“We have a treat for you while the orchestra takes a few moments to catch its breath. Please welcome Nina Truhler.”
Oh my God.
Sparse applause followed Nina across the stage. She briefly hugged DeNucci and sat at the piano and immediately began to play. I moved to the edge of the sunken floor while a few partygoers ventured onto the dance floor itself. They were met there by a piece of classical music, one of the variations on Bach’s
Goldberg Variations;
I didn’t know which one. The would-be dancers glanced at each other as if to say, who is this woman?
Wait for it, wait for it,
I urged them silently.
After a full minute of playing the slow, melodic music, Nina’s left hand began to beat out a hard rhythm. The dancers looked up at her in anticipation. People who weren’t listening suddenly were. DeNucci and a few of the other musicians gathered next to the stage. I was sure I heard Abby Hunter exclaim, “Bring it, girl.” Nina brought it. After establishing the baseline with her left hand, her right abandoned Bach’s sweet sound for something much grittier—Jay McShann’s bluesy “My Chile.” When she squeezed as much out of the song as she wanted, Nina segued without pause into “Cow Cow Blues” by Meade Lux Lewis. Soon a few of the musicians joined her on stage—she had percussion, a bass keeping time for her, and Abby Hunter’s violin lending unexpected shadings to the melody she riffed. The floor began to fill, yet the people didn’t dance so much as they swayed and hopped to the sound Nina was laying down. At the edge of the sunken floor, I clapped my hands in delight.
Nina dropped out and let Abby take four choruses. When she came back she was playing Otis Spann’s hard-driving “Spann’s Stomp.” Iwasn’t all that surprised that the other musicians were able to follow her so well. Unlike most rockers, jazz musicians know how to listen to each other. Still, how was she going to get out of this? I wondered. Nina must have had a plan because she said something to Abby, who relayed her message to the bass and drummer. After three more choruses, Abby dropped out with a flourish, followed by the drummer. That left Nina and the bass talking to each other, one taking the lead, then the other, and when Nina nodded, the bass dropped out and she retreated to the
Goldberg,
ending it with her right hand playing Bach and her left hand pounding out a blues rhythm.
A moment of silence was followed by loud applause. Nina waved at the audience, curtsied elaborately, and waved some more. She crossed the stage, stopping only to shake hands and to hug Abby. DeNucci returned to the stage, took up the microphone, and pointed at her.
“Miss Nina Truhler,” he said, and the audience applauded louder.
“We’ll be right back,” DeNucci added.
Nina shook some more hands while I watched from my spot at the edge of the floor. There was a lump in my stomach that floated up through my chest and lodged in my throat, making speech impossible. It wasn’t a hard lump, but soft and squishy, and it seemed to vibrate, causing my body to hum like a tuning fork. I recognized it for what it was. Pride. I was proud of Nina Truhler.
I continued to watch her. She gave me a half wave and a smile and I grinned in return. After a few moments, she detached herself from her admirers and attempted to make her way along the perimeter of the sunken floor to where I stood. However, before she could reach me, she was stopped by still another fan.
John Allen Barrett offered his hand and Nina shook it casually. Barrett said something and Nina laughed. Nina said something in reply and Barrett laughed. A moment of panic seized me, I don’t know why. The e-mail accused him of being a murderer but it couldn’t possibly be true, so why should I worry that he was chatting with my girl? Nina wavedme over and I joined them, hoping none of the trepidation I felt had touched my face.
“Mac,” said Nina, as she slid a hand behind my neck.
Oh my God.
Sparse applause followed Nina across the stage. She briefly hugged DeNucci and sat at the piano and immediately began to play. I moved to the edge of the sunken floor while a few partygoers ventured onto the dance floor itself. They were met there by a piece of classical music, one of the variations on Bach’s
Goldberg Variations;
I didn’t know which one. The would-be dancers glanced at each other as if to say, who is this woman?
Wait for it, wait for it,
I urged them silently.
After a full minute of playing the slow, melodic music, Nina’s left hand began to beat out a hard rhythm. The dancers looked up at her in anticipation. People who weren’t listening suddenly were. DeNucci and a few of the other musicians gathered next to the stage. I was sure I heard Abby Hunter exclaim, “Bring it, girl.” Nina brought it. After establishing the baseline with her left hand, her right abandoned Bach’s sweet sound for something much grittier—Jay McShann’s bluesy “My Chile.” When she squeezed as much out of the song as she wanted, Nina segued without pause into “Cow Cow Blues” by Meade Lux Lewis. Soon a few of the musicians joined her on stage—she had percussion, a bass keeping time for her, and Abby Hunter’s violin lending unexpected shadings to the melody she riffed. The floor began to fill, yet the people didn’t dance so much as they swayed and hopped to the sound Nina was laying down. At the edge of the sunken floor, I clapped my hands in delight.
Nina dropped out and let Abby take four choruses. When she came back she was playing Otis Spann’s hard-driving “Spann’s Stomp.” Iwasn’t all that surprised that the other musicians were able to follow her so well. Unlike most rockers, jazz musicians know how to listen to each other. Still, how was she going to get out of this? I wondered. Nina must have had a plan because she said something to Abby, who relayed her message to the bass and drummer. After three more choruses, Abby dropped out with a flourish, followed by the drummer. That left Nina and the bass talking to each other, one taking the lead, then the other, and when Nina nodded, the bass dropped out and she retreated to the
Goldberg,
ending it with her right hand playing Bach and her left hand pounding out a blues rhythm.
A moment of silence was followed by loud applause. Nina waved at the audience, curtsied elaborately, and waved some more. She crossed the stage, stopping only to shake hands and to hug Abby. DeNucci returned to the stage, took up the microphone, and pointed at her.
“Miss Nina Truhler,” he said, and the audience applauded louder.
“We’ll be right back,” DeNucci added.
Nina shook some more hands while I watched from my spot at the edge of the floor. There was a lump in my stomach that floated up through my chest and lodged in my throat, making speech impossible. It wasn’t a hard lump, but soft and squishy, and it seemed to vibrate, causing my body to hum like a tuning fork. I recognized it for what it was. Pride. I was proud of Nina Truhler.
I continued to watch her. She gave me a half wave and a smile and I grinned in return. After a few moments, she detached herself from her admirers and attempted to make her way along the perimeter of the sunken floor to where I stood. However, before she could reach me, she was stopped by still another fan.
John Allen Barrett offered his hand and Nina shook it casually. Barrett said something and Nina laughed. Nina said something in reply and Barrett laughed. A moment of panic seized me, I don’t know why. The e-mail accused him of being a murderer but it couldn’t possibly be true, so why should I worry that he was chatting with my girl? Nina wavedme over and I joined them, hoping none of the trepidation I felt had touched my face.
“Mac,” said Nina, as she slid a hand behind my neck.
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