The magic gold card lets us in again 10 minutes ahead of everyone else, and this time we explore the orchestra level. On our way down, in the left "snail" - the balcony loge reserved for friends of the performer and special people (we are not that special) is Michael Lazaroff, the Executive director of the Jazz Cruises. He is handsome, smiling, very smart in a crisp white shirt over jeans. He's clearly thrilled at how the cruise is going. He should be, the sponsoring by Playboy for the first time has brought a fabulous line-up (if no bunnies).
We spend our privileged 10 minutes exploring the various options - folding chairs too hard, seats too low, too much to the side, too close to the bank of loud speakers... We find a pair of plump white pleather bench seats on the first row that's slightly elevated, almost in the middle. Perfect. There is a constant ballet of cheerful waiters offering to fetch you drinks. This is really very civilized...
Dianne Reeves just sails in and starts scatting away. "How are you today? I am well thank you, except I couldn't find my sea legs today." But after a few Alka-Seltzers, she's here today. A very sensual presence. An incredible voice range going up and down, softly to fortissimo in no time. A diction of Fitzgeraldian perfection. Too bad the song choices don't talk to me much. The piano player, Peter Martin who was playing solo last night in one of the clubs, is excellent. The fabulous guitarist is Brazilian Romero LuBambo. For his niece, who is on board and just turned 10, she sings "when I was nine (I remember it as if it were yesterday)". There's also an easy-on-the-eyes bass player from St Thomas, Virgin Islands, she says she likes for his very, very, very, long and sexy.... hands. She jokes that he doesn't mind handling big things (she is an imposing presence). If those two are not having an affair, it's very well imitated.
She tells the story of her trip to L.A. as a high-schooler. Her brother had been in a band with a famous jazz drummer, and he took her along to a memorial concert after the drummer's death. So there she is, backstage, all starry eyed, a bit lost. She goes and sit on a sofa, next to a woman who seems to be nice. The woman asks her her name, what she does. "I sing". "And who do you listen to?" "Sarah Vaughan". And she starts explaining to the lady why she loves Sarah Vaughan, why she is so great, etc. A guys comes and tells the nice lady, "hey Sass' you're on in 5". Dianne Reeves goes on and on... Well, of course, the nice lady
was Sarah Vaughan and young Dianne disappeared from the wings before the idol came off stage... I suppose every one has such a story, when they get good and famous enough that it becomes funny to tell.
As a tribute to Sass', she gets into a rendition of Misty that gets the crowd roaring and on our feet. Scatting again, "I particularly like the way she took the ending of a song and made it her own", then proceeds to do just that for several minutes. Dizzying. Dazzling.
She also tells a story of her two and a half days work with director George Clooney on the set of
Good Night and Good Luck, the movie about legendary journalist Edward R. Murrow and his debunking of the McCarthy bullshit. (I know, Frenchies have clearly never heard of that particular legend - not sure if the movie made it across the Atlantic - let me know if you read this). When I get home, I'll need to watch again that intellectually stimulating ode to men with balls and ethics. As I remember it, the black-and-white cinematography is breathtaking, the message and language powerful, and if that doesn't do it for you, you can just drool over George Clooney or Patricia Clarkson flirting a storm with Robert Downey Jr. And David Straithairn. Ahhh.
For the story, the seductress is back on, explaining how she sang her songs for George - "I did it as many times, for as long as he wanted, and every way he asked me to....". George, by the way, if you read this, it's been years, and you haven't even emailed the girl. Shame on you.
To reach it you need to cross a massive grassy area, where moms come play with their babies and local youths demonstrate calisthenics.
Inside, it is as empty and sternly geometric as San Cristobal.
Still don't know what that pink dome is - it looks out of place, but is certainly handsome.
On imagine facilement le lieu inspirant au Brassens local une supplique pour être enterré sur la falaise de San Juan.
On the large and largely empty boulevard, along which we are walking, cars ramble by, and a few humans go about their business, but we are definitely the only tourists.
There are signs of life everywhere - here a freeze of dozens of ceramics collages made by the children of a local school adorn a wall.
The signs hesitate between hand-written Feliz Navidad or Che (that one for Eric's collection) and advertisement banners for American beers (no doubt, a way to make a bit of money).
