“Aging is not for the faint of heart.
It requires a slower pace, a steadier step,
and the wisdom to say goodbye without fear.”
—Meryl Streep

“I never heard of a jazz musician who retired.
You love what you do, so what are you
going to do, play for the walls?”
—Nat Adderley

I’ve been thinking about retirement.

For old road dogs like me, retirement is a tricky proposition.

Do we even want to retire? We love what we do. Why should we stop?

Occasionally you'll hear about a musician retiring “from stage to page,” exchanging public performance for the solitary work of composing music or writing a memoir. Others become painters, poets, or novelists. That's less retirement than reinvention.

Nobody expects us to retire. Most of our heroes didn’t. Unlike professional athletes, jazz musicians don’t “age out” of the business. When our strength, stamina, or chops begin to wane, we adapt. We simplify. We change our style.

Most of us can’t afford to retire. Self-employed artists rarely make enough to build any real retirement savings, and many end up with modest Social Security benefits. We’re responsible for our own healthcare. We don’t get paid vacations. We don’t receive paychecks, pensions, or 401k matching funds. We’re out here on our own.

A fortunate few get to expire on the bandstand. Bonus points if you drop dead during the applause, right after your brilliant solo! This exit strategy is called The Big Finish. We should all be so lucky.

The retirement plan for most of us, however, is The Slow Fade. You keep working because you must. Over time your health, mobility, and mental sharpness begin to decline. At the same time you experience a decrease in professional activity and cultural relevance. It feels like ageism, but it’s entropy. Fewer gigs, smaller crowds, less attention. A gradual slide from relative notoriety into obscurity and, eventually, total anonymity.

Fading out was never my plan. I wanted to finish the story on a high note. I wanted to go out on top.

When I was first starting out, I envisioned my career as a steady climb upward until finally, in my ultimate season, the capstone: a glorious Farewell Tour! I imagined joyously returning to all my favorite festivals, clubs, and concert halls for one final performance. I would play my heart out, then retire to a quiet life of leisure.

Now both of those dreams—the steady ascent and the victory lap—sound grandiose and incredibly naive to me. I've had a good run, but it felt less like scaling a mountain than navigating a winding river. Not a disciplined escalation so much as a cunning negotiation of life’s twists and turns, ebbs and flows, ups and downs.

Nevertheless, the idea of “a quiet life of leisure” sounds pretty good right about now.

After ten thousand gigs and half a century of hustling, I'm ready to rest, though the rewards of a life in music rarely arrive in a brokerage account. Most of them are non-monetary. I can't afford to quit working—not anytime soon, not in this economy.

I’ll need to keep earning a living for the foreseeable future—and perhaps that’s for the best. Creating, performing, and contributing are what give my life meaning. I would surely miss the connection with the audience and my bandmates, were I to leave it all behind.

But I can’t just keep going until the wheels fall off, and I won’t wait around for the slow fade to occur naturally. I must shape the process intentionally, little by little.

This body, mind, and spirit call for a deliberate downshift to a sustainable pace.

Maybe “retirement” isn't the right word. Maybe what I'm after is merely a gentler tempo.

I’ll continue to make the best music I can for as long as I can, for whomever is listening. I’ll simply do more with less: smaller projects, shorter tours, fewer gigs. From here on, it’s quality over quantity.

No retirement party.
No celebratory splash.
No farewell tour.

Just a long, slow decrescendo.

Diminuendo al niente.

“We don't stop playing because we grow old;
we grow old because we stop playing.”
—George Bernard Shaw

Can it really be true?

Is this year already half over?

Damn. For “The Year of Slow Living” it sure is going by awfully fast!

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, they do say “time flies when you’re having fun,” and I’m having plenty.

Because finally, after weeks of digital exercises, physical therapy sessions, and care team visits, my flugelin’ hand has fully healed from surgery.

I’m back to doing what I love: traveling, making music, living the dream. I’m even writing again!
 

There’s nothing like being sidelined for a while to make you appreciate getting back in the game.

Looking ahead, I remain mindful of two very important things:

1. I can’t stop working (so I sure as hell better pace myself), and
2. I can’t do this alone.

I’ve never been more grateful for my family, friends, and fans.

Your love and support mean the world to me.

Onward!

“Der mentsh trakht un got lakht.”
Man plans and God laughs.
—Yiddish Proverb

In my most recent slow living update, posted at the end of March, I was upbeat.

The curse had been lifted!

The one-battle-after-another constant crises of 2025 were in our rear view mirror.

This was a brand new year, I sighed with relief. The Year of Slow Living.

I was encouraged, because the first quarter had been entirely free of drama. I'd been able to sustain a gentle, stress-free lifestyle for three full months, managing the RA and making all my gigs without incident or injury.

Moreover, springtime had awakened in me a resurgent feeling of purpose. I felt confident and ready to take on the month of April and its more demanding tour schedule.

“I’m not worried,” I wrote. “I’ll take my time and enjoy the journey. My only job is to pace myself.”

You know what happens next: Man plans, and God laughs.

Two days later I’m in the hospital, the entire tour is canceled, and slow living is suddenly, and quite literally, “just what the doctor ordered.” I was given no choice. I'd been sidelined. The month ahead would now be, out of necessity, entirely about rest, recovery, and rehabilitation.

Being sidelined is scary. After all, there's no “paid leave” in our line of work. Fortunately, I haven't had to face this alone. I'm so grateful for the support we received this month from caring friends and family members.

I’m not gonna lie. These solitary weeks in the hunker bunker have not been easy. 

I've been working hard, faithfully following the PT program designed by my care team, stretching the joints and tendons, incrementally pushing through the pain, gradually rebuilding strength and endurance. And I've been diligently practicing rudiments on the horn for a little longer each day, steadily recovering dexterity and fine motor function in my hand and fingers. 

Now it's time to suit up, get back out there, and face the music once again!

Tomorrow is my first gig since the surgery, but I’m not worried.

I’ll take my time and enjoy the journey.

My only job is to pace myself.

Only one more week remaining here in the hunker bunker! I’m fighting the good fight.

Hand rehab is going well: 90 minutes of PT weekly, plus prescribed exercises several times daily.

I’m not yet able to fully extend my fingers or make a fist, but I’ve recovered most sensation and flexibility, and the pain is almost entirely gone, which is encouraging.

Most importantly, I’m able to practice for a little longer each day, so it should be safe to return to work soon.

The stiffness in my fumbling flugel fingers, however, is supremely frustrating!

Passages I could play before with lyrical ease are now difficult to execute.

So it’s back to basics: scales, patterns, and etudes. Shout out to my old nemesis Herbert L. Clarke!

I play each exercise slowly with the metronome, gradually increasing the tempo, only after I’m able to place each note precisely and with equal weight. It’s mind-numbing work, but necessary.

Meanwhile, I’m also battling the bean-counting bureacrats of the deviously labyrinthine Medical-Industrial Complex. Sigh. #IYKYK

In the martial art of Aikido, the Japanese term “randori” (乱取り), literally “seizing chaos,” is an advanced technique in which the practitioner must improvise a defense against multiple attackers.

Opponents strike randomly using a variety of weapons. The unarmed randori master, alone at the center of this chaotic whirlwind, remains relaxed and ostensibly motionless. He anticipates, reacts, and deflects, expending little effort, even as he sends assailants flying in every direction.

What a beautiful and inspiring image!

To calmly face all of life’s battles—mental, physical, financial, existential—with grace.

Seizing chaos! Stillness within motion. You dig?

Fortunately, we don't have to fight every battle alone!

Thank you all for your encouragement and support.

Welp, the stitches are out, the bandages are off, and the hand looks good!

The procedure was a grand success. Shout out to Dr. Francisco Rodriguez Fontan and the excellent care team at Providence Centralia.

They saved my second valve finger and cleared the infection. They’re going to keep me on antibiotics for another couple of weeks, just to be sure, but this is wonderful news.

And nary a sexy scar! My only souvenirs from this adventure will be two tiny incision marks on my palm and finger tip, and some permanent inelasticity in my joints and tendons.

Now to recover as much fine motor function in my flugelin’ hand as possible. I can’t make a fist yet, or fully extend my fingers, but I’m already able to practice for a full hour before prohibitive pain and stiffness return.

I’ll remain laser focused on PT, OT, stretches, and flugel rudiments, adding 5-10 minutes daily, until it’s safe to return to work. I hope and expect to be road-ready by month’s end!

Heartfelt thanks to our friends and family for all your good thoughts and generous support while I’ve been sidelined. Your kindness means the world.

See you soon!

Preparing for my future TED Talk: 
Vigilant Diligence for Digital Impediments to the Rudiments Regimen

Update: two weeks post-surgery, and rehabilitation is proceeding apace!

Now able to practice for 45 minutes with only minimal pain and stiffness, adding 5 minutes daily.

Feeling so very grateful to everyone for the help and encouragement.

“Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is Patience.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson

It’s been a week since my surgery and I’m feeling cautiously optimistic.

The hand seems to be healing and there’s no sign of any lingering infection.

I’m grateful for the generous support we’ve received, and all the encouraging messages from family and friends.

It really helps, at times like this, to know that people care.

I’ve been doing my part, following doctor’s orders:

• taking the antibiotics and pain meds,
• resting well and sleeping through the night,
• scheduling follow-up visits and physical/occupational therapy sessions,
• keeping the bandaged right hand clean, dry, elevated, and stationery, and
• learning to use my left hand for literally everything.

Chops-wise, progress is slow.

A week in the hospital without practicing definitely weakened my embouchure, but the flugelhorn and I are becoming friends again.

I started with Donald Duck mouthpiece rudiments (much to Sassy’s delight), then transitioned to lefty long tones and lip slurs on the horn.

The real work begins next Friday. That’s when they’ll remove my stitches and I can start to regain strength and facility in my dominant hand.

I know myself. I’ll be tempted to try and speed things along by playing through the pain, but that would risk further injury.

The experts advise to start slowly, practice for a few minutes, then add 5 additional minutes each day.

The idea is to gradually rebuild endurance and fine motor function until I can play comfortably for a couple of hours.

Then, and only then, can I safely return to work.

I’m determined to get this right.

“You should've seen the other guy.”

Curveball—last week I was unexpectedly hospitalized for emergency hand surgery.

I'm now home, beginning several weeks of healing, recovery, and physical therapy. 

The plan is to gradually rebuild strength and dexterity until it’s safe to return to work. 

I'm also using speech-to-text and learning to do a few things left-handed—slowly but surely.

I hope to resume public performances at the end of this month.

Replacing the lost income won’t be easy. When all this began I had no choice but to cancel my participation in 17 engagements, including a California tour—heartbreaking, but necessary.

Fortunately, the concert presenters have been very understanding. We were able to preserve most of the dates for my bandmates. I’m relieved that my setback won’t significantly impact their livelihoods.

As for me, I’m taking things at a slower tempo, trusting the process, and looking forward to getting back out there.

Thank you for your support, which means the world to me, especially at times like this.

I’m grateful for all of you, and look forward to seeing you again soon.

Warmly,
Dmitri

That’s a wrap on the first quarter! 

So far, so good.

RA-wise, I’m doing better. The pain is manageable, but the fatigue is frustrating, especially on show days.

I’ve never been a particularly powerful player, but I now require lots of rest breaks. Fortunately, my bandmates don’t mind spelling me from time to time.

The biologic medications are definitely helping. Progress is slow, but the rheumatologist advises me to be patient and stay the course. For the foreseeable future that means daily meds, weekly injections, monthly blood tests, quarterly x-rays, and regular doctor visits. I’ll begin physical therapy as soon as the insurance approval comes through.

Meanwhile, I’m making progress learning how to live and work with this condition.

We played twelve gigs this month, just enough to cover expenses. There was one cancellation due to weather, a significant loss financially, but the surprise “snow day” was a welcome gift.

As we prepare for more travels and adventures, I find myself reflecting on the month of March and why it always feels so laden with meaning.

March heralds the arrival of spring, a fertile time of natural and spiritual renewal, when new life begins as winter melts away.

Named for Mars, the god of war, March is also a battle cry. When spoken aloud, the word itself may trigger a visceral response. “March.” It strikes the ear like a command, to move forward.

Now here’s where it gets personal. 

Throughout the 1990s and early aughts in San Francisco, March was “Matheny Music Month,” when we staged the annual Dmitri Matheny Home Season. 31 days and nights filled with special programs, including workshops, commissions, charity events, scholarships, artists-in-residence, collaborations, premieres, symposia, talks, and performances for the home town crowd.

We borrowed the idea from dance companies: build a program in the winter, showcase it in the spring, tour it in the summer and fall.

The formula worked.

Our March series became an annually anticipated event in the jazz community, while providing the framework for one energetic, somewhat delusional, young flugelhornist to launch a career in one of the world’s great cultural meccas.

It enabled me, fresh out of college, to immerse myself in the vibrant Bay Area arts community, collaborating with respected elders, creating new connections, building audiences. And it provided the means to maintain a visible profile at home while making a name for myself on tour.

My heart swells with gratitude when I remember all our partners in the project, from our fellow creatives, to the generous patrons who made it all possible. I’m especially grateful for the journalists and volunteers.

Remember, email was brand new and social media didn’t yet exist. To get the word out, we relied on word-of-mouth, postal mailings, and coverage in the traditional print and broadcast media.

We organized volunteers into “mailing parties” and “street teams.” The older folks would sit around my kitchen table, sticking postage stamps and address labels onto thousands of invitations, newsletters, and media releases. The younger ones distributed stacks of handbills and flyers to nightclubs, cafes, community bulletin boards, coffee shops, grocery stores, libraries, laundromats, and other high-foot-traffic areas in the region. It was a monumental undertaking on a shoestring budget.

Sigh. That was long ago. We made a splash at the time, but in the scheme of things, did it matter? Many of the venues, publications, and people involved are sadly no longer around. 

And yet. I still feel the tug and twinge of those “March Madness” years. Like the itch of a phantom limb after amputation, March awakens something in me.

Call it vestigial ambition. Embers from an old fire. Forgotten, but not gone.

Now April is here and we’re on the road again. 17 events in Washington, Oregon, and Northern California.

I’m not worried. I’ll take my time and enjoy the journey.

My only job is to pace myself.

This is The Year of Slow Living.

The mission is to pace myself and persevere.

February was just right — the perfect balance of work and rest.

We’ve enjoyed the rain this month, ideal for cozy evenings by the fire. Sass is disappointed we haven’t had any snow, but personally, I don’t miss it. Winter driving is no joke, especially over these northwest mountain passes! No snow or hail for me, thanks. But rain? Rain is life.

On show days I endeavor to practice effortless action. Easing into the morning calmly and mindfully, I do what is necessary, one thing at a time. Then I pack up the van and hit the road early, allowing plenty of stress-free travel time. I listen to music and enjoy the drive, remaining alert, taking breaks.

When I arrive early, the performance takes care of itself. Prepare, adapt, enjoy.

We gave our new program a “soft launch” this month on a couple of low pressure gigs, and the results were encouraging. This show is a crowd-pleaser, lively and entertaining, but isn’t overly demanding. The flashy flugel-heavy moments are balanced by opportunities to rest while we feature other members of the band.

These strategic breaks will prove especially important when we play consecutive shows, but I hope to avoid too many back-to-back engagements this year. So far the itinerary looks manageable. We have 81 confirmed gigs, and will accept no more than 100, so we can be selective as new opportunities arise.

On the RA front, I have good days and bad days. The biologic medications are definitely working, and I’m grateful for the functionality and mobility they help to make possible.

Some stiffness and soreness has returned, however, since I went off prednisone. Occasionally I have flares, random periods of pain and brain fog, and I often experience extreme fatigue the day after doing anything strenuous. Recovery days have become mandatory.

When I ask about remission, the rheumatologist reminds me that “this is a marathon, not a sprint.” I dig, but marathons are exhausting. Nevertheless, we move forward.

Today is the first day of March and the beginning of our busy spring season. 

Important to stay on top of things without becoming overwhelmed. 

Slow living is the key. Rise with the sun, tend my garden, play my role. 

Rest. Repeat.

I really miss the beautiful sylvan canopy that shaded our backyard when we first bought this house a decade ago.

I remember noticing the soothing sound of the wind through the trees when we first toured the property.

But a few years after we moved in, one of our neighbors decided to cut down and remove his big pines. Our view to the west changed dramatically that day, and not for the better.

Now, in the interest of safety, we’re clearing all the “widow-maker” dead and dying branches from our own treetops, and the result is visually bleak. The old-growth sentinels now look half naked, and one tree had to be removed entirely.  So sad.

Apparently this kind of tree maintenance is a responsibility familiar to northwest homeowners, but I grew up in the desert. This experience (and the expense) have caught me entirely by surprise.

So we’ve planted a dozen new happy little trees. 

I won’t see them reach maturity, but will enjoy watching them grow.

I love the month of January, when it’s my custom to take a break from traveling and performing.

January is when I return to myself. I stay home, reflect, recharge, plan, and prepare for the year ahead.

Mornings are spent fireside, writing music, practicing, and scheduling new tours and concert appearances. Afternoons are for puppy walks and errands. Evenings are pure relaxation.

This year I really needed the reset. 2025 was utterly exhausting! I’m determined to do a better job of pacing myself in 2026, which I’ve christened “The Year of Slow Living.”

So far, so good. January 2026 was just what it needed to be: both rejuvenating and productive.

Accomplished month one objectives while maintaining a relaxed, measured, calm and deliberate pace. No stress. Wu-wei.

Visited two doctors, the dentist, and mechanic, prepared most of the quintet arrangements for this season’s show, broke-in my new horn and mouthpiece, adapted to my new RA meds, and confirmed 75 of the 100 gigs we will play this year. Excelsior!

Also caught up on sleep and dreams.

Now it all starts up again.

Ready? Let’s do this.

Welp, after a year of steady progress, I managed to get within spitting distance of my goal weight, but was thwarted in the final stretch by the delicious treats of the holiday season! Predictable.

No matter! Will start fresh, and begin anew, on January 1. 

I wonder: how long will it take to break 200? 

When will I earn that GL “willpower” ring?

RESOLUTIONS 2026 — THE YEAR OF SLOW LIVING
I resolve to embrace the slower pace of this stage and season.

Slow down. Take my time. Do things right.

Protect the sanctity of my slow morning routine.

Embrace calm contentment. Reject hustle culture.

Do less of everything! Work less, eat less, spend less.

Be more selective. Say “no, thank you” easily and often.

Simplify! Live frugally. Prepare for retirement. Eliminate debt.

Get plenty of rest. Take naps! Relax. Refresh. Recharge. Rejuvenate.

Favor working close to home. Sleep in my own bed whenever possible.

Schedule 25% fewer shows. Accept no more than 100 bookings throughout the year.

Limit tours outside the region. Seek run-outs and residencies. Build rest days into every trip.

Take it easy on show days. Conserve energy during gigs. Alternate sitting and standing. Take breaks.

Master the art of living with RA. Learn how to better manage pain, inflammation, stiffness, and fatigue.

Spend more time outdoors. Align with circadian and seasonal cycles. Take nature walks. Go fishing.

Preserve mental health. Avoid negative people. Limit consumption of news and social media.

Prioritize gentle exercise: walking, stretching, swimming, chair yoga, tai chi. Motion is lotion.

Downsize! Minimize visual distractions. Declutter, sell, gift, donate.

Stay curious, calm, playful, and — most of all — grateful.

2025 By-The-Numbers

This year, with your generous support, we:

charted 27K spins and streams

traveled 21K miles

added 2K followers and subscribers

employed 515 musicians

delivered 131 performances

staged 50 “Jazz From The Silver Screen” shows

directed 24 school workshops

played 22 new venues

presented 21 vocal collaborations

wrote 11 new quintet arrangements

completed 5 extended residencies

headlined 4 music and arts festivals

made 3 big band appearances

created 2 new touring programs

made 1 more glorious trip around the sun

Heartfelt thanks and warmest holiday wishes!

Here’s to 2026!

Cheers,

Dmitri

How do I feel as this hellacious year reaches its conclusion?

I feel rather like one of those marathon runners who collapses just as he crosses the finish line. Exhausted, utterly spent, but grinning ear-to-ear.

I’m not going to lie, this one was overwhelming. Instead of the calm “Year of Quiet Confidence” I’d planned, 2024 delivered an avalanche of creative projects, collaborations, and tours. The pace never let up, and it plum wore me out.

But I survived! And now that it’s done, I’m overcome with gratitude for all our travels and adventures, and deep appreciation for the support from friends old and new.

In 2024 we:

traveled 34K miles

charted 12K spins and streams

added 3K followers and subscribers

employed 519 musicians

delivered 139 performances

enjoyed 67 nature walks

played 54 Mancini tributes

directed 45 school workshops

headlined 13 music and arts festivals

accompanied 9 talented vocalists

completed 4 extended residencies

wrote 3 new compositions

hosted 2 visiting artists

made 1 more glorious trip around the sun

Thank you for making it possible.

Here’s to 2025!

Cheers,

Dmitri

“The owls are not what they seem.”
 —The Giant

Now a full time musician, no longer employed by Kendall Lane, I agreed to stay involved by joining his Board of Directors. 

I soon learned that our board chairman was a newly minted Owl. So was the CEO of my wife’s investment management firm. So were several of our well-heeled friends on the San Francisco arts and culture scene.

Like AA, involvement in the Owl Club is supposed to be a big secret. And like Fight Club, the first rule is you don’t talk about it. Yet somehow its members often find a way to let you know. 

Some Owls communicate their affiliation by wearing a club signet ring, tie tack or lapel pin. Others sprinkle their small talk with offhand references to “The Club” or “The Nest” in much the way evangelicals will casually mention “The Church,” as if everybody attends the same one.
 

For such an exclusive organization, the Owls sure seemed to be everywhere, hiding in plain sight.

One autumn night in the early aughts, I was invited to perform for an Owl Club function downtown. It was my kind of event, a noir-themed variety show. Everybody, performers and guests alike, wore fedoras. 

I was playing a lot of “crime jazz” in those days, and as I recall, our music was a big hit.

After the show one of the guests motioned me over to his table for a cocktail. The gentleman was charming, but after a while our ostensibly informal chat began to feel more like a post-audition interview, conducted in a coded language I didn’t fully understand. 

At first I didn’t see anyone familiar among the shadowy men-in-hats, but as I was packing up my gear, I happened to make eye contact with someone I recognized: Glen Rollins, the well-known vibraphonist and flautist. Glen was casually leaning against the wall with an air of relaxed confidence, totally at home, like he owned the place. 

Is he a club member, I wondered, or is he, like me, merely a hired gun? 

The following spring I received a call from Josh Maxwell, the eccentric jazz professor back home in Arizona, inquiring if I would consider being guest soloist with his university big band as part of their annual “jazz week” celebration. 

I said I’d love to. 

I’d known Maxwell ever since my teens, when the local jazz society arranged for me to take a few music theory lessons at the college of music, and record a demo in their brand new recording studio. We'd stayed in touch over the years, and recently the two of us had even played a few gigs together, in which he would sing, cabaret-style, and accompany both of us on piano. 

You might say we were now professional colleagues, but I continued to regard him with respectful deference. Maxwell was one of a kind. I admired his joyful stage presence and liberal use of obscure hipster lingo in everyday conversation. He was the closest thing our little town had to a real jazzman.

Maxwell was an accomplished composer and conductor as well. After one of the jazz week rehearsals, he ushered me into his office to show me his current work-in-progress: the orchestral score for an original musical theater production all about Teddy Roosevelt. 

I was impressed with the project's ambitious size and scope.

“Wow! Do you think you can ever get it performed?” I asked. 

“Oh, yes,” he replied in an exaggerated stage whisper. “In fact, this will be the 100th Nest Play!” 

Wait, did he say Nest Play? 

Could it be that Josh Maxwell — way out here in the Lonesome Desert — is a member of the Owl Club?

Precisely how many of my associates, I wondered, are secretly involved in this not-so-secret society!

At least one more, I would soon learn.

Upon my return to San Francisco, Tom Hill, a longtime friend and benefactor, surprised me with an invitation to the Owl Club’s famous annual retreat.

“Dmitri, I would like you to join us at The Nest,” Tom announced grandly, “as my guest, for our midsummer encampment.”

I was astonished. 

I had no idea that Tom was an Owl.

I certainly never suspected that a non-member would be welcome at The Nest, even as a guest.

And I never would’ve dreamed that a ne’er-do-well iconoclast like me would be invited.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised. My wife wasn’t. 

“Obviously you’ve been vetted,” she said. 

“What’s that mean?” I asked, not familiar with the term.

“It means you’re going.”

Next:
The Owl Club Part 7 — The Nest

Previous Posts:
The Owl Club Part 1 — Invitation
The Owl Club Part 2 — A Weaving Spider
The Owl Club Part 3 — The Gift
The Owl Club Part 4 — Sweets
The Owl Club Part 5 — Parliament

What a year! 

Profound gratitude for all the travels and adventures, and much appreciation for the support from friends old and new. 

A deep sense of relief, as well. This year was an endurance test. We launched several challenging new projects while working to pay down debts and rebuild our touring circuit after the disruption of the pandemic.

In 2023, the YEAR OF GRIT & GUMPTION, we:

traveled over 27K miles

charted 13K spins and streams

added 2K followers and subscribers  

employed 389 musicians

gave 102 performances

directed 57 workshops

played 9 big band concerts

accompanied 7 talented vocalists

headlined 5 music festivals

commissioned 3 new works

staged 2 milestone collaborations, and

enjoyed 1 hell of a year 

As 2023 comes to a close, with a sigh of relief and a smile of gratitude, we thank you for being part of it.

Here’s to 2024!

Cheers, 

Dmitri

Finally scattered my father’s ashes.

I’d kept them in my van for three years, wondering as I traveled where to best honor his simple request: “no funeral, ashes scattered.”

Gave consideration to Puget Sound, the Maine Coast, the Sonoran Desert, his favorite wild pecan orchard, even Jeanie B’s woodpile, but was never able to make a decision.

Last weekend, William Douglas Matheny found his final resting place among the red rocks of Coconino National Forest, near the trunk of a lone Juniper tree, below the famous chapel. 

Not entirely legal, I know, but it was a beautiful day and it just felt right. 

I love you, Daddy Bill.

Made it home safely to sweet Sass and the fur-babies!

Since my bio-clock is still on midwest time, and Scout is a “morning person,” we’ve added an early AM neighborhood walk to our schedule. During today’s chilly moonlit ramble I reflected on Michigan, why I love the place so much, and why I keep returning.

The Great Lakes State figures prominently in my origin story. 

It’s the first place I lived after leaving home, where I first became serious about music, and where I found out what it means to live as an artist. It’s where I learned the values and habits that have nourished and sustained me: how to be creatively resourceful, emotionally resilient, financially independent. How to be a citizen of the world. It’s where the boy became the man.

So many “firsts” happened for me in Michigan. It’s where I met my first benefactor and my first great music mentor. It’s where I prepared my first concert as bandleader, and where I played my first paid gig. It’s also where I first experienced romantic obsession and heartbreak. 

I accepted my calling there, that “mournful yet grand” destiny of which Liszt spoke, the internal narrative which has shaped my entire life. The place is absolutely redolent with personal meaning, and each time I return to that poignant landscape, its familiar sights and sounds and smells bring back a rush of emotion, and my affinity for Michigan only deepens.

When I was planning this trip, I intended to include other favorite midwest venues in Chicago, Milwaukee, and Cleveland, but I simply ran out of time. Before I knew it I had filled every available date with “mitten bidness” — 21 concerts and workshops in as many days! 

I’m glad it worked out that way. 

The trip felt like a homecoming, not just back to my beloved Michigan, but back to myself. 

These past few years have been challenging, ruminating over the loss of my father, facing my own mortality, dealing with the financial impact of the pandemic, struggling with anxiety.

Yet in Michigan, standing before the brilliant Diego Rivera frescoes at the Detroit Institute of Arts, I had this epiphany: returning here has reminded me of who I am. 

Road life is rewarding, but it can also be exhausting, especially after so many trips around the sun. 

However, today I feel rejuvenated. I now believe I have another decade of traveling and performing in me, something I doubted before. 

October is the perfect time to visit Michigan. 

Criss-crossing the state, driving those winding backroads through the tunnels of trees, past all the rivers and lakes and farmhouses in the mist, with the autumn leaves swirling? Absolutely magical.
 

The other thing that made this trip so healing? The people.

My bandmates and I shared a big house together in Detroit. Lisa cooked Korean food for us, Tom shared several excellent bottles of wine, and we all talked late into the night about anything and everything. 

Our performances got stronger as we grew closer, something I haven’t experienced since my international travels with Amina Figarova years ago. 

But it wasn’t just my colleagues on the bandstand. 

All the venues were so warm and welcoming. 

The students and teachers were so inspiring. 

And the audiences were amazing! 

So much kindness, soulfulness, and generosity. So much joy.

Thank you, Michigan.

Wrapped the Once More Round The Mitten tour at Hillsdale College. Performed with brass brother Chris McCourry and his excellent big band and combo, and enjoyed two wonderful home-cooked meals with Chris and his supercool wife Maurine. Thank you, McCourrys! Thank you, Michigan!

Had a ball working with Mr. Ivie’s students at Boyne City HS. Wonderful to witness so many girls and young women discovering the joys of jazz. Broke up the 4-hour drive to Hillsdale with a nature walk and leaf-peeping in Roscommon State Forest. Enjoyed a hearty bowl of cajun shrimp pasta at a roadside brewpub, then stopped at a rest area for a brief flugel sesh. So grateful for this simple life of simple pleasures. Excelsior! 

Arrived in rainy Traverse City to the comfortingly familiar cadence of broadcaster Ed Ronco (formerly of KNKX Seattle!) on Interlochen Public Radio. Led a morning masterclass for Mr. Vieira’s excellent jazz ensemble at TC Central HS, then played tourist, sampling some of the tart and sweet cherry products for which the region is famous. Finished my visit with a short stroll down memory lane, to the Maritime Academy on Grand Traverse Bay, where Tom Knific gave me my first “pro” (aka paid) gig 40 years ago. Time sure has flown! Guess I’ve been having fun.

Packed up all my cares and woes, said “farewell for now” to the K-zoo crew (I already miss you, Annabelle), and decamped for Monroe, Michigan (3 hours east). After a thoroughly enjoyable session with Mr. Swinkey’s jazz band, traveled another 5 hours northeast to Traverse City and the comfortingly familiar voice of Ed Ronco on Interlochen Public Radio. Excelsior!

A rejuvenating day off in Kalamazoo with dear friends Tom and Renata and their two beautiful Labradors, Annabelle and Fifa. Sketched a little duet arrangement of “Mean To Me” for this Thursday’s concert in Hillsdale, then took the dogs to the glorious 24-acre Meadow Run Dog Park in Oshtemo Township. In the evening Lisa joined us for savory mesquite-smoked ribs, Greek salad, oven-roasted rosemary potatoes, red wine, and chocolate truffles. Life is good!