In the words of David St. Hubbins of Spinal Tap, “It’s a fine line between stupid and clever.”
When I decided to fly to Spain for roughly 72 hours last week, it was either a brilliant move or a completely ridiculous endeavor.
Leo & Leo, the album I made with Spanish actress and singer Leonor Watling, had been nominated for Best Jazz Album at the Spanish Academy of Music Awards. The nomination itself was a little surprising, and I figured that if we somehow won, I should probably be in the room.
As it turns out, this was a good instinct. We won.
The funny thing is that while Leo & Leo is “jazzy” in its way, it’s really more of a pop album with a jazz heart. Or maybe a jazz album with a pop haircut. It’s a project forged in friendship and a love of songs. Whatever it is, it was not exactly an obvious jazz record.
And then there’s the Spanish thing.
Leonor is Spanish, but most of the team that made the record is not. So we ended up beating some extraordinary musicians whose connection to Spanish jazz is far less debatable than mine, including one of my favorite musicians in the world, harmonica virtuoso Antonio Serrano.
What is and isn’t jazz remains one of music’s longest-running arguments. It’s a question rooted in history, identity, tradition, innovation, and personal opinion. I’m certainly sensitive to the debate.
So in the hours before the ceremony, I found myself quietly wondering what I might say if we somehow won.
When they called our names, Leonor and I walked to the stage in a kind of stunned disbelief and looked at one another. She leaned into the microphone and said: “Total imposter syndrome.”
Then I said something in Spanish along the lines of: “Jazz is inclusive music. It accommodates influences from all over. Thank you for honoring this as a jazz project.”
Maybe that’s what I said.
To be honest, I have no idea and I’m slightly afraid to go back and watch it.
After the ceremony, as a who’s who of Spanish music royalty headed to the lobby bar for the cocktail party, I felt compelled to go somewhere comforting and familiar. So I jumped in a cab and went straight to Café Central, one of the centers of Madrid’s jazz scene.
It’s a club I often joke had been “going out of business in the same location for over forty years” before eventually relocating so it could resume the business of closing for what one hopes will be another forty years. More importantly, it’s a place filled with memories and old friends.
In fact, the band that night was called Old Friends, led by saxophonist Fernando Sanguesa and his brother Iván. Half the audience seemed to know every tune.
But what struck me most about the evening was that it took place just hours after the world had learned that Sonny Rollins had passed away.
Fernando improvised a lyric in Spanish and had the whole room singing.
“Sonny Rollins, un saxofonista impresionante...Sonny Rollins, un monstruo de verdad, singular...Tocaba con personalidad...Era único e inigualable de verdad...Todos imitamos un poco a Sonny Rollins.”
Sonny Rollins, an impressive saxophonist. A true and singular giant. He played with personality. He was unique and unequaled. We all imitate Sonny Rollins a little.
Then the room sang:
“Ahora en el cielo, Sonny Rollins...Ahora en el cielo, Sonny Rollins...Gracias Sonny Rollins de corazón.”
Now in heaven, Sonny Rollins.Thank you, Sonny Rollins, from the heart.
I remembered what Sonny told my father during a phone interview 30 years ago:
“I’d like to be remembered as a guy that practiced a lot and was sincere about trying to better myself. Whatever you want to do, you have to work at it. And if you love it, it shouldn’t be work, it should be love. Practicing isn’t work for me, it’s love for me. So if you find something you love, you do it, and never mind the people.”
Sitting in the back of Café Central, I felt I was in exactly the right place at exactly the right time, reminded that jazz, however you define it, is a spirit and a vibration that happens to people all over the world.
“Sonny Rollins, corazón...”
