  The mayor could not be reached for comment.  In fact, the mayor could not be reached at all. 

 Coincidentally, the deputy mayor was found this morning floating face down in the Ohio River.  The governor immediately appointed a new deputy mayor, Svetlana Prokhorov.  When reached for comment, Ms. Prokhorov would only say, “I am da winnah”. 

 Later this morning, the New Jersey Nets announced that tickets for the upcoming NBA season would go on sale sooner than had been expected——tomorrow.  Tickets can be purchased at the Prudential Center box office or by going online and visiting their brand new web site:  www.itaintovernyet.org

J. Mazzeikov

ESPN's all-LeBron-all-the-time coverage has me pining for a simpler era.  One in which the coverage was more understated.  Like the O.J. trial.  The sports network talking heads have been dissecting every rumor out of Cleveland as if they were rabbis parsing Talmud.  At this point I am exhausted with the hype and will almost certainly be rooting against whichever team he signs for.   

Can anyone even recall Magic Johnson and Larry Bird ever having being free agents?  There certainly wasn’t Academy Awards style TV specials back then to mark the event.  Nobody would have watched.  What, miss Hill Street Blues and Cheers to see Bird re-sign with Boston?  You’ve gotta be kidding! 

The thing is that Magic, Bird, Kareem, and Julius Erving were, at the very least, the equal of LeBron.  Hell, Kobe is better than LeBron and he didn’t get a made for TV special.  I’ll tell you what, he never got a dinner!  Not to take anything away from Akron’s finest but who would you rather build your team around?  I’ll take any of the aforementioned. 

So what if James signs with Miami along with Dwayne Wade and Chris Bosh and goes on to win four titles?  Ho hum.  It won’t be news if he goes to the up and coming Bulls, joining Carlos Boozer, Derrick Rose and the rest of that fine squad, and tries to equal Jordan’s feat of six titles.  Big deal. 

Now if he stays with Cleveland and helps that city to its first professional title in 46 years, that’s a different story.  I will tip my cap to him.  But if he really wants a challenge he should consider donning the blue and orange of a little team called the New York Knickerbockers.  Then, and only then, will he be worthy of the moniker of King.