A lage start as a jazz musician

 For decades I played piano just for myself, hammering out melody and chords from a “fake book” of jazz standards. If someone came into the room, I would stop.

I wasn’t getting any better. So my friend Ron Worthy invited me eight years ago to join a group of accomplished jazz musicians at the basement of someone’s home in Washington, D.C.

Every week, a drummer opened up his house to two trumpet players, a saxophone player, guitarist, bassist and Ron, a professional pianist. This was a pure, private jam session, the kind you hear about but never see.

I got to fill in on about every third song. It was an enormous thrill comping out chords to this great music. But these guys were too good for me. I couldn’t keep up.

I had heard of classes in the Virginia suburbs where you pay a jazz musician to assemble a group to learn to play together. I wasn’t sure I could get into Jazz Workshop in Tysons Corner, Virginia, at first, so I decided to go to Blues Alley and see the leader, Paul Pieper, play guitar in a group.

I was watching intently, hoping to chat with Paul, when I accidentally knocked over a glass on the small table and it shattered on the floor. The lady sitting next to me was Paul’s wife. As we commiserated over the broken shards and an attendant swept them up, I told her why I was there.

Somehow I was able to get into his next class quickly. Was I good enough to stay? Could I really  learn to play accompaniment chords differently than on a solo?  But  Pieper liked my playing on the easy “Summertime” and I participated for a year with this group. So thrilled, I wrote a front-page article in the Senior Beacon newspaper about these classes.

But after I took a summer break, my schedule didn’t work for the next fall, so I joined another group, Jazz Band Master Class, hosted by Jeff Antoniuk in Annapolis, Md. Despite the 45-minute drive on Saturdays, I really enjoyed this group.  Then the big moment arrived. I had only been there a few weeks and they were going to perform at Twins, a prime jazz spot in D.C. Did I want to join them with so little practice? Does a hungry dog want a piece of steak?

This was the thrill of a lifetime! A bunch of my friends came, two of them driving an hour to see me. (I guess that’s why the club let us play there.) Antoniuk introduced me as the newest member and too eagerly, I stood up. “Sit down, Mike!” he admonished me.

I felt like Dave Brubeck, Oscar Peterson and Thelonious  Monk combined. One friend was recording my improvised solos and they weren’t bad at all.

I would have kept this up, but the pandemic came, the club closed for good and a jazz group practice over Zoom became impossible. Meanwhile, we moved to southern Virginia.

That didn’t end things, though. The new Tunnel Creek Vineyards opened near Roxboro, N.C. and I asked if I could sit down and play their nice grand piano. When I plunked out a song, the owner, Larry Dale Holler, liked it.n“I used to play at Twins Jazz in D.C.,” I said. “Can you come back on Saturday?” he said. When I played there during the pandemic, Antoniuk  told me, “You are one of only 10 jazz musicians in the world with a job.” I gave most of my earnings to a foundation helping unemployed jazz musicians.

I stayed only a few months because my 80-year-old hands couldn’t play for hours as the job required. Now I just play for friends and B&B guests at our home.

But not just for myself anymore.