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Some lessons require time to be appreciated fully. |
On
the gallery’s stereo system, the unearthly voice sings and you can’t tell if
it’s a man or a woman, just that it is beautiful. Making you shiver, like
someone’s standing on your grave, singing passage to the next world, the next
cul-de-sac, the next chorus.
The
girl dragged here by her father examines her fidgeting shoes. Twines her
fingers about her scarf. Spins around the gallery floor, hoping to be asked to
leave; wouldn’t that be sweet. She stops, huffs out exasperated air, cocks her
head at something heard. She says, “Dad, who’s that? The person singing this
song?”
The
father smiles, happy to be knowledgeable, needed, for once. “That’s Chet Baker.
He had a great voice, didn’t he?”
She
says, “Yeah. Sounds like a girl. Did all guys sing like that back then?”
“No.
Just him.” He scans down the row of photographs mounted on the gallery wall.
All black and white photos of dead jazzmen. He beckons his daughter to his
side. “That’s him. That’s Chet Baker.”
--
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