Listen When Legends Drool
Jun 09, 2026
When I was a teenager, probably around 14 or 15, I was at a jazz concert after-party. I was too young to be there and didn’t know anyone, but I was doing my best fancy-person impression. Talking about beverages I didn’t consume and exhausting myself by over-intellectualizing about music I didn’t understand. All of which is still not my idea of a good time.
A piano started playing, and the room got really quiet. An old jazz legend. Drooling, and snarling, and growling at the piano. If it wasn’t for the music, I would assume it was a chew toy. I was witnessing a perfect balance between raw and refined for the first time in my life.
I got as close as I could by squeezing into a tiny pocket at the edge of the piano on a small wooden chair. I was out of sight and finally where I belonged. Leaning in, watching his hands accurately slam on what seemed to be any key, whenever. He kept his eyes tightly shut, his face sweating and shifting from tense to limp. Every finger dug each note out of the chaos like 10 divining rods, and I could hear his fingernail clicks and foot stomps while he grunted and groaned in perfect latency with the music. One old man in a suit was putting out more energy than any punk band I’d ever seen.
He looked at me after he got done playing, obviously wondering why a child had appeared at this party. It’s the same look as when you see a bird in your house, “Oh, cool,” and “Oh, crap.”
“Hey, boy, where your parents at?”
I said, “They’re back in Florida."
"That's cool, you came all the way out here to do this.”
“My parents suck, they don’t give a shit about this stuff.”
He said, “Boy, you need to stop talking about your parents like that. You got good parents.”
Since I was in my punk rock phase of seeing all authority as an oppressive and lame attack on my radical freedom, I said, “If they say anything or tell me I can’t, I’ll just get emancipated.”
“If you can leave, you got good parents. I don't know anyone your age who could travel all the way across the country and hang out like this and be cool, so watch what you say about your mama and daddy.”
I said, “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You play piano?”
“No, guitar. “
“How long?”
“A few years now, I’ve been writing songs, but wanting to learn more theory.”
He reached into a bag and handed me a book. “Here, this is all you need to know.”
“What helps you get so much soul out of your playing?”
He then said, “One word, boy, what is soul?”
I sat silently, thinking there might be a right answer or no answer; either way, I didn’t know.
“I don’t know.”
“Experience. Soul is experience.”
I felt myself relaxing, then, “One word, what is love?”
“I have no idea.”
“Sacrifice. If you love something, you will sacrifice without question. It won’t even feel like a sacrifice. So, do you love this?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Me too.”
The next 35 years have been trying to keep my soul from being sacrificed for things I didn’t love, but thought might love me if I just changed.
