Dave Brubeck at 89

I sat three feet away from Dave Brubeck as he played a rare club show in Minnesota at The Dakota.  Dave turns 89 in December;  you see every year and long road weary mile on his gnarled hands and frail posture as he shuffles with assistance to the piano. But once he starts playing, he’s transformed into fluid movement, sound and joy.  Yes,  that sounds corny as hell,  but I know what I saw, and it was a mystical, powerful experience.

Maybe part of the magic of that concert  came from the fact that everyone in the venue, including Dave Brubeck and his Band knew that he won’t be here much longer, but there he sat, defying death and all the gloom and doom that comes with it,  gently coaxing endless melodies out of all 88 keys.  He plays with the spirit of a child and the knowledge of the most season veteran in jazz.  It made me want to embrace life,  quit living like it’s over.  Like Dave, I should spend more time playing,  less time moping.

Remember what that great 20th century philosopher Groucho Marx said,  “Time Wounds all Heels.”