You probably didn’t feel like it standing outside while others could go in, but man, what a lucky kid.
Where I grew up, about the only place you could get to was a video game arcade. I got informed about jazz from my old uncle—really my dad’s uncle—stooped, sibilant and clacky speeched from dentures, a glass eye, shaky, afflicted with arthritis and Parkinson’s disease. He lived by himself and got around with the help of a walker as he shuffled everywhere in his tiny one-bedroom shack on a street corner a stone’s throw of the Lake Erie shore.
But he was a jazz drummer back in the roaring twenties. He got lessons as a schoolboy during WWI from a drummer who was sweet on his older sister trying to get in good with her. And he’d fill my ears with crazy stories about the old days and wild Prohibition Era and mob era gigs all the way up until, as he’d say, “The Parkinson’s got me!”
He taught me what he could with his numb, shaky hands, and when he could still produce a healthy sizzling drum roll on his padded dining room table, he’d still crack a grin and I swear both eyes, the real one and the glass one, would light up.
I eventually bought a very used drum set and brought it over to his house one day to see what he could still do. He could barely hold a coffee mug, but I sat him down, put his old sticks in his hands (I still have them—he’s been gone twenty years now) and he just started playing. And he played, and he played, and he played...