Brushes with greatness

At the Wayne Shorter show at Berklee last night, Joe Lovano walked in by himself, stepped into the row in front of us and started talking to me (“What’s your name again?”). I guess he had a night alone away from home for one of his Berklee teaching weeks and decided to see Wayne -- whose show he had only heard about yesterday morning. After the show -- which was enervating and confirmed every nasty thing my wife has ever said to me about jazz in moments of anger -- Joe turned around, pleased (because, being a major, confident player and composer himself, and because that's how Joe is, he was probably more into Wayne’s process than I was) and asked if I was going to write up the show. I mumbled “online” but I was secretly hoping he’d never see the piece, or that we could set up some kind of blocker that would automatically divert any searches by Lovano to my 3.5 star review of his latest album. Anyway, I’m now going to search for a “Lovano blocker” software.

My wife, by the way, slept comfortably for most of the show, and said she wouldn’t hold it against me.

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