I’m beginning to understand myself. But it would have been great to be able to understand myself when I was 20 rather than when I was 82.
Dave Brubeck died today at the venerable age of 91. I hate to be one of those people and join the ranks of those hangers-on who simply must share their usually less-than-profound thoughts on the passing of any celebrity, but Brubeck came to mean a lot to me over the years. My father first introduced me to Take Five, which I suppose is something of a cliché, but damn if it isn’t a fine piece of music. Listening to him brings back fond memories of many a late night at RISD, cursing and furiously working to meet some looming deadline or other, and how he became a late-night companion, offering brief respite when it all got to be a bit much. Dying at 91 after a fulfilling life is no tragedy, but still: a twinge of sadness to mourn a stranger who brought me so much joy hardly seems excessive.