I first heard this 1973 album at my (soon to be) lifelong friend and mentor (Charlie Biddle)’s restaurant in Val David….late 70’s. He loved it and talked excitedly about aspects of the performance that at the time were beyond me, but which I quickly adopted and refined my love for jazz with the same fervour and listened attentively. I made a cassette of this and listened in my car constantly. I would listen to it panned to the left, panned to the right, and in the middle where it is supposed to be. I don’t remember offhand the channel that had more Fender Rhodes, but one of them did(does). The comping on this record is beyond great. Well beyond great. I could listen to it now and still get excited by it. 500 Miles High in particular with Chick playing Rhodes through a wah/volume pedal….I am going to put this on tonight. Joe Farrell’s playing I am hearing in my head as I write. Haven’t played the album in about a year. I remember whole sections of his solos. Stanley Clarke on upright bass is awesome. I can listen to the entire album and focus just on the bass or the keys or the sax. The vocals not so much. I find Flora Purim a bit “pitchy” at times, but I love it still. Her husband Airto Moreira on traps and percussion sounds like a section. I will include a link below so you can listen for yourselves, but I encourage you to listen on speakers or good headphones. Most people don’t anymore which is a shame. I have owned this album as an l.p. As a CD the aforementioned cassette and now mp3: mp3 is the easiest, but the vinyl lived.
I Wonder
I recently retired from my music teaching career. Amid the awfulness of the pandemic and other life drama that crops up I have been fortunate and able to continue writing songs.
One of my concerns with aging and limited outside contact and reduced activity is maintaining my health and my mental acuity. I tried to put these meditations and concerns in this song.
A few months ago a blood relative, someone very close to me who I have weekly contact with, was diagnosed with early onset dementia. The song was freshly written when I heard the news. I thought the song was about me, but I guess this song is about her, me, everybody. It is about the road everyone will eventually travel towards our eventual demise.
I wonder where the wonder went
So many miles travelled, they came and went
Our Wonder years already spent
Wondering what anything meant
-Oh-oh-I wonder
I wonder Who I was meant to be
If I’ve seen all that I was meant to see
Or was this all just a fantasy
I wonder if I’m really me
-oh-oh-I wonder
I wonder what this is all about
If anybody anywhere could have bailed me out
If I ever bought in, Or did I drop out
Hey, Alfie, what’s it all about
I wonder when I can feel it again
If I’ll ever be relieved from residual pain
If I ever figure out what’s been driving me insane
And where I’ll get off this runaway train
I wonder where my my serenity went
The worries in my head should be paying me rent
All of my joy has already been spent
I wonder where everybody went
Oh, oh, I wonder
I wonder how I’m going to cope with these things now
If I’m going to wear a smile or a furrowed brow
I wonder where I’m going to point my prow
Am I going to take everything that life will allow
I wonder why this all seems so strange
Why all of my targets are out of range
I wonder if I can face the change
Pretty sure something can be arranged
I wonder why things turned out like they did
Some things in the open, some things hid
I wonder was my offer the winning bid?
I wonder if it’ll be the same for my kids
Worthwhile!
Slow Learner
So, it happened once again last night. I’m not inherently stupid, but I seem to repeat stupid things. It always comes as a surprise to me even though it is not surprising. It’s like Russian Roulette with the fuel gauge. I usually win, but sometimes I don’t.
It never happens in a safe place like a side street or a parking lot, no it is always somewhere highly visible and slightly dangerous.
My first encounter with running out of gas was on the Ville Marie Expressway east bound just before the exit for Atwater. I was with my friend Mike and I had just picked up $500 from a music store (Frank Quinn’s)on Décarie. Frank had sold my Fender Twin amplifier for me and paid me what was owed. We were headed toward “music row” on Craig Street where there were several music stores to browse. Browsing with $500 in a music store is dangerous for me. Back then (when I was still at University) it was a fortune.
There were no cell phones back then, so we had to wait for a response from the surveillance routière cameras to alert the towing. The tow truck had a canister of gas on board and got us up and running. He said he only took cash or credit card, and did not have change for $100. I only had the five c notes, and had no credit card, so he trusted me and gave me the address to remit my debt. Probably around $35. Whew.
The second time I ran out of gas was on the way to the Brandon Jazz Festival with a car full of music students in the middle of a Manitoba winter. You’d think a teacher would have it together to ensure the car was gassed up for such a voyage, but no…. While we were pulled off on the shoulder of the Trans Canada Highway one of the other cars with more of my students passed us, laughing, waving and smiling and apparently oblivious to our predicament. One of the students from my car volunteered to hike over to a nearby farmhouse and came back with fuel.
As if this wasn’t enough, the third time was with my first wife and our unborn first child on the way to the Royal Victoria Hospital as we rounded the reservoir on Docteur Penfield. It was only on our way to birthing class, and not “showtime”, so Emma wasn’t born in the car…. I was sufficiently shamed into having the car more ready. A harbinger.
Several years passed until my next episode. I was returning from work in the very east end of the city and was to rendezvous with my young daughters at Westmount library. They had just started to walk there after school alone and although they were safe and had walked there with friends and their friend’s mum, they were still young and vulnerable and I had to be on time. I was running late and knew I was low on fuel, but decided to gas up after I picked them up.
There probably isn’t a worse place to run out of gas than the Ville Marie Tunnel. Ironically within a km of where I ran out of gas the first time. I know the sensation and acted quickly to take the nearest exit (Atwater) I managed to get to the side and was starting to walk toward toward where I knew there was a filling station when a guardian angel pulled up beside me and offered to give me a lift to the station at St. Jacques and Atwater. I was super thankful and couldn’t believe my good fortune. I put a deposit on the canister and filled it and was preparing to walk back when the same man tapped his horn and indicated he’d drive me back. There are some good humans on this planet.
I swore I had learned my lesson this time and vowed to myself to never ever be put in that position again.
Well, that lasted a while, but the next time it happened I was on my way to a gig in Ottawa and didn’t want to fill up in Montreal as the gas was always between 15 and 20 cents cheaper per litre in Ontario. I planned to fill up near Hawkesbury where there is a huge filling station just off the highway. Undershot it by one km. I ran out of fumes within sight of the station… in the rain.
Now over ten years into my new life, smooth sailing, happy camper,etc.
We were On the 20 returning home after having gone to separate dinners in town. Sharon was at a pot luck with her photography class and I was with good friends a few blocks over. I picked her up after dinner and we were catching up and I forgot my mental note to fill up before heading out on the highway west. We nwere almost at our exit and I had just finished reminding her that we were scheduled for our flu shots in the morning. She had forgotten. I had just remarked that it was unusual for me to be remembering when I felt the Jeep losing power and I knew what was happening and put on my flashers and reached the shoulder.
Handily there was a sign directly in front of us with the exclusive number to call for roadside assistance. I called and within minutes a truck appeared and laid out flares and blocked off the lane beside us as we awaited the towing. Pretty smooth way out of trouble. I Paid with credit card and sufficiently shamed (Sharon posted it) and financially punished to stay out of trouble and maybe this time will have learned my lesson.
Wok With Yan/ Walk with Ian
I recently discovered a great place to walk not far from where we live.
I love walking in the woods, but I live in deep suburbia. We have a park very nearby where we walk the dogs and sometimes I walk all alone just to gather my thoughts. Nice park, but not the new one
When I lived closer to Mount Royal I’d go there to walk and/or cross country ski, but not as often as I would have liked to. Pay parking was a deterrent.
There are several places out here on the West Island where I can go and walk, but alas, my vignette for parking expired and I haven’t renewed it yet. I will as winter approaches so I can park and ski at Cap St. Jacques and on Ile Bizard.
The park I “discovered” is called Centennial Park in DDO. There are tons of activity areas: a dog run, etc. but the area I like is the trails in the woods and around the man-made lake. As a young girl, Sharon played in the area that is now the park. She said the area was all farmland and woods before the neighbourhood got built up. She said she thought the park opened in 1976. I asked her if her math was off because the Centennial of Canada was in 1967 when her dad bought their home a few blocks from where the park is today. Turns out it was commissioned in 1967, but took 9 years to complete.
The park comprises 48 hectares and surrounds a lake. At various places along the trail you’d swear you were in the Laurentians. I spent a good portion of my early life near and in lakes like this and the surrounding brush offers fragrant reminiscences that warm my heart.
The walking paths in Centennial remind me of a particular walking path in Oxford, U.K. where the author C.S. Lewis walked as part of his routine. His walk is called Addison’s Walk. My brothers and I toured Oxford in the spring. A tour that concentrated on Lewis and Tolkein…Heroes of ours. I have posted a virtual tour of this lovely promenade that is both entirely rural, but bordering on the bustling urban campus of Oxford University.
If you delight in nature (like I do) a park like this one is a true blessing. Not only does it provide body-care exercise, but mind-settling scenery and, bonus… it keeps one “regular” (nudge,nudge, wink, wink, say no more, say no more!).
I am so thankful to have this resource and I wish I had visited earlier. I regret that the geriatric Shih-Tzus no longer have the stamina for long walks.
Takeaway
The other night we decided to have Shish Taouk takeaway and I went to one of the local restaurants to order and pick up our meal. I had the misfortune of being in line behind a “difficult” customer. The middle aged woman had a flyer in her hand and wanted the “Friday Special” which was a clearly marked coupon. She then proceeded to ask for a substitutions, which was not part of the deal. The employee very patiently explained to her that the special said pretty clearly that she had a choice of three salads, but the one that the customer wanted exchanged would be an extra two bucks. The woman started to really fuss and complain about the “lousy service” etc.
After she finally got the order placed, she pointed to another coupon in the flyer and asked to order that as well. The employee politely explained that only one coupon could be used at a time per customer. By this time there was now a significant line up behind me and the “difficult” customer and several employees were now distracted from their preparing and were weighing in on the argument. The woman then wanted to “see the owner, then the manager” neither of whom were there. She then pulled the “I am Lebanese and could have gone to any one of the other Lebanese restaurants nearby”. She then screamed that she would “call the head office” and tell them how rudely she had been treated.
At this point I spoke up and said “I was a witness to this entire transaction and at no point was any employee rude to you, and in fact, it was you that was belligerently trying to get more than was possible from the coupon.” She turned to me and said “ I can’t see how this is any of your business!” To which I replied that “seeing as you are yelling falsehoods in a small space, threatening staff, and have delayed the orders for eight people in line, it is now everybody’s business. You came in with an agenda to get as much as you can for as little as you can and were browbeating the server who is just politely doing his job.” She then reverted to a grade two bullying tactic of attacking my appearance. She sarcastically said: “have you looked in the mirror recently?”. I took it to mean she was attacking my appearance, so I replied in kind: “Listen Karen… unlike you, I like who I see in my mirror, he knows right from wrong and treats people properly.” She then (miraculously)shut up, paid her meal and left. I whispered to the cashier: “I hope she chokes on it!” The cashier nervously stifled a giggle and all the employees mouthed “Thank You” as well as the people in line for standing up to this bully.
The cashier whispered she would not charge me for the potatoes which was kind, but unnecessary.
My takeaway from this incident: These workers are all recent immigrants and are reluctant to rock the boat for very good reasons. I used my privilege to champion their cause because I could.
I feel sorry that there are people out there that are so selfish and full of entitlement that they feel they can push others around.
My Impressions after a 50 Year High School Reunion
Everybody here is old!!!!! How can that be?!?!? I am still 16. I look around and see younger faces emerging dreamlike from older faces. Some of the emerging faces have names that I could recall instantly, others remained murky. We are wearing name tags on lanyards at chest level and none of us are wearing our reading glasses so there is a lot of staring closely at breasts and groping to turn the name tags around because they are only printed on one side.
Some of the faces are vaguely familiar, all of them kind and eager, but belong to people that may have chosen different electives (mine were all artsy). Some belonged to people who entered the high school in grade ten which was when I was entering grade ten at Laurentian Regional in Lachute. One lady rushed up to me and exuberantly exclaimed “ I remember you from Grad!!!!” Which was funny, seeing as I did not graduate with this group. I helped her sort out her error.
I was most interested in the faces I have known since we were all five years old and (due to flukes in geography, zoning, religion and socioeconomic status) were thrust into the same kindergarten class.
There were two Kindergarten classes at our school and pretty well two classes for every other grade up through grade seven. Some kids might be in your class one year and the other class the next year. Even shuffled, we all went to the same birthday parties, some met in cub scouts, Sunday School, municipal sports etc.
Shuffling classes at the end of each school year is a humorous ritual I sat in on every year throughout my own teaching career. Kid A and Kid B shouldn’t be in the same class. The mother of kid K doesn’t want K to be near student R. He’s ”Special K”. Student P and student Q shouldn’t sit together. “Mind your P’s and Q’s”.
Suffice it to say we all knew each other pretty well by grade seven. In high school we stuck together at first because in eighth grade we went from 60 kids in our grade to a huge school with probably a few thousand kids some of whom actually smoked, drank, did drugs, had sex, etc. Overwhelming for a young knob to go from top of the hill to bottom of the pile. Seeing familiar faces was a relief then, even if the kid you saw may not have been a friend before. Without all the angst, last night was similar. Friendly familiar faces were like oases.
At this 50 year reunion our elementary school (Dunrae Gardens) was well represented with just under twenty of us there. I managed to talk to most, but not all. Some I have been in touch with over the years, and some I hadn’t seen since 1971 (two years before grad). Many came from quite far away. Cincinnati, Houston, California, Western Canada and mostly next door in Ontario. Striking how few live in Montreal.
Some conversations I wished could go on for hours. Others were not as stimulating. Not everyone has the gift of gab, nor others, the gift of listening. I hope I didn’t bore anyone with anything! Subjects were wide and varied. Common denominators were: dealing with the deaths of our parents, various medical procedures (lol) and grandchildren, DIVERSE subjects such as politics; how lousy the MRHS football team was; band; favourite music; exporting alfalfa sprouts to Saudi Arabia (I’m not kidding…very interesting actually) etc.
What struck me most when surveying the crowd, taking the pulse, was how homogeneous the crowd was. We were 95% white skinned, English speaking, mostly privileged well fed middle class people. I thought ‘we are interlopers in a place that used to be home’. TMR is now predominantly French speaking and to live in TMR these days, requires more moolah than even an Aeronautical Engineer like my dad could muster. My kindergarten teacher Mrs. Sevigny lived across the street from us. I know I couldn’t live there now on a teacher’s income.
Having taught for many years in this city I can assure you that this experience of homogeneity is an anomaly, a throwback to a different era. An era that only exists in fading memories and history books.
One classmate remarked that we were so lucky to benefit from post war stability, relative affluence and an insular environment. Our music was great, our freedoms were many, our problems few. OK Boomer…. We know that on the surface it was like that, but dig a bit and the skeletons come out.
One dear friend took me to task when I said we came from privilege. His parents were blue collar and he grew up in a basement apartment on Graham Boulevard, etc. I said: “Fair enough, did you ever go hungry? Were you sheltered? Did you lack anything?” Right. Privilege.
My own parents were not rich, they were educated, socially active, volunteered, were active in the church. I was fortunate. My family was less dysfunctional than some. Many families held dark secrets: alcoholism; abuse; absentee parents; etc. Easy to hide all that in the surface environment of school..
I loved seeing the classmates that I did, but many of the classmates I also wanted to see were not there. Reunions aren’t for everyone. My old gang is off the grid. I, like them, didn’t really fit school, not because I didn’t love learning, I didn’t like the institution and I am not really a joiner. Ironic that I became a teacher.
Part of me says if I really cared so much about lost friends, we wouldn’t have lost touch. The rational part of me says that our friendship is locked in history and maybe if we met today there would be no bond like before. The kids I played tennis racquet guitar with, kids I pulled pranks with, swiped candy from Deguire’s with, smoked pot with, have all moved on as well.
An interesting thing I noticed on the way out was a picture display of classmates who have died. There were perhaps eight or nine. Maybe as many as twelve. Point is: a relatively small number.
I was also invited to attend a reunion of the second High School I attended. I am in touch with most the friends I made there via social media and the occasional visit. I am otherly occupied on that day, so I declined. The obituary list for my class at that rural regional school was easily double that of my class at MRHS. Pause for thought about the reality of hardships faced on the farm and speeding on country roads and in one case my dear friend who died of loneliness, poor nutrition and alcoholism.
I recognize my privilege and my good fortune to live a life worth living, an examined life, an artistic life. My wife’s cousin and I were discussing Charles Darwin who never needed a job, he was heir to a vast fortune but worked tirelessly on his specimens and ideas and advanced humankind via his writings. I said I was rethinking my ideas on class divide. She said “There’s nothing wrong with privilege, It’s what you DO with it.”
Grandfather
This elderly gentleman caught my eye while at the magnificent Victoria and Albert Museum in London, England. He was ambling slowly along the far wall, but something made him change course and admire this statue. I was fortunate to catch this image frozen forever in time, the angle of his back almost parallel to the lovely sculpted torso of the maiden. He was wearing a pressed grey flannel suit, polished shoes and he reminded me of my own beloved British grandfather although this man is younger than even my father would be today. Perhaps twenty years older than I am now.
I processed the photo in Black and white (essentially grey) which are the colours of my memories of Papa. My grandfather did not have Osteoporosis like this man, nor did he wear a peaked cap but wore a fedora until that style disappeared completely in the early 1960’s. I view him as an everyman grandfather, a trove of experience, hopes, sorrows.
I wanted to write a poem about him, but he already IS a poem. Not a song, though…not yet. I wrote a lyric. I have the rhythm of the words and the form as solid as the statue but my life is too busy to set it properly to music. It is in me, but will have to wait. Next week.
Grandfather Dapper as can be Grandfather filled with History The weight of the world may have bent you but broken you are not you visit the museum to restore what you forgot Grandfather living out your years Grandfather no more time for tears the world has spun away from you but you don’t seem to care all your best behind you content to just be there Grandfather the sum of where you’ve been grandfather oh what your eyes have seen “mes meilleurs souvenirs” in my declining years my worries and my fears have all disappeared Grandfather the sum of where you’ve been grandfather oh what your eyes have seen
Presence of Absence
I miss my dad. Not always, and less often than at first, but today. It has been over twenty one years since he died. I had young children then and my grieving was balanced by the duties of fatherhood. I have mementos. Things that I inherited that were his. Things that remind me of him and our connection. Things that recall his presence.
I was listening to a radio program called “Ideas” on the CBC yesterday and the episode was called “Haunted”. One of the interviewees was Daniel Goldstein who made art from various things that reflected his feelings of loss as a member of a community that was ravaged by the AIDS epidemic. He used a phrase that I may have heard before, but this time I was prompted to retrieve the episode and listen more closely to make sure I was understanding him correctly.
The phrase was: “presence of absence” to describe his haunting artwork. My spine tingled. This oxymoron hit home. He put into words much of what I love in life. I love deserted spaces, liminal spaces. I love things that have been tossed aside, but remain. I seek out ruins and cemeteries. My pinterest “likes” feeds me rusty train engines and deserted theatres, abandoned subway stops, classic cars and trees growing out of cars and the like. I am waking up to the fact that the reason I like all of these things is my predilection for presence of absence. I imagine what was there before, I may romanticize what was there, because there is no real way of knowing.
I am reminded of photos of derelict barns that my friend Percy takes, the realist art of Alex Colville, Edward Hopper and Winslow Homer. Songs like “Torn Screen Door” by David Francey also come to mind.
Perhaps I love to bask in melancholy. I don’t necessarily feel melancholic or nostalgic, but to witness others that recognize this beauty gives me comfort.
As I googled “presence of absence” the word “Saudade” kept popping up
Saudade is a Portuguese word that is almost untranslatable. The best way to describe it is: the presence of absence. It is a longing for someone or something that you remember fondly but know you can never experience again.
I love word play, and in 2004 when I first looked up the word “Saudade” (a word I had seen in Bossa Nova titles (Chega de Saudade, etc.) I realized that the feeling actually was embodied by a song I was writing then called “So Dad…” which was a conversation with a ghost. I was hoping that they were pronounced the same to complete the pun. Apparently in Portugal they pronounce it “SO Dad Jay” which annoyed me, but the Brazilian version was close to “so dad”. I am with Brazil on this one.
Saudade / So Dad…
Ian G Hanchet
So Dad… I look in the mirror some days
I look in the mirror some days and I see your face
Looking back (2x)
You lived your life well and As far as I can tell
I got the best of you, I got the worst of you
Right here
So Dad… I can hear your voice some days
I can hear your voice some days
When I’m yelling at my kids (like you did) (2x)
Then I remember To treat them warm and tender
But with a firm hand, I understand
So Dad… the shadow that you cast Is pretty big
The shadow that you cast is pretty big
But it isn’t all dark
So Dad… the fire in your veins went out
The fire in your veins went out
But though we part, you left a spark
(chorus 1)
So Dad… I grew up under your wing
I grew up under your wing
And I may have stayed too long
So Dad… you gave me a voice to sing
You gave me a voice to sing
But you let me sing my own song
You did your job well and As far as I can tell
I got the best of you I got the worst of you
Right here
So Dad… the last time I kissed you
The last time I kissed your forehead
It was already cold
You’d stopped… Growing old…
So Dad… A little bit of you lives on
A little bit of you lives on
in your prodigal son
I’m only a little boy, Just a little boy
I’m your little boy still, I’m your little boy still
©2004 IGH
Better Than Gold
My first music teaching job after graduating from McGill, was in Manitoba. I inherited a healthy band program from my friend Kenny Gold who had recommended me as a bilingual music teacher. I made the move out west and worked my butt off to keep the program growing.
My predecessor had started a jazz combo which I continued. We had a lovely group of kids that took it pretty seriously. In the combo were three kids whose parents were musicians.
Pete and Joe were brothers. Joe played alto sax and flute, although he didn’t play flute in the combo. His brother Pete played drums and piano. Both boys were very adept at their instruments and I could not teach them anything technical as they had already surpassed my knowledge. What I was able to teach them was style, humour and attitude and pointed them towards the right things to listen to. Their parents played in the Winnipeg Symphony and both brothers had had extensive private training. Both boys went on after school to playing, writing and recording original music. Joe had his own studio. For a while as well.
Clayton was a tenor saxophonist and had a lovely tone. A big sound. He was not a very good reader, but made up for it with a great ear and his ability to imitate his tenor heroes. His dad was a jazz bass player, so Clayton heard lots of that style of music. I never told him what to play, though I did suggest he try to copy solos from pros. His playing on St. Thomas (Sonny Rollins calypso tune) was particularly beyond his years.
Another set of brothers, Bruce and Richard played trumpet and bass clarinet respectively. Bruce was a hard worker and was able to extend his range pretty high à la Maynard Ferguson. Their dad was a “band booster” and drove kids all over the place and was able to get us playing opportunities outside of school.
Our pianist was Leanne. She never improvised, but was a very good reader, so was able to play jazz voicings that were written out for her. Her mum and dad also were very supportive.
Our bass player was Ricky. He was a tall, quiet, steady ginger who was a very steady bottom for our horns. At the Brandon Jazz Festival the band was billeted in a dormitory. When I did my rounds checking on kids, some of the rooms were pretty rowdy, and mildly naughty things were going on, Ricky was reading the bible……
The combo kept getting better and better. Joe graduated, but returned to school for rehearsals. We went to Jazz festivals and at one of them we won a gold medal in our category. We were thrilled to bits as you can imagine. This win meant we were invited to a national competition held that year in Calgary. It was a big honour, and we started to fund raise even before we got the go ahead from “the suits”.
After all the plans were put into place we had a band meeting before a rehearsal so I could complete our application form. I needed the birthdays of all the kids. Ricky had just had a birthday and as I wrote the info on the form, I realized it bumped us up into a higher category (18 -22). I told the kids, and arguments started. Some of the kids wanted me to lie about his age. I said that it was tempting, but what kind of a role model would I be if I lied? I managed to convince them that the goal was to play and do our best, and who cares if we don’t get a medal, we already proved ourselves. I also said that getting a medal if we know we cheated would not be an honour.
In Calgary, the kids saw and heard excellent music, attended workshops with pros and fraternized with jazz music nerds from all around the country. It was fun and interesting.
Our performance went very well. All the kids were at their very best. Joe, Clayton and Bruce played particularly inspired and with a new fire. They played with nothing to lose, up against really good college kids against whom we felt we had no chance.
On awards night, we sat through some really great music interspersed with each categories results. As each category was read and the honourees lauded, we saw products of great well-funded programs reaping their well-deserved awards. When our category came up, we all crossed our fingers and when we heard the words “Silver goes to St. Norbert Collegiate” we all were on cloud nine. I had tears, pretty sure they all did. It was such a great feeling.
The evening continued and individual awards were presented. Clayton won Yamaha award for “outstanding soloist” Bruce also won a similar award for one of his solos.
I think we went out for a treat afterward, and we talked it over. Everyone was ecstatic at our placing. I asked if anyone regretted not lying, and everyone said “no”.
I was proud of those kids, they were like a little family.
Sometimes Silver is better than Gold.
P.S. we were invited to play the Montreal Jazz Festival, but most of the kids were not able to go. So, in order to attend, we changed the combo lineup and I got to play with Pete and Joe who had been accepted to McGill and two other musicians who went on to successful music careers.
After Calgary, I decided I had done a good job, but I wanted new challenges and to be back in Montreal, so I resigned and enrolled in the Masters program at McGill.
Vignettes and Bagatelles 