Booyah!

“Two photo ops, dinner at the house and Ron Carter at the Bistro. Be here by 5:30.”

I was late. We raced to St. Louis U and hurried out of the wind and cold into the rarefied atmosphere of the Beaux-Arts. A lady with a charming smile handed me a brochure.

Richard found me at the Pinot Grigio and round cheeses. “Can't take you anywhere!”

Was it my blazer-baseball cap ensemble?

I finished the tasty stuff and drifted into the Michael Eastman Retrospective. Large photos, curiously dead (no people), nicely framed, an architectural feel. A cactus resembling a building ornament. Horses with a human countenance. (Why the long faces?)

I asked Richard, “What about the sheep?”

“We don’t have time.” Wham! Across town and two flights of steps for 70 Years of Martin Schweig at Webster U. Richard was all-in for Schweig. I tabbed Eastman. 

Richard’s house was next. Pineapple chicken in the crock pot. Stretching on the sofa to Paul Butterfield. Sibelius after dinner to think it over.

The Bistro has no signs outside proclaiming MAGNIFICENT or HUGELY ENTERTAINING, but I love their night music. We were waiting for something to happen when O.G.D., a local three-piece band—organ, guitar and drums—took their places riffing a catchy tune.

“We paid for Ron Carter! Where the hell is Miles Davis’ double bassist?”

A finger-snapping Elvis-Ray Charles leapt into view blowing a dirty alto, scatting dark fire across the stage. “Oh yeah, if you feel like it…uh…come on…move around a little bit.” Amazing shit. This Ron Carter made the East St. Louis High Jazz Band famous. The Bistro called him home from Northern Illinois, and now Rick Haydon, who came to pick, walked his blazing chords out over the audience, really pushing it. Two more explosive tunes and a choice blues. Ron’s calls of “Boogaloo” jerked my wires:

I cried “Booyah!”

Ron shouted, “Who said booyah?”

I was on my feet.

“Where you coming from, wearing a crazy-ass baseball cap with the visor turned up like that?”

I blinked.

“I said YOU. Are you all right?”

I tipped the visor. The piece morphed into a vocal, then a prime fusillade and a pair of walk-up vocals by Ron’s twelve-year-old daughter.

“Play the blues, baby.”

“The blues!”

The back-beat from Ron’s sixteen-year-old son in the drum chair ignited the earthy Testify, Ron in tongues, grunting, preaching.

“Ahhh, roll!”

“Ride it!”

I begged, “Traveling music.”

One more tune to walk the dog. “This what you want?”

I threw my hat at his feet. “Yes!”

“Here it is!”

Down Home Blues took us out.

I dropped Richard off and started downtown for the blues bars. It was late; I booked on home to stream Madame du Barry decorating the king's table with a belch.

Ron who? Ron Carter!