I was scared on the drive over. I had to stop and get a pack of smokes. I was still anxious as I walked into The World Stage for the second time on a Friday night in 1998. It was a cool late autumn night, but The Stage beckoned warmly.

The World Stage is located in the heart of the Los Angeles' African-American cultural community. Jazz clubs, blues bars, art galleries, restaurants, an amphitheater, chess tables, a park, and a row of makeshift vendors selling crafts jostled for position amongst the people out for the night. The night before, Thursday night, I came with my girlfriend, Teresa Brown, and scouted the place out. I hadn't played music in public since I first was in college and then it was usually on a gut full of booze. My last four years had been spent blowing the blues into the carpet trying to imitate the coal black brilliance of what I heard from my Miles Davis' collection. Teresa and I slunk down in the back row of the small club listening for the melodies of the spirit. We heard songs like Footprints, Now's The Time, Star Eyes, and You Don't Know What Love Is. It was fun and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Just before we left, all the horns crammed onto the stage, which was about as long and wide as a hopscotch line, and bellowed in big sound splendor the Oliver Nelson classic Stolen Moments. In my mind, I was riffing right along with them. On the drive home to Hollywood, I think Teresa and I both saw shooting stars.

The next night I went back unaccompanied and ready to dive in. I walked into the club clutching my horn case and praying that I didn't get chased away because of poor skills or lack of talent.

I paid the three-dollar charge to play; the manager seemingly glad I came back. On stage, two very old men, a pianist and a bassist, were just setting up. I grabbed one of the brown and chrome office chairs in the front row and just sat looking around. The club was empty except for the three of us and the manager. On the walls hung photographs of Billy Higgins, Tony Williams, Wynton Marsalis and John Coltrane. There were oil paintings of Miles Davis and Charlie Parker. The six by twelve foot stage was carpeted in gray, contained a standard issue piano, a tan drum set, and a microphone.

On stage, the two men seemed to fuss over some technical question.

Observing them from my seat to the left and below the slightly raised stage, I could see that the bass player looked about sixty and the pianist was older. They were very lanky. In fact, I wouldn't have been surprised if they pulled out a bowl of sawdust and water between songs to snack on. I also noticed that the pianist fingers were very, very long; they looked as if they might stretch from here to the end of the earth; as if he could play the first and the eighty-eighth key on the piano with just one hand. As they began to play, it was quickly evident that they had vastly different musical temperaments. Like Jeckyll and Hyde, the pianist smiled warmly and played gentle, rolling phrases that shimmered and hung in the air; while the bassist scowled often and plucked at his strings like they were incorrigible children in sore need of a spanking.

A little while went by and eventually I got up my nerve and asked if I could play too. The pianist just nodded and smiled. So I unpacked my old horn, wetted the mouthpiece, and blew a couple of introductory notes to warm up. The first time you put your lips to the mouthpiece the coldness is like a pillow. It's hard and concave with a hollowed out center but your lips slipslide over the perimeter and pucker the hollow, buzzing a little, and soon enough it's kinda like sitting by a smoldering fire. "What do you wanna play?" - the pianist asked softly. "Uh, I don't know. Anything is ok with me."

He had been playing gentle melodies from an earlier age, the 30's perhaps, and that's what he continued playing. I didn't recognize the melody, but his harmony was clear as the sky above a Kansas wheat field; the chords gliding from one to the other like a puff of vapor, effortlessly. We played for an hour, maybe longer. All Of Me, Body And Soul, Out Of Nowhere. The songs started and stopped, but his luminous harmonies seemed to always tell the same tale. How could I struggle for the right notes. He handed me the answers. Just play pretty.

You know how when you first jump in a pool, if it's a little cold you splash around to warm up. Then maybe you push off the end and shoot through the water, dive down a little, and the water is all around. It's cool and refreshing, the water rushes along the length of your body, and maybe you won't ever come up for air.

And suddenly it was over. After we stopped, the pianist got up and sat beside me. He was wearing brown slacks and a pale yellow shirt. He gave me a friendly nod and leaned in to talk. "You play tricky," he offered.

Was that slang for something? An old word for good or bad or confusing? I was at a loss.

I thanked him for playing with me. We made small talk for a minute and the club closed early for lack of business.

Afterword

Billy Higgins passed away earlier this year. Vonnie Hope passed away in 2000. Don Muhammad and Jimmy Mendenhall are still active figures around the The World Stage and the jazz scene. Jesse Ratner is not at all tricky amd welcomes comments, suggestions, billet-douxs, and all other forms of correspondence to him at jesse_ratner@yahoo.com. Thanks.