Chucho!
I continued my slog through the HK Festival of the Arts last night, this time with surprise slog-mate Grumpus. With Jona, the three of us saw Cuban jazz pianist Chucho Valdes. Leafing through the programme before the show, I suddenly exclaimed, “Omigod, he’s the son of Bebo!” to Jona’s puzzlement. “No, seriously, I bought this CD when Mickey and I were in Spain a couple of years ago, and I thought it was fantastic! I’m not making up the connection.” I pulled out my iPod, and Jona obediently stuck in an earphone, and came back with a smile and a thumbs-up. Not having lived with me for three and a half years, she still indulges me.
“Hmmm,” she said while leafing through the programme. “This Paquito D’Rivera that he’s talking about. I’m not quite sure that “genial” is a good adjective for a musician.”
“Yeah,” I responded. “We saw him last year, and you know, he was pretty genial. Amiable. Friendly, even. It was great fun though, people up on the balcony were yelling “PAQUITO!” and there was a lot of back-and-forth in Spanish.”
Just then, Chucho ambled onto the stage with the rest of his quartet: a double bassist, a drummer, and a “percussionist” - who played the congas. “Oh wow, I love him already,” I said. Tall, thin and with gigantic hands, he looks exactly the way a Cuban jazz pianist should look.
“Looks like James Earl Jones,” said Mickey.
“Yeah, but taller and skinnier,” I countered.
Then Mr. Valdes started playing, and I started smiling, and in short order I was grinning and bopping along. Turns out that I do love my jazz tinged with Latin rhythms. “Wow, I want to learn to play those congas,” I said.
Grumpus was unmoved. “Yeah, I knew you’d like them.” Pause. “I’m a purist,” he said. “I like my jazz melancholy and suicidal. Like Bill Evans.”
“Well I don’t mind mine happy,” I said.
“You’d like Dave Brubeck, then. Ugh, he’s playing ‘Birdland’.”
“Manhattan Transfer. I should get that song from iTunes. Do you have it in your library?”
Mickey rolls his eyes. “Fake jazz. Well at least it’s not Norah Jones.”