Just a little old lady

One of the beauties of living in SF as opposed to a town with agoraphobia in Iowa is the ability to see people that you've never heard of tell stories that you've never heard.

Last week My daughter and I went to see an little old lady of 96 tell us of her experiences in the war. (By little old lady I mean close to 4 foot 2 and by War I mean WW2.)

And it was fascinating. She was Jewish and lived through the war relatively unscathed ( minus a lost fiancé) until French liberation. When liberated she felt the need to do something and became a spy reporting on German positions from behind enemy lines, due to her 1. Being female and 2. Speaking perfect German.

She kept it pretty hidden until the 90's when she eventually decided to tell her story. And now she tours the world telling it. And, boy, is she sharper than a box of Wilde witticisms.

One of the more interesting side bits was the presentation of a proclamation by a Jewish US soldier who was one of the first to publish photos from inside the concentration camps.

Naturally because this was America there's a book to sell and we bought it.

This was at a theatre in Livermore, an area better known for its wines

 ( Wente, Concannon) than its culture. And it was sold out. 

Hot Chick!

When I was younger I loved jazz. I would walk into Hillbrow with others ( usually tortured girlfriends or sometime alone to see various artists. Whether it was Rumours in Rockey St or King Of clubs in downtown Joburg, I would go to them all.

And as time has progressed, I've seen less and less. When your evening options decrease, the appeal to others of an evening of discordant notes can be quite unappealing.

But there's always been a hit list of jazz musos that I've wanted to see. And slowly I've ticked them off.

Joe Pass at Ronnie Scott's. 

Pat Metheny in a Warsaw skating rink.  

Al Jarreau in a Joburg amphitheater.  

Hugh Masekela playing and in Kippies chilling after South Africa outgrew apartheid.

Chuck Mangione, the best known flugelhornist and Lee Rittenour at the Cape Town Jazz festival. Sadao Watanabe, saxophonist extraordinaire at the Market Theatre in Johannesburg. 

Andreas wollenweider somewhere in Africa.

Tony Bennett mercifully singing short at the Giants games.

But even though I can't play for buggery, my favorite jazz is piano jazz. And here there is a holy quintuplet that I have finally finished this week.

It started with the greatest, Oscar Peterson at the RFH many years ago, a year or so after he'd had his stroke. And music must be great therapy as he didn't miss a note to my adoring ears.

Went to Japan when 17 and totally by coincidence, Chick Corea was playing with his band at a club called, I think, the Latin quarter in downtown Tokyo. I don't know how I got there but I know that I don't know how I got home as this was a night sponsored by Suntory whisky and all the drinks were free.

Then by another stroke, saw George Shearing in London as well with the bonus feature of Mel Torme. On a nostalgia tour and sometimes those are the best kind.

When I first arrived in SF, I was getting used to the area with no idea that the whole world eventually passes through here. And one night saw that Keith Jarrett was coming, man of the legendary Koln concert album which I've treasured for years. A side view and a pair of ears was all I needed that night.

Finally the fifth and last of the greats I've wanted to see came to town. In combination with Chick Corea, Herbie Hancock was here. I missed the first round of tickets but on daily checking I finally found a single in the side tier.

Zellerbach is part of the UCBerkeley campus where the heart of the cultural campus is based.

I but while it's based on a University campus, the average age of the crowd was that of university age parents.

It's a place with the redeeming characteristic of incredible acoustics. 

There was a preconcert talk given by a true hepcat, a brief alcohol fueled break then the lads came on.

There's a genuine warmth and camaraderie between these two. They started playing together BEFORE I was born. A little chat with an appreciative audience, a pug for a vegan cafe ( Cafe Gratitude in Berkeley, if you want to know) and then the y started playing.

No song introductions. The first song went on for half an hour. People would clap as they recognized bits of songs. And it was all sheer magic down to the single interactive encore. 

Final pianist ticked off.