Saigon Jazz


It reminded me of the scene from Woodstock: long-hair kids, guitar, tatoo and scooters. All converged in an alley. Parking was a problem. I asked neighbors to pitch in: it’s a wake for a musician friend who had recently passed away.

His students came from My Tho, those with eye-sights and those without. They jammed, they celebrated, they sang.

Come Together….right now.

My friend, the host, wore red shoes and brown hat. He jammed too. A lot.

After all, he has done so with the SF Jazz band.

Someone got to get those blind musicians some food. There you go, buddies. Want some beer?

So we went on: band after band.

A mini-Woodstock, minus the mud.

I learned about my deceased friend by experiencing his music legacy.

My friend had reflected on his life before he passed away in a hospice: his friends (who were present last night) and his students (who were playing then) were nearest to his heart.

I have never been prouder.

We played together when we were in 7th grade.

The passage of time tore us apart but meeting him before his death helped fill that gap.

He was alert and caring.

I blogged about him in Long’s Last Christmas.

But last night, at Jazz night in Saigon, he “reincarnated” through younger versions of himself.

You want to be rejuvenated, then that’s the place to be.

I am a believer in the healing power of music.

Last night, I learned one more thing: it helped the blind express themselves much better than those of us with sights.

I wish you were there. I wish to hear those blind musicians again, soon. I miss them already.

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