Today, I remember Mad Thad. Born on March 28th, 1923. He would have been 90 years old.
A Michigan man.
He played with everyone, a true populist. The democracy of Hard Bop. Dexter Gordon, Milt Jackson, Thelonious Monk, Charles Mingus, Oliver Nelson, Sonny Stitt, Ben Webster, Count Basie, and more.
In 1957, he recorded “Mad Thad.”
On that album, he played with my man Doug Watkins.
The Hard Bop of Watkins.
On that record, a cut called “Quiet Sip,” written by Thad himself.
Tonight, Mr. Jones and me, we don’t go in for the myth of Spanish dances. We know their names are not Maria. We don’t want to be Bob Dylan.
That he is one of California’s (and the world’s!) greatest writers is well-known.
That he shares a birthday with Freddie Keppard – King Oliver’s great rival in the jazz days of old — is perhaps not so well-known.
That one of his great novels — Tortilla Flat — has at least 148 direct references to wine is perhaps even less well-known than that.
But that John Steinbeck favored late-night snacks of Chili, Tuna Fish on Crackers, and Red Wine is perhaps the finest wine needle in this literary grapestack.
Cheers to you, John Steinbeck! I certainly know with what book, and what snack, I shall be spending my evening!
~
For the above lovely bits of Steinbeckian arcana, I am indebted to Buzzle, and Interpolations.
~
“Two gallons is a great deal of wine, even for two paisanos. Spiritually the jugs maybe graduated thus: Just below the shoulder of the first bottle, serious and concentrated conversation. Two inches farther down, sweetly sad memory. Three inches more, thoughts of old and satisfactory loves. An inch, thoughts of bitter loves. Bottom of the first jug, general and undirected sadness. Shoulder of the second jug, black, unholy despondency. Two fingers down, a song of death or longing. A thumb, every other song each one knows. The graduations stop here, for the trail splits and there is no certainty. From this point anything can happen.” –John Steinbeck, from Tortilla Flat
I was early, by intention. I wanted to absorb the air, the space, the mojo.
Ghosts of Shamans past — silken-shadowed, proud and twirling — wove the naked canes with threads of dripping gossamer.
In my car, the metal murmuring beneath me.
The music came on. Ornette Coleman.
Frantic, frenetic, almost borderline atonal. Strange against the hazy blues and grays weighting down the coming sun.
Then the track changed. Beauty Is A Rare Thing. The long, lone, keening wail of saxophone, the prophesizing rumble of the toms, the gravitas of bass drops, all the spaces in-between the lonesome spaces.
Beauty Is A Rare Thing.
I drove towards the crest of the mountain; to the exalted limestone histories, to the winery, to the ghosts of Shamans present, past, and future.
I am constantly amazed by the ways landscape is destiny.
Dawn behind the valley of the fog. Dawn beyond the yawning of the crush pad. Dawnlight just beginning with the One Tree Hill …
We turn away to face the cold, enduring chill As the day begs the night for mercy love
~
Almost reassuring to me now — the pathway through, and to, the holy Monte Bello belly — this, my moment, this, my third Assemblage year.
Through the darkness, through the lightness, through the barrels …
…to the crystal choreography of history in the waiting …
This is Assemblage.
~
One-hundred-thirty acres, give or take. Acreage that begins some thousand feet above the valley, then stretches towards the heavens for another thousand more, and more than several hundred feet on after that.
Bramble stream, white rocks jutting out. Heaven cold, red leaves scarce. No rain
up here where the mountain road ends, sky stains robes empty kingfisher-blue.
Harvest began on the tenth morn of September, and concluded on the sixteenth of October; the day the cabernet grapes on the knoll bid farewell to the gnarled arms of their lowly-slung progenitors.
Two-hundred-eighty-tons of grapes picked off the mountain, whittled patiently down to only twenty-eight blocks, and then down again to twelve lots after that. Twelve lots to make up our control.
And so the rounds begin.
—
I.
Two glasses before you. In one glass, the control. Twelve lots worth of juice from off the mountain. In the other, the addition. One lot worth of hope of making history. Which is which, you do not know, and so you taste. And smell, and taste, and taste again, and smell again, and look, and think, and smell, and taste, and contemplate, and contemplate. In the nose, on the lips, on the tongue, down the throat, drip by drop, strained through teeth, rolled on tongues, swished and spat, and left to linger, and the pen is in your fingers, and the pen is on the page, and it goes scratching ‘cross the page …
… you dig for words, and lay on words, and search for metaphor and simile; descriptor, adverb, poetry. The clock maw gapes in rhythm, all the Tell-Tale Hearts at table — disparate rhythms harmonizing — beat the pounding of the wine-blood in your ears. There’s no more time left, no more wine left, on the left page is Glass A and on the right page is Glass B; which gets your minus, which your plus? You finally choose, your secret vote, it’s done, it’s done, you did it, there, it’s done, you made your vote, the tasting notes — like pagan chants — begin to be read out, aloud; first the first chair at the table …
Nine at the table. No tie possible. The first round is as close as close can get, four to five, five to four; the B Glass takes the lion’s share of votes, by a note, but the winemakers both come out for A. Lift the veil, it’s the addition! The addition in Glass A, the winemakers’ final say, on and through, to Round Two, and thirteen lots now. The addition is the Cabernet from blocks that we call Fosters, at the south end of the old Torre boundaries.
Paul says Glass A just seems racier.
II.
A tenth taster joins, raises the threat of a tie, but as the voting is revealed, it’s six to four. Glass A is the addition once again, and earns the passage once again, but this time on the strength of a majority. And what was added? It’s a co-fermented block of Cabernets: Sauvignon and Franc, from South Twin Peaks and Upper Gate, north of the winery, on the old Perrone ground.
I am with the As, and Eric Baugher says this wine will be a hundred-year wine, and the talk turns to juniper, to jazz, to anthocyanin …
III.
At fourteen lots, the roadblocks block the road, and the control cannot be shaken; seven-two, the final tally, and Will Thomas says Glass A shows as “broad-shouldered” …
IV.
Still fourteen lots as we begin, and when the round ends, we will still be at fourteen; a seven-two vote once again. In the last round it was Eric in minority, and this time it is Paul, but all let commonwealth prevail, and the majority prevails, and the control survives yet another challenge.
Paul voted “no” because the wine was just “too perfect,” just “too lovely” … and Kyle Theriot is the first to speak of velvet …
V.
Another close vote — five to four — but an addition has emerged; South Slope North! La Cuesta clone, maybe an acre, in the ground in ‘eighty-eight, at 6.33%, a small addition, but addition it will be, it makes the cut, takes the control to fifteen lots. I was on the wrong side of this vote, of Paul and Eric, and of Will, who said the wine, this time, was “tall, but not broad-shouldered” …
VI.
Four to five, the vote this time, coming out for the control, but then there’s Paul with his plus on the addition. I’m with Paul, as is Shinji, as is Karen; I wrote “elegant and playful,” Paul says that he likes the “power and the elegance” … It’s Merlot, from Le Vasseur, from the high side of the old Torre vineyards.
VII.
The seventh round, and the control is sixteen lots. Sixteen lots, and what do you get? One more addition doth the final round beget! A 3.6% addition, Cabernet from Circle Hill, and we have made it up the hill …
Fish don’t fry in the kitchen; Beans don’t burn on the grill. Took a whole lotta tryin’, Just to get up that hill. Now we’re up in the big leagues, Gettin’ our turn at bat. As long as we live, it’s you and me baby, There ain’t nothin wrong with that.
~
And now, 2012 is in the big leagues, and we’re going to see if it can holds its own, in the last round of the day, in the vertical display, cinq Monte Bello in a line, the ’11, ’10, and ’09, and the ’08, that magic vintage, liquid music, holy water, magic birth year of my daughter, making five tall and broad-shouldered wines …
~
This is it, The First Assemblage. To be tested, and tried again, to be sure, but for today, the testing done, seventeen lots safe and sound, a Monte Bello for the ages.
The statistics:
55% Cabernet Sauvignon
26 % Merlot
11% Cabernet Franc
8% Petit Verdot
Were it to stand, we’d be looking at some four-thousand cases …
~
As in years past, as I emerge from the barrel room brume, from the effluvium of grape and mystic poetry, I am weary.
In the company of pirates, monks, spelunkers, I’ve been searching, with my brothers and my sisters I’ve been searching, with the mendicants and beggars, I’ve been searching, at the altars, in the gutters, I’ve been searching.
Oh Ornette, your hymn, a horn
with a halo ‘round the reed
Oh, Beauty Is A Rare Thing indeed.
__
__
__
The players:
Will Thomas, Viticulturist, Lytton Springs
Kyle Theriot, Viticulturist, Monte Bello
Shun Ishikubo, Assistant Winemaker, Monte Bello
Shini Kurokawa, Production Assistant, Monte Bello
Heidi Nigen (Round II), Marketing Manager
Christopher Watkins, myself
Amy Monroe, Hospitality Coordinator, Monte Bello
Karen Leeds, Director of Quality Control/Chemist, Monte Bello
Eric Baugher, VP of Winemaking, Monte Bello
Paul Draper
To you all, deep bows.
~
Attributions for excerpts and quotes above, in order of appearance:
Ornette Coleman (the song “Beauty Is A Rare Thing”)
Ron Rash (from an interview with the author on NPR)
U2 (from the song “One Tree Hill,” lyrics by Bono, music by U2)
Wang Wei (from the poem “In The Mountains,” translated by David Hinton)
Ja’net Dubois and Jeff Berry (from the song “Movin’ On Up,” theme song for the TV Show “The Jeffersons”)
~
For essays on previous Assemblage Tastings, please follow the links below:
It’s true, George Washington did indeed seem to innately understand the ritual importance of wine, the conventional purity of wine, the canonical vitality of wine …
My manner of living is plain and I do not mean to be put out of it. A glass of wine and a bit of mutton are always ready
And it seems to be rather unimpeachably true that it wasn’t until Abraham Lincoln’s tenure in the White House that wine was “officially” served at an Official White House function (we appear to actually have Mary Todd Lincoln to thank for that!).
But truth be told, if you REALLY wish to celebrate tomorrow, you REALLY ought to plan on drinking wine and listening to the great saxophonist Harold Land.
Because he was born February 18th. And that’s tomorrow.
So, wanna REALLY get yer Jazz & Wine bona fides on?
Then take a moment tomorrow to sit with a glass of good wine and dig “Kisses Sweeter Than Wine” as performed by the Harold Land-Carmell Jones Quintet; one of the most brilliant and most woefully under-celebrated jazz ensembles ever to emerge from the bop-hard bop idiom.
Hey! Here’s an idea! Don’t sit at home, come join us!
That’s right, I personally invite you to contact our Monte Bello Estate, and request a tasting. Call early enough tomorrow, and we can try and slot you in at 11am. Too early? Ok, how’s 2pm sound? Good? Good!
Hey, here’s an even better idea; book online RIGHT NOW! (see link below).
But whatever you do, remember, Monte Bello is BY APPOINTMENT ONLY on weekdays, so even though it’s a holiday, Presidents Day still counts as a weekday, which means you still need an appointment!
Wine, Harold Land, you, me, the Presidents … groovy.
~
And for those of you who can’t get to our mountain, have no fear, Lytton Springs is here! 7 days a week in Sonoma! You just GOT to have a go! (See link below!)
~
One nation, under jazz, with cabernet and grooviness for all.
Friends, it is with a heavy heart I pass on the news that Donald Byrd has passed on …
A beautiful, funky, soulful, swinging sound has taken flight from the Samsaric world, and re-entered the realm of ten-thousand things …
~
The Negro With the trumpet at his lips Has dark moons of weariness Beneath his eyes where the smoldering memory of slave ships Blazed to the crack of whips about thighs
The negro with the trumpet at his lips has a head of vibrant hair tamed down, patent-leathered now until it gleams like jet— were jet a crown
the music from the trumpet at his lips is honey mixed with liquid fire the rhythm from the trumpet at his lips is ecstasy distilled from old desire—
Desire that is longing for the moon where the moonlight’s but a spotlight in his eyes, desire that is longing for the sea where the sea’s a bar-glass sucker size
The Negro with the trumpet at his lips whose jacket Has a fine one-button roll, does not know upon what riff the music slips
It’s hypodermic needle to his soul but softly as the tune comes from his throat trouble mellows to a golden note
– Trumpet Player, by Langston Hughes
~
Advice To An Aspiring Winemaker
Do you wish to make wine?
Don’t look towards the schools.
Don’t even look to the wineries.
Listen to Donald Byrd.
And ask yourself, upon what riff does your music slip?
Listen to Donald Byrd play.
And ask yourself, for what does your longing desire?
Listen to Donald Byrd speak.
Listen to Donald Byrd speak, when he stood up to those who would tell him what he ought to be doing.
“I’m creative; I’m not re-creative … I don’t follow what everybody else does.”
Napa Valley may be the first place that comes to mind when you think of California wine, but there is no place like the Santa Cruz Mountains. That’s where you’ll find Ridge Vineyards, and one of the world’s most legendary wines: Monte Bello. Christopher Watkins, Manager of Retail Sales and Hospitality as well as the Author and Host of 4488: A Ridge Blog, discusses how the people and the place all combine to make bottled poetry. Speaking of poetry, Watkins has also published a book of his verse. You’ll find his unique perspective on art and language to be the perfect guide for this journey.
–
How do you feel about podcasts? Do you listen to them? Are you a subscriber, or a casual drop-in? Do you follow just one, or many?
I’m pondering podcasts.
Somewhere in the past decade –decade-and-a-half maybe– the vitriol around wine took on a new and bizarre ardor. “Wine Snobbism” seemed to have become a truly terrible personality affliction, and its alleged purveyors, practitioners, and carriers were earmarked for a stunning panoply of recriminations.
I have voiced opinions on this, and matters related, in a previous post (available here), so won’t redraw the argument again, but suffice it to say, the tangible backlash to the perceived pervasiveness of the purportedly rampant snobbism took on new intensity, whelping dizzying iterations of professedly antidotal solutions: Wine For Morons,Wine For Those Who Can’t Read, Wine For The Cheap, The Dolt’s Guide To Wine, The Gauche Grape, and other such condescending fare.
Fortunately, into this fray comes Jameson Fink, one of the most level-headed hosts ever to grace the educational stage.
May I present the following “mission statement,” the text of which comes from the description for Jameson’s new and excellent podcast series Wine Without Worry:
Does a leather-bound wine list send an icy chill up your spine? Does walking through a wine store feel like navigating a sinister labyrinth? Put aside your anxiety and join Jameson Fink on Wine Without Worry as he serves up a flight of experts to demystify wine. It’s a relaxed look at wine, with helpful tips and insight to bring your confidence level up, and keep the wine flowing.
Do you know why I like this? Because it acknowledges that one might be intimidated, but it does not condescend. It is clear, straightforward, and honest. It is kind.
Which is pretty much Jameson in a nutshell.
But add one more word: professional.
Jameson Fink is a pro.
In my life, for myriad and whatever reasons, it turns out that I have been interviewed many, many times, about many, many things. And interviews are tricky. At best, they are often perfunctory. At worst, they can be awkwardness and torture and misery and frustration and embarrassment and tedium and awfulness. But every once in a while, they’re not only enjoyable, but actually interesting, informative, and refreshing.
Such was the case when Jameson Fink interviewed me for his Wine Without Worry podcast. Jameson is intelligent, and he does his homework. He is quick on his verbal feet, and he runs deep with content. He is clever, and he knew well ahead the full scope of what he wanted to cover. He is funny and snarky in equal measure, but long on respect and devoid of hollow irony. In short, he was a consummate host, and an excellent interviewer.
For the answer to an 18-letter wine destination, a fully unexpected Fiddle Faddle reference, and a rich look into all things Ridge, Wine, and The Santa Cruz Mountains, I heartily encourage you to check out the following episode of Wine Without Worry, hosted by Jameson Fink, and humbly featuring yours truly:
Napa Valley may be the first place that comes to mind when you think of California wine, but there is no place like the Santa Cruz Mountains. That’s where you’ll find Ridge Vineyards, and one of the world’s most legendary wines: Monte Bello. Christopher Watkins, Manager of Retail Sales and Hospitality as well as the Author and Host of 4488: A Ridge Blog, discusses how the people and the place all combine to make bottled poetry. Speaking of poetry, Watkins has also published a book of his verse. You’ll find his unique perspective on art and language to be the perfect guide for this journey.
Oh Susanna! Don’t you cry for me, cuz I’m goin to Monte Bello with Estate Cab on my knee …
And by Susanna, of course, I mean Susanna Hoffs; she, of The Bangles, who formerly noted that, as opposed to Monday, Sunday was in fact her Funday.
Not so I.
Monday is my Funday.
At least this most recent one was.
This Monday most recent, we had cause to open, pour, and taste a SEVEN-VINTAGE-VERTICAL of Ridge Vineyards Estate Cabernet: 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, and the not-yet-released 2010.
To be honest, this may have been one of the best tastings I’ve ever been involved with; these wines just tasted extraordinary!
So, “standard” tasting notes were simply not going to cut it. This was too special, too powerful, too spiritual.
Thus, “One Word Tasting Note Rock, Paper, Scissors!”
How does it work?
You partner up with another taster, and you taste a wine together. And together, you become as the Haiku artist becomes:
“He is like a tuning fork placed before a vibrating one of the same frequency. When he contemplates the impassionate, living object he immediately realizes its quality just as the sound from the tuning forks will become audible. He is in a state of aesthetic resonation, a harmonized whole of all the meaningful experiences he has had, brought to bear upon the moment of aesthetic contemplation.” — Kenneth Yasuda, “Japanese Haiku: Its Essential Nature and History”
And then you count to three, a la Rock, Paper, Scissors.
And then you give voice to your one-word tasting note; your audibilized vibration, your harmonized whole.
And then, with time, you may seek common threads in the spontaneous vibrations of your respective tuning forks.
I was with my colleague Sam Howles-Banerji.
We began with the 2004 Estate Cabernet.
1, 2, 3:
Soulful Mushroom
Commonalities? Obvious! Just two other ways of sayin’ Funky!
Jazz. having an earthy, blues-based quality or character.
funky 1 (ˈfʌŋkɪ)
— adj , funkier , funkiest
1.
(of music) passionate, soulful; of or pertaining to funk
2.
authentic; earthy
3.
stylish and exciting; cool: funky jeans
–
Next up, the 2005 Estate Cabernet.
1, 2, 3:
Incantatory Terrier
Common Themes: Incessant, Devotional, Hypnotic
–
2006 Estate Cabernet
1, 2, 3:
Horse & Buggy Velvet Mineral
The thread? Contrast; the rusticity of horse-drawn old-fashionedness amidst a fresh, new spring day – velvet & mineral
–
2007 Estate Cabernet
1, 2, 3:
Country Biker
Common Theme: The wild open spaces! Freedom! Limitless possibilitiy amidst boundless beauty! An internal code of honor, a rhythm and law all its own.
–
2008 Estate Cabernet
1, 2, 3:
Carnival Punk Rock
Commonalities? Condensed, concentrated, intense; distillation of raw passion; decadence and excitement
–
2009 Estate Cabernet
1, 2, 3:
Racy Largesse
Thematic unity? Expressive and generous sensuality
–
2010 Estate Cabernet
1, 2, 3:
Pistachio Ice Cream on the beach
Sunset
Ok, that first one is hardly one word, but the commonalities here are really quite fascinating … That two wine tasters, upon tasting a specific wine at the indentical time, should then each, interdependently of the other, audibilize the idyll … aesthetic resonation indeed.
–
And that, my friends, is One Word Tasting Note Rock, Paper, Scissors.
And that, my friends, is our 7-vintage Estate Cabernet Vertical.
Very early on in my tenure at Ridge Vineyards, I made the decision to play only The Jazz in the Monte Bello Tasting Room.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, this decision was noted and noticed by a notably wider circle than just the one comprised of my colleagues in the tasting room. Of particular note, it was most decidedly noticed by the man who was not only my boss, but also the then-president of the company, Donn Reisen.
Donn Reisen
It was a gift of innocence, I suppose, that had largely left me unworried about bothering Donn up to that point. Of course I’d heard a rumor or two; how he’d once harshly berated a staffer for inappropriate application of a flashlight during decantation of a library Monte Bello, for example.
Yet still I blundered on unawares, too green to worry, too naïve to be afraid.
And then along came Donn.
One afternoon, there he came, strolling in, in that shambolically purposeful yet hobo-esque way of his, right into the middle of the empty mid-day tasting room, as I was wiping down counters and re-arranging menus, and listening to The Jazz.
He ambled in, paused at the very center of the rug that was in the very center of the room, and cocked his head towards a corner of the room where there was perched a small speaker. And he listened. Listened as Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme” streamed through the pulsing mesh of the small black screen.
John Coltrane
And after a miniature eternity, he then turned to me and said, “I think the saxophone is the most expressive of instruments; the most like the human voice. It’s beautiful.” And then he walked out.
That was over four years ago, but I still feel the mojo of that moment as if it were yesterday.
Not the moment of Donn approving of the music.
The moment of Donn feeling that music, recognizing in it something that connected directly to his own humanity
There is something so potent about this sort of recognition, this moment of cognizance that something outside of oneself somehow not only speaks to oneself, but is oneself.
Kindredity. A made-up word, of course, but one whose meaning, is, I believe, a clear one.
Kindredity: A state of feeling kindred to something else; related by descent, associated by origin.
This was, I believe, Donn’s state while listening to “A Love Supreme” in that moment.
—
And I wonder now, as I ponder on this all, if that isn’t in fact what draws us to wine itself in the first place?
Is it somehow true that the wines we love the most are the ones we somehow find ourselves in? The ones which induce this state of kindredity?
It is more than a mirror, more than wishful thinking. It is not so easy as “I think I’m bold and strong, and so I like a bold and strong wine” or “I’m sensitive and complex and I prefer my wines the same.”
And it is more than mutual attraction, more than compatible idiosyncrasy. It is not so easy as “You’re mysterious and I’m attracted to mystery” or “You’re powerful and I’m submissive.”
If the poem’s narrator and the poem’s dolphin are somehow united in “the ancient mammalian rite of recognition,” what is the modifier of rite when the same sentence becomes about wine? When a taster and a wine are somehow ritually united, what describes the rite?
What is our kindredity with wine?
–
I wish I could ask Donn now what I didn’t know then. But alas, I cannot. He is gone.
What I can do, is turn to the great Chinese poet Wang Wei …
Dear stone, little platter alongside cascading streamwater, willow branches are sweeping across my winecup again.
And if you say spring wind explains nothing, tell me why, when it scatters blossoms away, it blows them here to me?
–
Snowy Stream, by Wang Wei
(The poem above — “Playfully Written on a Flat Stone” — was translated by David Hinton, and can be found in his book “The Selected Poems of Wang Wei”)
As far as I am concerned, there is very little that music CAN’T teach us about wine. Music in general, and Jazz in particular.
So I am going to return to the well of melody yet again, to draw up another analogy to address a matter I find myself speaking about quite often; The Bordeaux Varietals.
What are they? Why are they so important? What do they mean?
You can look them up rather easily, of course.
A, E, I O, U, and sometimes Y.
Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Cabernet Franc, Petit Verdot, Malbec, and sometimes Carmenere.
You can look up just about everything, really; from acreages planted to DNA fingerprints.
But none of that will tell you what The Jazz can tell you.
Remember, while we now often associate wine & jazz with the city (think austerely modern tapas bars playing soft electronica for the former, and smoky boho hipster beat piano bars for the latter), both in truth come from the country; from poor country folk who sought out magic as a means to get by, to get through, to get on.
The Brotherhood of the Grape & The Saint James Infirmary.
The twin pillars of Cabernet …
Cabernet Sauvignon. The granddaddy of them all, yet of the modern era, not a foundational saint. Yet so important, so dominant, that we cannot conceive of a world before. Duke Elllington, of course. All colors, all flavors, so complex yet so strong. So perfect as to in fact be misunderstood, as only the king can be. Duke Ellington of course. The essence you’ll remember forever, but whose harmony belongs to the components; the hue and tone birthed for the band of original angels. Cabernet Sauvignon, of course.
Historic Vineyard Series Merlot …
Merlot. So approachable, so genial, so maddeningly appealing as to become an almost guilty pleasure in an era of self-conscious posturing. Louis Armstrong, of course. So popular as to be forgotten for the true genius held within. So perfect that self-caricature seems almost inevitable, so influential as to earn its own undeserved bad rap entirely for the sins of its lesser brethren. Louis Armstrong, of course. In everything, is everywhere; you cannot even grace the stage without the trace. Merlot, of course.
Rousten Cabernet Franc …
Cabernet Franc. The weird one; the acquired taste; the obsessive’s passion, the insider’s inside. Thelonious Monk, of course. The seemingly simplest and the seemingly most complex; the there-are-no-wrong notes. Thelonious Monk, of course. The one that’s all wrong that’s alright; the one you may not know on its own, but is in everything. The lullaby in the mystery, mysterioso, the clue that was right there all along. Cabernet Franc, of course.
Petit Verdot on the vine, Rousten Ranch, Monte Bello
Petit Verdot. The volatile one. The unpredictable one. The one that goes from funky to beautiful in the blink of an eye. Charles Mingus, of course. The one with the back-up role that won’t back up, the backbone in the front. The leader from behind. Charles Mingus, of course. The one with the chip on its shoulder, that gets no respect, that is far too demanding for the conventional. The mysterious, mercurial Petit Verdot, of course.
No Malbec on Monte Bello, sorry! But, it IS a Bordeaux Varietal …
Malbec. The muscle, the meat, the virility that defined a modern style still to come, the legend that found its home on farther shores, then returned home a hero. Coleman Hawkins, of course. The hard-driving, the black and soulful; the high-flying, the brass-tacks visceral. The monopoly on the market, the old that is new; of the old in the new. Coleman Hawkins, of course. The nine lives of a player that’s weathered it all; swinging in the confidence of its legacy. Malbec, of course.
—
Or, put another way:
—Complexity wrought so perfectly it feels familiar (Duke Ellington)
—The unencumbered exuberance and excitement of perfect technique set free (Louis Armstrong)
—The beautiful, captivating weirdness; the odd and unsettling thing that lifts conventional appeal up to extraordinary allure (Thelonious Monk)
—The unexpected, volcanic unpredictability of passion (Charles Mingus)
—Confidence, self-actualization, and moxie (Coleman Hawkins)
“And the acceptance of it showed that you could go in and do something avant-garde, experimental, and still have the public following you.”
In a nutshell, this is why we loved, and love, Dave Brubeck.
There were of course SO many reasons to love the man and his music, but it is this aspect — this aspect that can be so readily discerned in the quote above — that moves me above all else.
Why?
Because of course we believed in Dave Brubeck. We believed in him because he was gifted, and talented, and brilliant. We believed in him because he was giving, and generous, and hard-working. We believed in him because his music was beautiful, and sensual, and groovy.
We believed in Dave Brubeck.
But what’s so extraordinary, is that he believed in us as well. Dave Brubeck believed in us.
That’s what the quote shows.
“And the acceptance of it showed that you could go in and do something avant-garde, experimental, and still have the public following you.”
He didn’t condescend to us, he didn’t patronize us, he didn’t pander to us. And he didn’t challenge us to put us down, or expose us, or mock us.
Rather, he simply proceeded with his vision, secure in his belief that we’d go with him. Because he knew we could. Because he believed in us.
For every creator of anything — be it novel, play or poem; wine or meal or menu; song or dance or step — this is the example to follow. For even a parent, the greatest of all creators, this is the example to follow. Don’t dumb it down because you think we’re dumb. Rather, wise it up, because you believe we’ll be there with you.
Because we will, if you believe in us.
This is why we loved, and love, Dave Brubeck.
He made the challenging understandable, the weird approachable, the complex understandable.
But most of all, he made us better.
In fact, he didn’t at all make the challenging understandable, the weird approachable, the complex understandable.
Rather, he made us challenging, he made us weird, he made us complex. He raised us to him.
This is why we loved, and love, Dave Brubeck.
For his compositional genius, we are grateful to him. For his color-blindness when it came to racism in jazz, and in this country, we uphold him. For his tenacity and longevity in a genre and milieu that has seen so many die so young so needlessly, we admire him. For his generosity, good-heartedness, and kindness, we applaud him.
And for his belief in us, we love him.
Farewell Dave Brubeck. With deep, deep bows, we bid you fare thee well.
You’ve been beautiful to us, in your own sweet way.
ki/ 
