Labor Day 2007, only 12 years ago, we were back home again in Indiana for my brother’s funeral. (Joe was the talented one, who was a legislator and a prosecutor and a judge and an author of dozens of books, whereas I am a wandering minstrel.)
After the funeral, on our way from Madison (where Joe lived and died), we were Indianapolis to meet up with an old friend, drummer Jack Gilfoy.
Jack and his first wife Peg were the first married couple we knew, and their happiness encouraged us try out the marital state.
Jack had a gig that day, playing on the patio at the Jazz Kitchen with a big band, part of a Labor Day jazz marathon. So we met for lunch across the street an hour before he was to play.
During lunch, I told Jack that if the band’s piano player was late I’d be happy to play a few tunes with them.
Not only was he late, he didn’t show up at all, so I ended up playing their whole set.
Not only did he not show up, he had the piano book with him, so I had to twist myself around enough to be able to try to read from the bass book.
I won’t claim it was the best I’ve ever played, but we got through it. I was worth every penny I wasn’t paid.
That Labor Day, following my brother’s funeral, was the last time I saw Jack Gilfoy alive. He died a month or so later.
The great Indianapolis pianist Claude Sifferlen was playing with a group that preceded the big band. As we made our way to the table we were given, near the bandstand, there was a bass solo going on, and Claude was looking down, as one sometimes does when a bass solo is taking place nearby.
As we walked by the bandstand, Claude looked up and caught my eye. I said to him, not loudly at all, “You’re too fucking good!” He cracked up laughing, knowing it was the truth.
It was the last time I saw Claude—he died a couple of years later.
You never know when a day is going to be memorable.