“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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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!

Ann Arbor’s Blue Llama Jazz Club is a spectacular venue with award-winning cuisine, aesthetic lighting and design, excellent sound (right on, Jacob), and a very hip crowd. Warm thanks to owner Don Hicks, artistic director Dave Sharp, and the professional staff for taking such good care of the band. And much appreciation to our guest soloists: my longtime friend vocalist Joan Belgrave, rising stars trumpeter Carter Haugen and saxophonist Tim Grieme, and the man himself, Don Hicks, who played some tasty licks for us on an historic trumpet that once belonged to none other than Miles Davis. What a night!

After coaching the Bloomfield Hills jazzers, I met up with my band for a 4-night run at one of our favorite venues: the historic Cliff Bell’s in Detroit! We made lots of new friends, and our pianist even got to play Stevie Wonder’s Rhodes! Among the extramusical highlights: walking in Palmer Park, visiting the Detroit Institute of Arts, and enjoying Mama Lisa’s home cooking. Excelsior!

Big day, big night! Afternoon workshops for two outstanding music programs — Pioneer and Community high schools in Ann Arbor — followed by an evening set at Moriarty’s in Lansing with the ace rhythm team of Jeff Shoup (photo credit), Lisa Sung, and Reuben Stump. Made lots of new friends, one of whom contributed some outstanding “Evergreen Girl” lyrics. Surprise celebrity appearance by the great Randle Gelispie! #respect

Today's workshop was postponed to later in the week, so I took the opportunity to explore Woodland Park Nature Preserve, where the leaves are just beginning to turn. Scout would adore this place!

Made it to the mitten to find the fall colors in full effect! First order of business: a Steak & Shake burger! 

Fell asleep to the comforting sound of gentle rain on the roof of the van. Pure bliss!

Enjoyed the morning java en route to a new encampment: the Stillaguamish River in Snohomish County. The wisdom of Matt Foley notwithstanding, I believe I’ll stay here awhile. This is living!

Walked around Lake Goodwin under stormy skies to work up an appetite, then visited the town of Stanwood to absolutely inhale a wood-fired pizza. So good.

Wrote no music at all today. Just listened to the rain. 

Read my book. Napped a lot.

My kind of day.

Woke up to smoky skies courtesy of the Canadian wildfires. 

Grabbed a coffee for the ferry and said goodbye, for now, to Whidbey Island.

Arrived on the peninsula just as a sudden cloudburst washed away the haze. Glorious!

Today’s meal, a frugal flugel favorite: teriyaki bento with sushi, sashimi, tempura, gyoza, and rice. Oishi!

Admired the sunflowers in Blueberry Park, then headed over to the pub gig with saxophonist Chris Bickley and his terrific band: Osama Afifi, Mark Ivester, and Brian Monroney, whose collection of guitar effects pedals delighted me.

After the show, in the mobile man cave, I finally listened to the SRJO recordings from our collaboration a few weeks ago. 

Forever grateful.

Started the day with a hot cup of local java and a long walk along the Langley seawall.

Found a lovely practice spot, serenaded the critters, and did a bit of writing.

Today’s meal: a delicious chicken bánh mì, loaded with pickled veggies, on a crusty french baguette. 

Returned to basecamp among the towering trees. No campfire allowed (burn ban) but I found a pleasant way to take the edge off the evening chill.

Life is good!

Getting away for a few days of writing, walking, and relaxing, as I van-camp around Puget Sound.

Visited the Seattle music studio of Bill Anschell for a little coffee and conversation, then continued north to Whidbey Island for a performance with guitarist John Stowell. So grateful to have these two wise mentors and good friends in my life.

Strolled around the scenic island town of Langley, where bunnies frolic among the whale skulls, then dined on rockfish, mixed greens, pinot noir, and cherry pie, overlooking the Saratoga Passage.

It was a good day.

117 miles from home, one of my "new" tires came completely apart on The Lonesome Road!

I could see the circular tire tread rolling along the freeway in my rear view mirror, as Ella hobbled over to the side of the road. Fortunately my spare was in good repair and I made it home safely.

Having all the tires checked today, just in case.

#VanLife

Finished the tour in Ashland, only a 375-mile drive from home, and the rain began to fall, as if on cue, just as I crossed into Oregon. 

The Old Siskiyou Barn is neither old nor a barn. It’s a hidden jewel of a recital hall, tucked into the canopied woods in the hills just south of Ashland. It boasts exemplary acoustics, a terrific piano, the earthy fragrance of ancient wood, and a metal roof that sings when it rains. It’s perfect. 

Darrell and I first performed here back when Starlight Cafe was released in 1998, and we’ve been fortunate to return many times over the years with our duo. 

This weekend we played a few favorites from the old repertoire, some new selections from our current recordings, and a brand new piece dedicated to the beautiful souls who created this place. Our friend Ed, concert producer and guitarist, joined us for a couple of songs including the premiere.

It occurs to me that I’ve worked this same circuit, up and down the left coast, for decades now, yet this trip felt different. Emotions are heightened. Everything carries a patina of significance. 

For one thing, audiences are just so delighted to finally be out of isolation, enthusiastic about returning to live events, and eager to connect with the performers. The pandemic is far from over, however, so that enthusiasm is tempered with an awkwardness about intimacy and proximity. Every post-concert meet-and-greet now has this oddly nervous “first date” energy. 

Also, there is a weird apocalyptic undertone to everything now. The steady drumbeat of negative news over the climate crisis, wildfires, disease, war, economic hardship, political extremism and more, is creating an atmosphere of fear that these may be the end times. I exaggerate, but only a little. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear doomsday language sprinkled into even the most mundane of verbal exchanges. People don’t feel safe anymore, all situations seem tenuous, so we’d better get serious and make sure whatever we’re doing matters. Admit it, you feel it too. 

But what really made this trip emotionally rewarding was all the reconnections with important people from my past.

Someone once said “the best mirror is an old friend.” Many of us have reached an age at which we’re reassessing the past and rethinking our place in the world. Some of us are even starting to question long held beliefs. There's nothing like a conversation with an old friend to help you find your way.

I really needed these reunions. It felt to me, on this tour, as if we were drawn together magnetically. Our conversations felt somehow predestined, or guided by the divine, if such a force exists. 
 

My heart is full.

Traveled 300 miles today from Arden-Arcade to Ashland. 

California, I miss you already, but I’ll be back again in the spring. Try not to burn up or fall into the ocean before then, m’kay? 

Paused for the cause in the resilient town of Weed. Happy to report that both the Mill and Mountain wildfires have been contained, power is restored, and our friends at the Hi-Lo are back in business, serving up the very best pie a la road! 
 

Crossing into Oregon I swear I could feel the seasons change from summer to fall! 

Found a sweet parking spot (#MattFoleyForever) and spent some time with Darrell Grant’s tunes in preparation for tomorrow’s show in Ashland. 

Nice work if you can get it.

Traveled 225 miles from Santa Cruz to Seaside to Sacramento. 

Deja Blue, the Monterey jazz + soulfood venue where my friend Leon Joyce (“The People’s Choice”) leads the house band, is my kind of place!

Convivial atmosphere, lots of laughter with friends old and new (you're a jewel, Barbara), and I’m not sure which was tastier, the music or the catfish! 

The RV park by the Steinbeck House in Salinas didn’t work out, so I traveled north and spent the night in Gilroy, California. 

If you haven’t been to Gilroy, you’re missing out. The very air you breathe carries the mouthwatering scent of the little farm town’s most famous crop! 

How could I resist? Before skipping town I hit one of the roadside tourist traps and tried a little garlic ice cream. 

It was delightful! But it would be even better with bacon. Don’t judge. 

Now back in Sac looking for fresh vegetables.

Said goodbye to Sunset Beach this morning and headed down to Monterey. 

Listening to NPR on the drive, I heard the news that Ramsey Lewis has died. 

It seems like we lose another hero every few days, but this one hits hard. 

30 years ago in May of ’84, Ramsey Lewis came to Interlochen Arts Academy for a performance with our studio orchestra. I was a senior in high school and he was the first “big name” jazz musician I’d ever met. 

He made a huge impression. I was blown away by his infectiously joyful performance and his extreme generosity toward me and the other student soloists.

It couldn’t have been very rewarding for him, sharing the stage with a bunch of teenage amateurs, but I can still see his thousand-watt smile, still hear his howls of approval, as we launched into “The ’In’ Crowd” and “Hang On Sloopy” — big Ramsey Lewis hits from the year we were all born! 

After the concert Mr. Lewis took the time to speak with each of us individually, encouraging us to pursue our dreams. Yes, he did. And we did. 

After that I began checking out his discography in the listening library, beginning with Upendo Ni Pamoja, the album recommended by my classmate Frayne Lewis, Ramsey’s son.

Later I discovered Mr. Lewis' collaborations with Maurice White and members of Earth, Wind & Fire, one of my all time favorite bands, and I was hooked. 

I suppose it’s no coincidence that tonight it will be my privilege to work with Leon Joyce, Jr., a longtime member of the Ramsey Lewis Trio.

Or that this weekend in Ashland, Oregon, Darrell Grant and I will play Mr. Lewis’ theme song, the spiritual “Wade In The Water” — a staple of our repertoire for 25 years.

Ramsey Lewis was far more than a Grammy-winning, chart-topping jazz and pop star. He was a true Gentleman of Jazz, the kind of Great Man that Kipling wrote about, who walked with kings but never lost the common touch. 

Mr. Lewis proved you can be both a serious artist and a crowd-pleasing entertainer. His worldwide reach and influence as a performer, educator, broadcaster, and recording artist, is profound, deep and lasting. 

He was called, he served, he counted. 

His legacy is secure.