Shades of Blue
Shades of Blue
Shades of Blue
Bill Moody
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright © 2007 by Bill Moody
First Edition 2007
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2007935721
ISBN-10 Print: 1-59058-485-9 Hardcover
ISBN-13 eBook: 978-1-61595-292-2
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Poisoned Pen Press
6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103
Scottsdale, AZ 85251
For Sarah and
Teresa Moody 1958-2005
Contents
Nobody is really listening, so nobody notices the drummer misses my count for the tempo on the opening tune. For a few seconds, “On Green Dolphin Street” is a traffic jam as he and the bass player—I’d only met them both a half hour before the gig—scramble for the beat, but by the second eight bars, we settle into a loping, relaxed two beat rhythm that feels comfortable and starts to swing.
We’re not quite wallpaper, as musicians sometimes call these gigs, but, up here, we’re kind of the no name trio, providing background jazz for the party. For our trouble, we get to partake of the buffet, some Napa Valley red wine, and two hundred bucks each.
The loud conversation surrounding us is distraction enough, but when I glance back over my shoulder at the drummer, I see there’s more. He shrugs and sheepishly smiles, nodding toward a woman standing close by in a low cut black dress that clings to her body like the material is wet. One arm across her body, cradling her elbow, she holds a long stemmed glass of red wine. She takes a sip, tilts her head slightly, smiles at me briefly, then glides away and up a few steps where there is a lavish, hot buffet being served by waiters in white shirts and maroon bow ties.
The host for this gathering is a multimillionaire who designed guitar amplifiers that are used and endorsed by every major rock star and band on the scene. This is his annual party for a hundred or so of his close friends, so I was told when I got the call. His home is a Tuscany style villa on top of a mountain, about an hour north of the Golden Gate Bridge.
After a fifteen-minute climb up the twisting mountain road, I had to punch in a code for the electronic gate, drive another mile or so, and park alongside of the house by a large man-made pond with huge lily pads floating and the occasional fish breaking the still water’s surface. The small parking lot was already crowded with Mercedes sedans, BMWs, expensive SUVs, and even a couple of sports cars that must have been in the hundred-thousand-dollar range.
I get a brief tour, courtesy of the bass player, Terry, who’s done this gig a number of times. I lose count of the many rooms and levels. The indoor swimming pool, the game room, the expansive office, equipped with all the latest computer gear, and of course, the grand piano in the ballroom sized living room I’m playing now. Yes, rock does pay better than jazz.
I’ve landed here virtually by accident. The bassist, Terry Henry, a wiry guy with an RAF mustache and an infectious laugh, is a friend of a friend who’d called and offered me the gig when he heard I’d moved to northern California. Why not, I thought. I’m a long way from Amsterdam, or Los Angeles for that matter, and getting into the Bay Area scene means taking gigs as they come. That’s how it happens when you’re starting over in a new town.
We play for about an hour, then Terry calls a break. We sample the food out on an enclosed patio area, then wander outside for a smoke.
“So, Evan, what do you think?” Terry asks me. He paces around as he talks. He has a kind of perpetual squint and smile, like he knows something I don’t. “Like to do some more of these gigs? I can set you up.”
“Tell him about the deli,” the drummer chimes in.
“Yeah, man,” Terry says. “Every Sunday night. House trio, guys come by and sit in. Very cool scene.”
“A deli?”
I hesitate for a moment, gazing out over the pond. The perimeter is lit by evenly spaced small lamps, and a sandy path veers off and seems to disappear into the woods. I’ve played a lot of gigs in a lot of strange places but never in a delicatessen. Well, why not. Andie was on assignment and I am, as they say, available.
“Okay, I’ll give it a shot. It’s a jam session kind of thing huh?”
“Yeah, been happening for a few years now. Good exposure. Might catch some gigs out of it. It’s in Crockett, near Vallejo.”
I sigh. Vallejo is in the East Bay and must be more than an hour and a half drive from Monte Rio and my new digs. I’m barely moved in but I’ve gotten to like it so well I hate to leave the area. Still, if I’m going to work, get established here, I have to be out there and show my face.
“Okay, you’re on,” I tell Terry.
“Cool,” Terry says. “First exit over the Carquinez Bridge on I-80, then turn left and go down the hill. You can’t miss it.” He looks around, sees our host peeking outside, waving his flute at us. Terry nods to him. “Guess we’re on.”
The host, since it’s his house, gets a chance to dig out his flute and join us on a couple of tunes. He may have made his money in rock but he’s a jazzer at heart. More people gather around as he joins us and finds his way through a few standards. But he tires quickly, shrugs at his rustiness, and lays his flute on the piano before retiring to host duties and mingles with his guests.
We play two more sets. It’s all very low key, no pressure, and the evening goes by quickly. A few people actually do listen, especially a tall thirty-something guy in a blazer and slacks with dirty blonde unkempt hair, who I see now is with the girl in the black dress I’d seen earlier. As the party starts to break up, he comes over.
“Evan Horne, right?” He has a friendly smile and puts out his hand. “Cameron Brody. I saw you a couple of years ago at the Jazz Bakery in Los Angeles. You were subbing for Monty Alexander.”
“Yeah, that’s right. I hope it was a good night.” We shake hands.
“Oh definitely.” He pauses for a moment, not quite knowing how to say what I know is on his mind. “So, what are you doing here?”
“I’ve been in Europe, decided to give the Bay Area a try. You live around here yourself?”
“Yeah, Berkeley. I do some work for Fantasy, Concord Records.” I see the girl tug lightly on his arm. “Look, I have to go but let me know where you’re playing.” He reaches in his coat pocket and hands me a card. It has his number and e-mail address and ASCAP Representative printed in the center of the card. “Good to see you again,” he says, and walks off with the girl.
“Sure, you too.”
On the long drive home, I’m pleasantly tired with a little of that wired, after-gig feeling, and still enjoying the newness of my car. I’d found it parked alongside River Road with a For Sale sign, an almost new VW Beetle with all the extras—sun roof, CD player, five speed. Some guy had bought it for his wife and she’d decided she didn’t like shifting, so it was a good deal for me.
Guerneville is pretty much shut down as I cruise through and continue on to Monte Rio. I cross the small bridge over the Russian River and turn onto Bohemian Avenue, pull in and park in the driveway.
My place is on the top floor of a duplex with the front door at ground level. Walking up the short flight of stairs into the entry hall still gives me a charge as much as it did the first day I looked at the place. As soon as I looked down that hallway and saw the wood floors, wood paneling waist high, and glass all around, even a couple of sky lights in the high ceiling, I knew I was home.
The laconic owner leaned against the wall, checked his watch, and studied me as I looked around. “At least you’re on time,” he said.
There was a small kitchenette, a wood stove, built in bookcase on one wall, fairly large bedroom, and a deck off the living room.
“Loft up there.” The owner pointed to a door off the living room. Small but again surrounded by glass. I slid one of the windows open a few inches and smelled the redwoods. One was so close I could almost touch it. I wondered how hard it would be to get a piano up there.
Less than two blocks from the Russian River and virtually around the corner from Margo Highland, who was now back in Amsterdam with Fletcher Paige, the expatriate saxophonist who I’d done a solid three months with in Amsterdam at the Baby Grand. Now it was Monte Rio. Peaceful, quiet, probably two hours from San Francisco, but I like to drive.
By then I was itchy to see Andie more and get back home. Fletcher had some jazz festival commitments so it was time to part and go our separate ways, but we both knew there’d be other times, other gigs. Being here would help a lot.
Coming back down from the loft, I smiled at the owner. “Really nice,” I said, and stuck out my hand. “Evan Horne.”
“Hayden Clay,” he said, scowling. “What do you do?”
He’d been like that since I’d arrived, like he was annoyed that he even had to show the place and didn’t care whether I liked it or not.
“Musician. I play piano.” I waited but his expression didn’t change a bit. “What do you need from me? References, deposit? I’d like to take this. I really like it.” I got the feeling he was just going through the motions.
“What I need is somebody that’s not a deadbeat. Somebody who doesn’t bounce checks and pays the rent on time.”
I nodded, thinking I understood. People don’t always like to rent to musicians. “Had some trouble?”
“Don’t get me started,” Clay said. “I had to evict the last tenant. I’ve been in court six months trying to get my money and this place has been vacant ever since.” He frowned at me. “What makes you different?”
I spent the next fifteen minutes making a case for myself as the ideal tenant. I was prepared to fill out a long application, which seemed to be the custom up here, and so different than L.A.
Clay paced around, listening to me, nodding, mulling it over. Finally, he turned and said, “I go on my gut mostly. I guess I have to take a chance on somebody.” He looked me right in the eye. “Tell you what. Give me five hundred to hold it and it’s yours.”
Ten minutes later we’d negotiated the rent and security deposit. I made out a check, and Hayden Clay left me to look around on my own. “Soon as this clears I give you the keys,” he said. “Close the door on your way out. It locks by itself.” Halfway down the stairs he stopped and turned. “What kind of music you play?”
“Jazz.”
“Dixieland or like that Bird guy stuff, Charlie Parker.”
“Bird.” He smiled then and so did I.
Now, most of my stuff is in and I’d managed to get four guys to help me get a small spinet piano I’d found in Santa Rosa up the stairs to the loft. I’ve only been here two weeks but it feels like I’ve always lived here.
I turn on some lights, grab a Henry Weinhard from the fridge, and step out on the deck, Miles playing “So What,” from
Kind of Blue
with the volume way down.
As always, I’d initiated the place with it. I love the music and no matter how many times I play it, I hear something new. Miles, Coltrane, Cannonball, Bill Evans, Paul Chambers, and Jimmy Cobb. But there was something else about
Kind of Blue
, as if I’d heard this music before I’d even become aware of it. It had sounded familiar the first time I’d listened.
I smoke a cigarette and listen to a light rain starting to pepper the windows and just before I turn in, the phone rings.
“Hello.”
“Hi Babe, what’s doing in the hinterlands?”
“Hey, Andie. You back already?”
“Yeah, just got in, on a late flight. Want to venture into the big city tomorrow or must I trek out to the boondocks? I’m off I think.”
So far, Andie Lawrence and I were keeping our own places. She’d balked at me renting in Monte Rio but hadn’t pushed it. “I’ll come in. Got some place to go. Might be a connection for a gig.”
“Good, I don’t feel like that long drive. Oh, there’s a couple of phone messages for you. Roy Haynes and some lawyer in L.A., Roger Scott. You want the numbers?”
“Roy Haynes the drummer?”
“He didn’t say what instrument,” Andie says. “I guess he figured you’d know.”
“Yeah, I know.” I didn’t know of any other Roy Haynes.
The lawyer was equally puzzling. I had nothing legal pending as far as I knew, and I wondered how he’d tracked me down. Since I’d come back from Europe, I hadn’t talked to anybody but Danny Cooper and a couple of musicians. “No, I’ll get the numbers when I come in. He won’t be in his office tomorrow. Anything else on the message?”
“No, just his number and said it’s urgent.”
Urgent. That part I don’t like. “Okay, I’ll be in before noon.”
“Don’t you want to know what I’m wearing?” Her voice takes on a low throaty sound.
“You’re awfully naughty for an FBI agent.”
“You should know.”
“That I do. Get some sleep. Let me think about it.”
“I’ll be here.”
Before I turn in, I go through my CDs, find the one I want, and put it in the player. Chick Corea, Miroslav Vitous—and Roy Haynes, who must be in his seventies now. He’d played with everybody from Bird to the Brecker Brothers and from what I’ve read, is playing better than ever.
I listen to the trio do a tune called “Matrix,” something by Corea, thinking how unlikely it was that Roy Haynes had called me.
I also can’t resist looking up matrix. Webster’s calls it, “an impression from which a large number of phonograph records can be duplicated.”
