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LULLABY 

the smell of the rain 
the sound of the train 
my dog by the fire 
home again
 

As a boy in rural Tennessee, Billy Matheny slept in an attic bedroom, the slanted ceiling only a few inches above his bed. The Matheny house had a tin roof that sang when it rained, and the sound of raindrops would serenade young Billy to sleep. So Billy treasured the rain. And when he grew up, he passed that treasure along to his own son like a beloved family heirloom. 

The rainstorms in Georgia were magnificent.  

At the first thunderclap, Daddy Bill would throw open all the doors and windows of our little apartment, so we could enjoy the breeze and wait for the rain. If I close my eyes, I can still see him, puffing his pipe in that wingback chair, his legs crossed casually, unlaced hushpuppies hanging off the ends of his narrow naked feet.  

Sometimes there would be soft music playing on the turntable -- James Taylor perhaps, or Miles Davis -- but usually we would just sit and listen to the rain as it came down out of the clouds, into the pines, and onto the red clay just outside our open door.  

I remember hearing the peaceful, percussive patter of raindrops on the kudzu, accompanied by the low rumble of distant thunder. The aroma of Daddy Bill’s cherry blend tobacco. The fresh scent of damp earth. A sensory symphony of sounds and smells. 

As the storm grew more intense, Daddy Bill would cheer the crescendo, appreciating nature’s performance.

Then he’d look over at me with twinkly eyes and say, “Welp, it’s really coming down out there, Little Bub. Let’s go for a walk.” 

And just like that we would venture out into the storm, splashing along the sidewalk together. No umbrellas. No slickers or galoshes. Just the two of us, man and boy, in our street clothes, soaking wet and laughing. The neighbors must have thought we were out of our minds.

Dad and I moved from Georgia to Arizona in the summer of 1977, just in time for monsoon season.

The Arizona heat was exactly as advertised -- damn near unbearable -- but those dramatic summer storms were something else. They cleansed the land, revitalized flora and fauna, and replenished our spirits. 

We knew that rain-walking would be a bad idea in the Sonoran Desert around Tucson. The topography is flat, vegetation is sparse and low to the ground, and lightning routinely strikes anything vertical.

No matter. We were thrilled to appreciate the monsoons from the safety of our screened-in patio -- an exhilarating, fully immersive experience.

The rain would pour down all at once in a heavy torrent, punctuated by brilliant flashes of crackling electricity that filled the sky, turning the saguaro cacti into stark silhouettes. The river beds filled up and overflowed their banks, flooding the roadways. Sheets of rainwater pelted our windows relentlessly. Peals of thunder rattled the adobe walls.

It was glorious. 
 

Over the years, no matter where I happened to live or travel, the rain has remained a loyal friend.

At Interlochen I would sit on the dock and watch raindrops dance on the surface of Green Lake. In San Francisco, where I lived for 20 years, it wasn't uncommon for the entire month of January to be wet. Even in Boston’s Back Bay, where winter weather vexed my college years, thunder showers were a rare gift. I would sit at the Trident Bookstore Cafe, writing letters, drinking coffee and daydreaming as stormy skies benevolently baptized the red bricks of Newbury Street. 

Rainy weather has been my welcome companion on the road, throughout the Americas, and around the world. Whether gentle or tumultuous, her arrival always feels like a personal message of support from the universe, assuring me that everything is going to be just fine.

Here in Washington State, where I now live with my girlfriend Sassy and our dog Scout, I have fully embraced my birthright as an avowed pluviophile! We receive about 73 inches of rainfall annually -- nearly twice the national average -- yet folks here seldom carry an umbrella. In the Pacific Northwest, rain is simply a fact of life. 

Now when I go storm-strolling with Scout, the neighbors don’t even bat an eye. They just wave to us as we splash along happily from puddle to puddle.  

Last month, we lost my father to Parkinson’s Disease. I miss him terribly, but I also feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for everything he was and will remain, in memory. Among his many life lessons, Daddy Bill taught me to love the rain.  

Shortly before he died, I received a surprise early birthday gift from Sass: my very own tin Rain Roof, professionally installed, affixed to the awning over my bedroom window.

Such a thoughtful gift. What a tribute! What a solace!

No one knows what the future may bring, but at least for tonight, all will be well.

Tonight the rain will come, and she will sing us a lullaby.

Tomorrow is a new day.

CHET BAKER & THE SOUND OF SINCERITY 

Clockwise (L-R) bassist Jean-Louis Rassinfosse, Chet Baker, Dmitri Matheny at the Chet Baker Memorial in Amsterdam

 

The first Chet Baker recording I ever heard was not one of his celebrated cool jazz hits from back when he looked like James Dean and played like Miles Davis. 

No, I fell in love with Chet in the 1980s, long after his heyday, when he was struggling to play on new dentures and looked more like Clint Eastwood at the end of Pale Rider. Chet was living in Europe at the time, and the album that captivated me, Crystal Bells, showcased his working Belgian trio with guitarist Philip Catherine and bassist Jean-Louis Rassinfosse. 

It was that sound that got me. Chet’s warm tone and halting, yet lyrical lines, were imbued with a fragile, searching quality that hit me like a bullseye right in my melancholy teenage heart. 

I must have listened to that album a thousand times. 

The drummerless trio provided the perfect balance of interactivity and space for the old explorer, who seemed to be finding his way back from some kind of profound loss.  At the time, I didn’t know anything about Chet’s troubled history, but it was all there, laid bare, in the music. 

I felt as if I had found the secret key to a soulful world of authenticity and deep feeling. 

Chet died a few years later and my appreciation for him only grew.

When I had the opportunity to work with Jean-Louis Rassinfosse in the Netherlands, I told him how much I loved Crystal Bells.

Jean-Louis smiled broadly. “Chet didn’t even have a horn, you know,” he said. 

“He’d long ago sold it for drug money. But he kept the mouthpiece in his pocket.” 

The veteran bassist then described their routine, how each morning they would call ahead to the next little village on tour and invite all the brass players in the area to come down to the club with their horns. 

"At sound check there would be this little row of open instrument cases on the stage," he said. "Chet would go down the line, try out a few different horns, pick one, and that would be the instrument he played that night!

“Sometimes trompet, sometimes kornet or bugel, every night a different instrument,” Jean-Louis said. “But he always sounded like Chet.

“It was that sound, that same sound, always,” Jean-Louis marveled. “And every night, somebody would ask, ‘How do you get that amazing tone? What kind of instrument is that?’ as if the horn itself was somehow magical.

"But it was just Chet. It was all Chet.” 

I love this story and 100% believe it to be true, as it confirms my long-standing belief in music as a mystical force, and in master musicians like Baker as sorcerers. The embouchure and equipment are important, but they are secondary. What matters most is your intention. 

"Get your mind right," Art Farmer once advised. "You are the instrument. That thing that you're holding is just an amplifier."

“It isn’t the horn,” John Coltrane famously said. “You can play a shoestring if you’re sincere.”

LONG IN THE TOOTH 

Welp, I just turned 55.  

Now eligible for senior discounts at the diner. 

Damn. The years really sneak up on you, don’t they? 

The recent loss of my father during the navel-gazing of quarantine has only served to amplify this existential angst.  

I get it. Winter is here. But am I ready? 

Fifteen years ago, right around my 40th, I remember feeling something similar about facing the autumn of my years.  

Below is what I wrote at the time.

Perhaps it still holds up. 

ADVICE TO SELF AT MIDLIFE 

Congratulations, you’ve made it to the halfway mark. 

So far, so good. Now consider this: 

You’re old enough now that they no longer praise your potential. All those years of encouragement about your bright future are over. It’s quiet now. 

At the same time, you’re not yet old enough to join the ranks of those you so admire, the wise elders. You’re not yet one of them. You don’t speak for the ages. Few look to you for inspiration or advice. 

These are the middle years. 

Your past accomplishments and your hopes for tomorrow mean nothing. All that matters is what you do now: 

Stay agile. Draw up plans, but be nimble enough to abandon them. Be persistent in fulfilling your vision, but also be ready to shift course based on the changing landscape. Be ever-evolving. 

Take care of yourself. You’re on your own, so be careful. Pace yourself. Cultivate healthy habits. Know your limits. 

Pay attention. It’s now your turn to provide encouragement. Learn to be a mentor. Look for opportunities to serve, celebrate and share.

RESOLUTIONS 2021: The Year of Renewal 

Health 
Drink water. Eat vegetables. Take naps. Pace yourself.  
Cleaner fasts, more colorful feasts, smaller portions. 
Spend more time outdoors: walking, riding, fishing. 
Expand vegetable garden with new crops. 
Get vaccinated as soon as possible. 

Music 
Prepare arrangements for Cascadia studio album. 
Compose Legacy suite showcasing Dad’s poetry. 
Add Patsy Cline material to DMG repertoire. 

Business 
Schedule fourth quarter touring engagements. 
Apply for touring and commissioning grants. 
Launch Cascadia crowdfunding campaign. 
Recruit five more private students. 

Personal 
Collect missing issues of Silver Age Green Lantern
Launch a new 30-day challenge each month. 
Publish a memoir blog post every week. 
Invest in home security. 
Practice gratitude.

2020 BY THE NUMBERS 

Slept over 300 nights in my own bed 

Added 196 new friends and subscribers 

Enjoyed 180 homegrown garden salads 

Gave 122 private lessons online 

Sold 92 books and household items 

Directed 33 distance learning workshops 

Received 27 grants and contributions 

Collected 17 vintage comics by mail 

Staged 13 performances (pre-lockdown)

Wrote 10 new arrangements for jazz sextet 

Played 7 solo live-stream shows 

Created 6 new multimedia presentations 

Played 3 big band concerts (pre-lockdown)

Produced 2 virtual arts education festivals 

Survived 1 surreal, bottle episode of a year!

A YEAR LIKE NO OTHER 

HINDSIGHT IS 2020

>Sigh<  What a year. 

Anxiety, uncertainty, sadness, frustration.

Isolation. Loneliness. Loss. Grief.

Hyper-vigilance. News-bingeing. Doom-scrolling. Self-medicating. 

Economic instability. Racial unrest. Joblessness, homelessness, food insecurity. 

Explosions. Invasions. Protests. Riots. Wildfires. Floods. Hurricanes. Murder hornets! Nazis! 

Police brutality. Political corruption. Voter suppression. Rampant stupidity. 

And all this during a deadly global pandemic.  

After such a year as this, can one possibly feel hopeful? Or grateful?  

For years I’ve made a modest living as a bandleader, traveling thousands of miles, playing hundreds of shows, employing dozens of musicians annually. And back in February, this was shaping up to be our most productive year yet! We had three different touring programs in the works, 217 confirmed gigs on the books, and plans for several exciting new creative collaborations.  
  
Then suddenly everything was canceled, and 2020 became a year like no other. 

THE DAMNDEMIC

For a horn player, the prospect of an invisible, airborne respiratory disease is deeply troubling.  

Some of my musical heroes were among the first killed by Covid. And many of those who recovered continue to suffer lingering symptoms of fatigue, mental fogginess and difficulty breathing.  

My conclusion: even if Covid-19 doesn’t take my life, it could very well take away my livelihood.  

I dared not risk contracting or spreading the virus. I put my affairs in order, updated my will, circled the wagons and canceled all non-essential activities. Sassy and I resolved to stay home, mask up, hunker down, and wait for the vaccine. We traveled nowhere, not even to the bedside of my father in hospice. That was especially difficult. But we were in lockdown. 

Keeping safe from Covid, however, was far from our only concern. 

FILTHY LUCRE

Unlike my colleagues with day jobs, I was a full-time musician in 2020 BC (Before Covid).  

I had no salaried teaching position, no private students. I made my living almost entirely from performances on tour.

When all our gigs were canceled, my family suddenly found itself with no income. 

How the hell were we supposed to pay our bills?! 

I thought of Art Farmer, my late, great mentor, whose wisdom has never steered me wrong.  

Art successfully reinvented himself many times over the course of his storied career. Among his invaluable life lessons, he taught that change is inevitable, and the key to survival is adaptability.  

“Eventually you learn,” he once told me, “to recognize change as the herald of opportunity.”  

Art died before the new millennium. He certainly could never have predicted what would happen to the performing arts in 2020 … but isn’t that the point?  

When the unthinkable happens, and all seems lost, new possibilities emerge. 

With that in mind, I reached out to a few trusted colleagues for advice. 

THE PIVOT

We came up with this strategy: 

    •    ask longterm clients to consider postponements rather than cancellations 
    •    where possible, convert to an internet-based, home business model 
    •    prioritize incremental income from streaming, royalties and residuals
    •    develop a range of new online digital products and services 
    •    leverage social media for advertising and virtual event promotion 
    •    sell digital downloads and custom commissions of new work 
    •    learn how to live-stream and begin playing “karaoke-style” solo shows 
    •    apply for every available pandemic relief grant and assistance program 
    •    cultivate a virtual network of individual patrons and supporters 
    •    build a virtual tip jar and begin soliciting individual contributions 
    •    launch a teaching studio and begin offering private lessons online  
    •    create distance learning curricula for music educators 
    •    present online workshops for college and high school music students 
    •    join with fellow artist/educators to produce a virtual arts festival 
    •    save money, cut costs, downsize, and sell off unwanted items 
    •    learn to do routine minor repairs on my instrument at home 
    •    plant a vegetable garden and begin growing our own food 

I’m delighted to report that we accomplished all these things and more

And with a little help from our friends, we managed to survive this turbulent year, optimism intact.  

Presently, as we prepare for the holidays at home, we’re filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude.  

GRATITUDE

We’re so grateful, for so many things. 

So grateful for my father, for everything that he was, and will remain, in memory. Grateful for his long, adventure-filled life. Grateful for his caregivers at Sedona Garden and Harmony Hospice. Grateful for his companion Nedra, and for everyone who visited, called, and loved him. Grateful that I was able to spend so much time with him over the years. Ever grateful for him, always.

Grateful for our health! We promise never again to take it for granted. 

Grateful for Sassy and Scout, for our little house, and the simple life we share. Grateful for home-cooked meals by the fire, and for the soothing sound of the rain on my new rainroof, an early birthday gift from Sass. Grateful to have a home at all, especially now, as so many are facing eviction. 

Grateful to all the essential workers, first responders, health care professionals, vaccine developers, farmers, truckers, delivery people and grocers who labored tirelessly on our behalf this year.  

Grateful for technology! As difficult as this quarantine has been, imagine how much worse it was for folks during the previous pandemic 100 years ago. At least we are able to stay in touch with one another! Grateful for many virtual heart-to-hearts via email, text and videophone! Grateful for Skype, FaceTime, Zoom, and social media. 

Grateful, too, for the things I learned during this solitary period of self-discovery. I found out, for example, that my work doesn’t define me. It turns out that I don’t actually need to perform to be happy. Grateful for this unexpected, but welcome, preview of my own future, and the opportunity to know what it will feel like when I finally get off the road and retire. I learned that the simple rituals of this rural life -- walking, reading, gardening, watching movies, listening to music, talking with a friend, playing with the dog, ruminating, puttering around the house -- these will be enough for me. How comforting! 

Grateful to everyone who voted in the recent election, despite the many attempts to disenfranchise voters. Grateful for the courageous poll workers, election officials, cyber-security experts and legal professionals who stood up against craven efforts to undermine the democratic process. 

Grateful, also, for all the brave investigative journalists, fact-checkers, whistleblowers, anti-racists, anti-fascists and compassionate activists who stand up, speak truth to power, and call out deplorable behavior. Grateful for decency. 

Grateful for family and friends, including several important people from my past with whom I reconnected this year. So grateful to have them in my life. Most of all, I’m astonished by all the good people who generously offered us help, even when we were reluctant to ask.

You kept our lights on and our creative fires burning.

You made sure that we never lost hope. 

So grateful for Adam, Amy, Andrea, Andy, Annabelle, Annette, Aragon High School, Arrivederci Wine & Jazz, Bill, BJ, BMI, Barbara, Benjamin, Beth, Bill, Bloomfield Hills High School, Bob & Sue, Brandon, Bruce, California Jazz Conservatory, Carlos, Caruccio’s, ChiChi & Kent, Chris, Clairdee, Curtis, Dan, Danielle, David, Debbie, Derek & Michelle, Destiny, Dick, Donna, Dorothy Jean, Earshot Jazz, Eastern Oregon University, Eric, Evan, Federal Emergency Management Agency, Flo, Fudgie, Geraldine, Grays Harbor College, Greg, Hillsdale High School, Hope College, Jack, Janice, Jazz Foundation of America, Jazz In AZ, Jazz Night School, Jeff, Jenny, Jerry, Jo, John, Jordan, Joseph, Josie Anne, Joyce, JP, Judith, Judy, Kander, Karen & Bob, Keith, Kelso High School, Kent, Kurt, La Grande High School, Larissa, Louise, Lower Columbia College, Lydia, Lynne, Mabey, Manieri Foundation, Marge, Mark, Mary, Mesa Community College, Michael, Michelle, Mike, Mt. Hood Community College, MusiCares, Nedra, Nine Mile Falls School District, Noal, Noir City Festival, Ott & Hunter Winery, Paradise Valley Country Club, Patti & George, Peaches & Rocket, Phyllis, Randy, Rick, RK, Rob, Ron, Ruben, Sam, Sandi, San Mateo Union High School District, Sassy, Scottsdale Unified School District, Seasons Performance Hall, Seattle JazzED, Sequoia Union High School District, Shanna, Shelley, Sheri & Julian, StageIt, Sue, Sumner-Bonney Lake School District, Susan, Swingin’ Sounds, Terry, Teutonic Wine Company, Tom, Triple Door, Vespers In The Valley, Western Washington University, West Valley College, Wind Rose Cellars, and Wilson. 

From the bottom of our hearts, thank you. We endeavor to be worthy, and pledge to "pay it forward" whenever and however we can. 

From our Quaranteam to yours: we appreciate you. Please stay safe, stay healthy, and remember that you’re not alone.  

We’re all in this together! 

Happy New Year!

~Dmitri

REMEMBERING WILLIAM D. MATHENY 

William Douglas Matheny

October 24, 1936 — December 19, 2020

William Douglas Matheny, 84, died December 19, 2020 in Tucson, Arizona.  

He was born October 24, 1936 in Nashville, Tennessee, the eldest son of William Ewing Matheny and Gladys Ella Bruce Capley Matheny.  

Bill attended Columbia High School in Columbia, Tennessee, where he distinguished himself as an honor student and a champion amateur boxer in the regional Golden Gloves competition.  

He majored in English and History at Belmont College (Nashville, Tennessee), earning his Bachelor of Arts in 1960 prior to studying Russian Language at Syracuse University (Syracuse, New York). He earned a Master of Arts In Teaching with an emphasis in Russian Studies from Vanderbilt University (Nashville, Tennessee) in 1971. 

Matheny served in the United States Air Force Security Service from 1961-63, and worked as a buyer for Castner-Knott Department Stores from 1963-70 before beginning his career as a schoolteacher. 

From 1971-78, Matheny served as Chair of the English Department for Brookstone School, a private college preparatory academy in Columbus, Georgia, where he taught English, Russian Humanities, Ornithology and Social Studies. A member of the prestigious Cum Laude Society, he was much beloved by his students, and was awarded the Columbus Chamber of Commerce “Star Teacher” award in 1977.  

Matheny relocated to Arizona in the summer of 1977, where he worked briefly in the Marana School District before becoming head of the history department at Green Fields Country Day School from 1980-89. In 1989, he helped to organize and lead a Green Fields student/teacher exchange trip abroad to Kiev, Ukraine. 

Bill was known for his intelligence, relaxed, southern charm, and curiosity about the natural world. An amateur poet, avid birder and accomplished naturalist, Matheny traveled extensively throughout North America admiring flora and fauna. He contributed to several annual bird counts for the National Audubon Society, and published the first official birding checklist for Graham County, Arizona. 

Throughout his life, Matheny generously shared his love of nature with others, inspiring many of his students, friends and family members to develop their own deep appreciation for the natural world. This is his great and lasting legacy. 

Bill is survived by his companion Nedra, his son Dmitri, stepdaughters Janice and Brenda, and his siblings, Jim, Maxine, Pat, Debbie and Dawn. 

In keeping with his wishes, there will be no funeral or memorial services.  

Those who wish to celebrate his life may make a donation in his memory to any cause or charity they choose to support.  

In Bill’s own words: “Look around. If you see someone in need, please try to help that person.”

MY IDOL'S IDOL 

Art Farmer talked about Clifford Brown often.  

The two were contemporaries, nearly the same age (born just two years apart), and had played in Lionel Hampton’s band together.  

But Art spoke of Clifford Brown with a quiet reverence.

Art called Brownie "my idol” and had his initials carved into the bell of his own horn for inspiration. 

“Every time I see those initials — C.B. — I’m reminded of what’s possible. I see those initials, and I work harder.” 

Art would rub his thumb over the indentations, shaking his head in disbelief.

He never got over Brown's untimely death, in a car accident, at the age of 25.

“Can you imagine,” Art would ask, “if Cliff was alive today? What he would sound like now? Damn.”

KOAN 

     “I hate my mouthpiece,” I said. “Can you help me find a good mouthpiece?”

     “You could spend your whole life looking for the right mouthpiece,” he replied. “You should spend more time looking for the right notes.” 

     “Am I playing wrong notes?” I asked.

     “There are no wrong notes,” he said.

     “No wrong notes?”

     “Right.”

     “But I should be looking for the right notes.”

     “Now you’re getting it.”

     “Uh, no I’m not! That sounds like some kind of Zen puzzle.”

     “Look, there are no wrong notes. But some notes are more right than others.”

SPONTANEOUS AND INEVITABLE 

The interrobang is a punctuation mark that combines the functions of an exclamation point and a question mark.

It's also an excellent symbol of my approach to improvisation. 

I intend to “tell a story” with conviction, intentionality and a strong sense of internal logic.

At the same time, I hope to convey a sincere searching, listening quality, an openness to what comes, and something of the mysterious beauty in jazz. 

As Art Farmer said, “you want to sound both spontaneous and inevitable.”