They said no one would show up but they were wrong. The club is packed, standing room only. I look over at my bass player, the incomparable Rollo Jefferson, one of the best bass players I’d ever worked with. He’s wiping the sweat from his brow, looks a little confused. I reassure him that everything is going just fine, better than I expected. He looks at me, smiles, shakes the cramps out of his fingers. Yeah, I know it’s hard, brother, and it’s been a long time but you can do it. I glance over at Billy Tyler, the baddest fucking drummer there is. He nods at me, adjusts his high hat. Hank Smalls, the pianist, I don’t know what’s wrong with him. Seems to be out of sorts throughout the entire first set. I can’t even get him to look at me. What’s his deal? This is the ‘classic’ line up — the ones who have been with me through thick and thin. The audience is waiting for the next piece, the last one before we break between sets. I’m pleased to see the club is packed. As usual, the naysayers were wrong.
Great story!
Well written.