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By Bill King ( is a photo-journalist, musician and the publisher of eJazzNews.

I'd been hustling a meager living in the coffee houses and psychedelic joints of Greenwich Village in lower Manhattan when word spread of Janis Joplin's departure from Big Brother & the Holding Company. I can't say the announcement held the same aura as the Beatles imminent crack-up or Bob Dylan converting electric, but it did reverberate along Bleecker and McDougall streets attracting greater attention among working musicians than buskers. I for one reacted swiftly to rumor.

Word came Janis was assembling a rhythm & blues band much like the high flying Memphis bands, somewhere between Sam and Dave and Otis Redding. It was a sound originating from Soulsville USA Studios in Memphis, Tennessee and reproduced on vinyl by Stax/Volt records.

I popped in a record store on Eight Avenue, one frequented on many occasions for it's diversity and scanned the jacket cover of Cheap Thrills, Joplin's most recent recording. I scanned for clues to management with no success before asking a clerk for assistance. He pointed to a recording by the Electric Flag, a contemporary rhythm & blues band who shared the same management. It turned out to be Albert Grossman, noted for successful campaigns in behalf of Peter, Paul and Mary, Bob Dylan, Paul Butterfield and others.

I dialed Grossman's office and was directed to associates Vinnie Fusco and Elliot Mazior who were closely involved in Joplin's affairs. An audition was arranged at A-1 Studios the original home of Atlantic Records. Before the date, I was summoned to an informal meeting with Albert Grossman.

I waited outside his office clutching the one recorded document of my playing, a b-side instrumental to a single by California soul unit, Kent & The Kandidates whose claim to fame was backing band on the million seller "Gimme A Little Sign," recorded by a local dishwasher named Brenton Wood.

Upon entry I catch a glimpse of Grossman through several towering stacks of papers positioned like a fortress rather than work in progress. Speaking in a near whisper Grossman beckoned me forward. While standing there listening to his take on Joplin's radical plan I couldn't help ponder how much he looked like Ben Franklin with flowing white locks tied in a ponytail and small wire-framed glasses. As far as I was concerned he could have been one of the original signatures on the Declaration of Independence. Whatever transpired in conversation landed me both duties of keyboardist and music director.

The first audition was little more than a formality geared to access the compatibility of the players. The second audition involved recording the soulful number " Piece of My Heart" at the Hit Factory. A final mix was sent to Janis for approval.

Drummer Roy Markowitz and I landed jobs. Bassist Stu Woods didn't suffer the loss instead went on to work as sideman and record with Bob Dylan, Don McLean, Pozo Seco Singers, Tony Orlando & Dawn, Janice Ian and others. In many ways his career faired better.

After coming to a financial agreement a flight was arranged for Roy and I to San Francisco. No accommodation had been met other than a few nights arranged at a studio apartment belonging to the road manager's mother in North Beach. That was fine with me, I pretty much lived the past couple years out of a suitcase.

We met bassist Brad Campbell of the Last Words, the only Canadian in the group, at the temporary digs. Rolling Stone magazine had announced the hiring of both Brad and Skip Prokop from Lighthouse, but the latter player never materialized. It was probably just as well since the three of us had spent our lives in the shadows beyond the glare of spotlights and this was truly Janis's show.

Janis invited us to her Noe street apartment for a get-to-know-you session. After dragging our nightclub-trained bodies up a severe slope to Joplin's door, we were accosted by a snarling dog that dared entry. Joplin's live-in mate, ex-wife of blues singer Nick Gravenites, collected the dog then directed us to a small sitting room resplendent in Salvation Army home furnishings. A few somber moments pass when Joplin burst from the hallway like a Texas whirlwind. She laughed and joked about a compact stereo Columbia Records had given her, which she checked as baggage during her flight home from New York. Janis watched its fatal plunge from an economy window seat as it bounced along transporting roller pins between cargo and flatbed eventually crashing to the tarmac below. The story was repeated throughout orientation.

Janis was the perfect host, serving shots of Southern Comfort and reefer sticks. When I passed on refreshments she paused and commented, "What did Albert send me, Christ?" I apologized and assured her I wasn't one of those bible-thumping southerners sent to protect her from a host of demons. She seemed more than comfortable with my assurances, and invited us back for dinner later that evening. Janis said there were a few friends she wanted us to meet.

When we arrived after nearly succumbing to the tortuous climb it was apparent a party was brewing in a nearby room. The soulful voice of Carla Thomas blared amongst the conversation of a few loitering denim clad men. As we reached the doorway to the dining room Janis charged in, steering us to what from a distance appeared to be a white stalagmite rising near an open window. As I moved closer it became evident it was a polished sculpture of a penis, a gift from a local Haight-Ashbury artist. The coveted centerpiece remained the focal point of conversation throughout the ensuing hour.

With each rap at the door another group of tattooed denim jockeys enters, each grimier than the other. My team looked like choirboys at a prison picnic.

Janis journeyed from lap to lap kissing and hugging each man. Eventually, when the room overflowed she introduced us as her new hand-picked band and the men in denim as the Oakland Chapter of the Hell's Angels.

I was more than a bit uncomfortable especially when the drugs started flowing, music intensified and the booze spilt. The three of us politely excuse ourselves and inform Janis we'll meet again at rehearsal.

While we awaited the arrival of two horn players who had just completed service in the Electric Flag, Brad, Roy and myself scoured the pool halls of North Beach playing snooker until past midnight. We'd listen to jazz and trade road stories until our guts nearly cripple from laughter, relive the failed dinner party and speculate about the future. Roy and I never took rock music that seriously. Miles and Coltrane were the most talked-about players in our sphere; Joplin was merely a quirky individualist with a wide following. For the two of us it was a better gig than lounging about Grossingers in the Catskills.

Rehearsals began early December 1968 in the old Fillmore Auditorium. The floor below Carlos Santana was working his band through the final preparations for his Columbia recording debut. A floor below him, It's A Beautiful Day was putting the finishing touches on material for their first recording.

We shared great rapport with Carlos and company. During breaks each band would filter in and listen to one another restructure tunes. Santana was miles ahead of our newly assembled unit. His band loved playing and did it with precision and commitment. We had barely enough time to acquaint ourselves with unfinished and untried material before pressing ahead.

Day one, the band strolls in just past noon and takes their places. My position as leader was to bring order to the proceedings a role I'd played many times before but never on such a grand scale. Janis eventually slips in, introduces herself, and trades hugs with the horn players before drifting my way. She then slides along the organ bench near me and introduces a modest list of tunes hoping to bridge the raw elements of her persona with the classic sound of rhythm & blues. The marriage arranged in her head had yet to be consummated by the band.

First up was "Summertime" her signature wail. Guitarist Sam Andrews plays a fugue like riff leading to the bands entry. I wrote a counterpoint line meant to fatten the sequence. It became apparent organ didn't carry the same weight as amplified guitar giving Janis cause to rethink the intro. By the time the complete band enters Joplin all but forgets the odd coloring.

During the rehearsal I crafted horn lines for the Bee Gee's "To Love Somebody," which Joplin quickly transformed into a blues ballad ripe with guttural cries and evangelical testifying. I would convince her to give the old Eddie Floyd soul hit "Raise Your Hand" a try. It was a crack staple from my days with Kent & The Kandidates. The song had the same fat groove prevalent in Wilson Pickett's, " Midnight Hour and Mustang Sally" with a memorable gospel style shout chorus. The band reveled in the textures before imploding on "Ball and Chain" another squealing testimonial.

Rehearsals began to lose their luster the following week. Gone were the rock celebrities and energized sessions. Trumpeter Marcus Doubleday began showing up late. He made a heroin connection, which eventually took precedent over scheduled rehearsals. Janis was getting agitated spending more time carousing pool halls and nightspots than rehearsing. She was also drinking more. I could see more welts swell beneath her inset eyes. Acne infected nearly every pore of her scarred face. In fact, I was starting to dread daily meetings with her.

By December 18 guitarist Mike Bloomfield, noted for his groundbreaking work with the Blues Project, Paul Butterfield and others, unexpectedly appears. Bloomfield's turf was Greenwich Village, which led me to question his presence in our house. Janis arrives then introduces Bloomfield and asks us to jam a few tunes. We'd already made the Bloomfield connection through a shuffle blues prior to her entry. The piece lasted some twenty minutes. Janis then instructs us to play " Piece of My Heart.' Bloomfield plugs the holes with stinging blues lines, which seem to last an eternity. Once testing had been completed Janis confers in private with Bloomfield then emerges with the verdict. "Mike really likes the band," she declares.

The momentary reprieve was nearly broken when drummer Levon Helms of The Band fame arrives and Janis instructs us to play once again. Levon listens then awards the band another vote of confidence. I could sense uncertainty in Janis's body language. This was Janis' call. With it came vulnerability and responsibility. Gone was the comfort of Big Brother's blasting amps, plodding rhythms and close relationships.

I remember a conversation with producer John Simon who confided to me it cost him six months editing just to give Cheap Thrills a consistent flow. Steady tempos were foreign to the band.

Janis roared at night. Brad and I would pile into the back seat of her psychedelic Porsche and cruise the seedier pool halls around the bay. She knew every oddball and misfit along the tour. Joplin treated them no differently than the band. If you were a friend you remained a friend.

I accompanied her to the Kaleidoscope Club to hear a local San Francisco group not long after she extorted a fur coat from Southern Comfort, ransom for her personal campaign in behalf of the beverage. Throughout the evening the luxury item dusted floors and served as a seat cushion rather than treasured garment. She eventually dragged me backstage to greet a few musicians before departing.

We arrive late evening at the Fillmore when Janis again pulls me back stage this time to meet Rod Stewart and Ron Wood who were performing with the Small Faces. The reserved Englishmen were no matches for her. Janis tried to warm the reticent musicians with her quick wit and undeniable charm with little success. She walked away commenting on what a bunch of tight asses British bands were.

A productive rehearsal soon became imperative after receiving an invite to play the second annual Stax/Volt Yuletide Thing at the Memphis Mid-South Coliseum. Isaac Hayes, Rufus and Carla Thomas, Johnny Taylor, the Bar-Kays, Booker T and the MG's, Eddie Floyd were just a few of the expected celebrity performers. Janis was eager to introduce the new band in an area rich in folk and blues history. The final rehearsal would have to take place down South.

During the Sunday drive from the airport the limousine driver makes an unusual turn and charts a path towards Jackson, Mississippi. Janis was in severe need of a drink. As the drive gets more confusing the urgency in her voice resonates throughout. A few terse words nearly turn into an explosive confrontation. A deal was eventually struck to let the band off at the hotel while the search continued.

We were booked into the Lorraine Motel the same structure that Martin Luther King was gunned down only months before. In fact, we were booked in adjacent rooms on the same landing.

Little fanfare greeted our arrival leaving Janis to her vices. As we stroll back to our rooms, Mike Bloomfield lumbers past toting a garbage bag full of pot. Roy stops him and asks for a joint. Bloomfield looks on with contempt and says, " I don't have enough." A startled Roy looks back at me then busts loose with laughter.

A rehearsal was set for mid-afternoon December 20th at Soulsville USA Studios. First sight of the shattered movie marquee made me question if we'd been driven to the wrong location. I would eventually learn the broken panes of glass were fronting an immensely successful, sophisticated operation.

As the doors spring open a cacophony of sounds unleash while several bands put the final touches to performance material. We wait until Booker T & The MGs complete a run through of prepared concert material then take positions behind our respective instruments. It was truly one of the most awkward situations I'd ever been in. First, the studio floor was on a slope due to its previous incarnation as a public cinema. Secondly, the number of certified super stars walking about not only excited but also added a level of intimidation. I mean these were my big heroes.

After a complete run through we drove on to the coliseum for set up. The sound check was a disaster. With an event the magnitude as this you would have assumed the promoters would have spent decent coin to rent adequate amplification. Instead, they propped up a couple column speakers found mostly in rural churches at the time. Enough wattage for a sermon but not reliable enough to carry the power of a raucous singer. Janis was flabbergasted. To compound matters, she spotted a poster of the event with her image and name posted larger than the other participants. The thought of headlining amongst such prestigious talent sent her into an apologetic rant.

All of the goodwill we received jamming at Soulsville USA Studio a day earlier would now be tested as the concert drew near. The many extraordinary people whose music made Stax Records the preeminent rhythm & blues record label of the day and whose hands we shook were relegated to minor status in their own community all because of a power play between booker and manager. In the end, Janis would be the big loser.

The evening crowd, mostly adoring women cheered for their idols, which seemed more like a fashion show for both the wealthy and poor. Rufus and Carla Thomas sang and cajoled the crowd with one-liners and jabs to an approving audience, phrases that seemed memorized from previous concerts. Booker T did the MG thing in a cool almost self-effacing manner. The Bar-Kays stole the night with an upbeat rhythm set dressed in zebra-stripped flannel jumpsuits.

As we took our places I soon discover the organ sound cutting in and out and Janis's mike distorting. I try in vain to get help but no one seemed particularly interested. The crowd offered minimal support. We were only a distraction, a brief interlude.

Janis tried her best to involve the audience but her music never caught fire. Even with the best soul intention, a bunch of white pretenders in psychedelic gear were no competition for the clean manicured presence of a Johnny Taylor and Eddie Floyd.

The set ended as it began without much consideration.

I felt sorry for Janis. She reviewed the brief time on stage and cool response as an indictment of her vision.

Janis's spirit was renewed later that evening at a party hosted by Stax/Volt president Jimmy Stewart. The sprawling ranch style house situated amongst lush tree-lined surroundings was the social center for invited guests from both the black and white communities. Behind these doors people could mingle without prejudice. All of the great Memphis singers and musicians were there.

Stewart had rigged various rooms with monstrous-sized Voice of the Theater speakers. Through the night he played unreleased tapes of Otis Redding, who had perished in a plane crash along with four of the original Bar-Kays December 10, 1967. There were many tears. As much as it was an occasion to celebrate it was nearing Christmas Eve, one in which all knew the great singer would be unable to attend. The music seemed to pierce the hearts of the most reluctant making the night both a somber and tender occasion.

We gathered around the main dining room table and aquatinted ourselves with Booker T, Steve Cropper, Duck Dunn, Isaac Hayes and company. Janis was in an effervescent mood. She joked, laughed, poured drinks and talked music. All of us were swept away by her sincerity. Janis had a great heart, great sense of humor and quick tongue. She could banter with the best or confide on a personal level.

The following morning we meet for a final occasion. It was truly one of the saddest moments for me. Janis and Marcus Doubleday had passed out after returning from the concert. The both had shot up heroin. Janis had landed in Dallas a few days earlier to meet a young band she had befriended and was given a gift box of twelve syringes. Marcus and her would fight over the distribution that night. The thought sickened me.

I returned home for Christmas the winter of 1968 and was immediately detained by the FBI for draft-evasion then given a choice between jail time or the army. Army!

After basic training, I watched the Ed Sullivan show one Sunday evening from the Day Room in my barracks and witnessed my former band-mates and Janis play the arrangement of " Raise Your Hand' I had scripted only a six weeks earlier and nearly collapse into depression. I dare mention to those around I had anything to do with the band or the sound emanating through the old Sylvania.

A year passes when Janis arrives in Toronto to play the Festival Express June 29, 1970. I had left the army behind and began a new life in Canada. My band Homestead just happened to be opening act that day. I stuck around to see Janis, who was to play late afternoon. The first person I recognize is Brad, then the road manager who eventually escorts Janis over. There were hugs and kisses and genuine feelings exchanged. Janis remarked that she had quit hard liquor and had switched to wine. Heroin was also a memory and there was now a serious love interest in her life. She appeared happier than I'd ever believe possible. Her new ensemble, The Full Tilt Boogie Band, was her best. All of the blues, folk, rock and soul music concealed in her heart found a genuine medium for expression. The band was the perfect conduit.

My time with Janis was brief, only a month in length. During that eventful period much transpired. Her kindness and insecurities will always linger in my mind, but above all the sincerity and joy she brought to the music she loved will never be forgotten.

 A Camera’s Eye View (Festival International de Jazz de Montreal 2009)

Bill King

There is something truly empowering situated behind the lens of a camera waiting with expectation for the moment when the soul, mind and body of an artist strike bare wires and something electric unexpectedly happens. Privately, ownership of that moment belongs to the artist – publically, documentation of that juncture is in possession of the person behind the lens. Where it goes after that is a matter of goodwill or good business.

Jazz photography for all of its iconic moments and heroic bandstand activities is still a freelance medium with few dollars earned in support of the habit. Most players burn-out after a couple years. The late jazz photographer Paul Hoeffler used to gripe about all of the ‘charity’ calls he fielded from day to day. I used to sit in his work space and clutch those glorious black and whites of Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughan, Ellington, Dizzy, Oscar and lose myself in the artistic dreamscape. Hoeffler was a master printer who labored over every inch of information in a negative until the appropriate balance and density between black, grey and white was achieved. Those toxic darkroom chemicals would cost him his life in the end. If Paul could have remained cancer free long enough to experience a fourteen mega pixel marvel, he would have surely embraced advancing technology with the same enthusiasm jazz icon Herman Leonard expressed holding the new Nikon D700.

Photographing at jazz festivals is my specialty and passion. I love the energy – the camaraderie between fellow lens jockeys, the challenge, the music, the musicians and opportunity to paint with the eye. Conditions for the most part will defeat you. Lighting is usually miserable. The most you’ll ever get is three songs sometimes thirty seconds if artist management wants to mess with your head. I’ve worked under all conditions – with conditions, without – even the ‘don’t shoot this side of my face’ restriction. At this point nothing fazes.

The Festival de Jazz de Montreal is perhaps the most gracious forum in which to photograph. I’m guessing artistic director Andre Menard is an arbiter of fine jazz photography since he invited New Orleans photo giant Herman Leonard to photograph at will and announced the creation of a gallery using floor space currently operating as the designated press area. Leonard’s work will eventually decorate the bright well lit walls. With that in mind I thought I’d share a few impressions from this season’s event. This is work done on the fly. Its fast, it’s deliberate and exhausting. The process can run anywhere between thirty seconds to fifteen minutes. If you don’t find anything positive during the time chances are you blinked or were defeated by circumstances.

Wynton Marsalis and Jazz at Lincoln Centre Orchestra with Chano Dominquez Quartet – location – (Salle Wilfrid- Pelletier de la Place des Arts) June 30th 7:30 PM

The first thing I try to locate is where the main person of interest will be situated. I count the number of microphone stands, the lay-out of amplifiers and study the clutter. I then ask myself - do I have a clear shot? I check backgrounds for appealing graphics?

With Wynton, I had to wait until the band filled seats. When I saw Marsalis take first chair in trumpet section I immediately headed toward the opposite side of room to get a clear view of his position.

The music starts. It’s luxurious – big sweeping themes – Flamenco - Ellington style. Four trumpets, clever counterpart – a mix of Spanish and Afro- American rhythm. Through the lens it’s all action. A tenor solo, a piano movement – bass player shifts at just the right moment allowing a clear shot at a musician coping with a monstrous score and succeed in bringing weight and musicality. Suddenly, the brass kick in and Wynton lifts the bell of the horn above the section. He does this for a good twenty seconds – enough time to reset the aperture and ISO. I wait until he freezes holding a long tone and click. I know in my head timing was dead on.

I continue to shoot the players – the dance – big frame of entire orchestra and bank a decent set of images but in the back of my head I remember Wynton’s horn rise and that note and its importance and impact within the context of the music. That assured me the image would resonate.

Melody Gardot (Theatre Maisonneuve de la Place des Arts) July 1 – 6PM

This is one artist I dread photographing. I tried last year and the absence of light made it near impossible extracting anything beyond a silhouette – which I tried converting to black in white. Lost cause!

Gardot has a beautiful voice and knows her audience. They are fiercely loyal and participants in the near total silence as if a spiritual séance is about to occur and all will descend to a better place in ninety minutes.

Lights go down, crowd quiets, cameras rise – total darkness. A voice appears at the microphone and begins singing a prayer. Help me! We have three songs – count this one spent. The surrounding scrum of mixed lens, eyeball one another. The message is loud and clear - “This may be all there is my friend, this could be it.” Fortunately, Gardot hikes to a workable spot of light and picks up the guitar. I never take residence the left side for a right handed picker. The microphone stand will slice an artist to bits.

Gardot sings, and sings beautifully. I keep thinking of her latest recording ‘My One and Only Thrill” and how wonderfully detailed and gorgeous the songs are. The words tell stories and the stories connect.

Eventually Gardot bends upward towards the light and suddenly a near miracle. Her complete body is bathed in strong accentuating light. I can read the creases in her shirt, facial mannerisms - I hear the tear in her voice negotiate with the eyes.

I follow Gardot through a series of phrases - watch as she breathes then raises her head and delivers another spellbinding line. My hand stays firmly planted and clicks in rhythm just when I feel an emotional peak is being met. I never depress the shutter until I feel the music, words ,emotion and energy have sorted the material out.

Esperanza Spalding (Jazz Dans La Nuit ) July 2 – 10:30

This is another venue in need of balanced lighting. Two large posts stand on guard inside and very little space along the perimeter to plant a mono pod.

Spalding is the flavor of the day. She has momentum - a big jazz vocabulary – great looks – style, personality and virtuoso command of the acoustic bass. She also resides musically in the future. She’s as hip hop as need be – as funky as the instrumental allows and mainstream when suggested.

From my vantage the biggest obstacle were two video cameras courtesy CBC and another institution. It was just a matter of timing and courtesy.

Suddenly, the stage goes black, black – all you could hear or see was the hum of amplifiers and red blubs blazing near the volume knobs. It was another one of those help me moments. Just as emcee Katie Malloch finished her intro darkness lifted and a modest level of light shone across the sprawling bandstand.

Spalding jumped into action. It was the funk according to jazz principles. She danced and sang around the microphone. It was a challenge of major proportions. I knew a good many images would blur so rather than exhaust my prime position I held back until Spalding picked up the bass. I assumed she wouldn’t stray far from the location. ‘Crack!’ “Bang!” She’s at it again. It’s all in the body – the connection between wood and flesh. In Spalding’s hands the bass seems as if it was part of her birth cycle. – the last item to deal with in the delivery room. From top hand wrapped around the highest region of the fret board down too where the fingers rip at the metal coils across the mid section they stretched and prodded freeing volumes of ecstatic purposeful notes. Spalding plays like an athlete. It’s not your average twenty minute workout – this is nine innings with no relief and four quarters of full court intensity.

Tony Bennett (Salle Wilfrid- Pelletier de la Place des Arts) July 3rd 7:30

I’ve planned this in my head for years. I’ve interviewed Bennett and it was a marvelous conversation. I found him delightful and most informative. This wasn’t your pop star mish mash of nonsense talk – it was all about art at its highest level.

I knew going in this would be a battle zone. The money shooters would be there so my thought was arrive early – stake a position and hold firm. Dead on! Both sides of the stage were flanked by three to four hundred mil lens – even a couple point and shoots tried to claim territory.

The stage, the stage – a shooters delight - blank, not a microphone stand, music stand or galley of musicians. In fact, players were pushed far enough back to allow Bennett enough space to jog a half mile if he chose. It didn’t matter which side one positioned themselves – the man would be there in a matter of seconds.

The show opened with Bennett’s daughter Antonia – who for her part gave a fair reading of the material yet sent a wave of fear through the minds of photographers. Three songs? Now two?

When Bennett arrived-kissed and embraced his daughter it was monumental. Light shined on the man like a magnified ray of gracious sunshine. Every detail from shoe shine to crease in that broad loving smile could be recorded. The voice, the voice - my goodness, what a voice! It kept yanking at the nerve centre. Then he comes again – hands held high – pause – smile – big, earth cracking note – click, click- here’s another to file.

This shoot was easy. Music just poured and rolled – poured and rolled in large waves and flooded the room with warmth and vitality. I love this man!

I observe Bennett command every inch of the stage – a slow walk to the right – turn – small hand gesture – slow turn and back this way. Come closer I think. On cue -there he is – he must of read my mind I presume.

The third song is a ballad. By now I’m exhausted – not from the number of spent frames but from the emotional intensity Bennett compresses into every song. I mostly stand and humbly watch. Somewhere after an abbreviated solo the voice returns and I witness the veins in his neck gather. The face looks muscular like a weightlifter squeezing a world record from one last lift. The volume is near bone crushing intense when suddenly I feel a ripple of tears flow down my face. I shake my head and wipe the moisture to the side. The note eventually lifts leaving the audience to scream ecstatically. Meanwhile, the scene stealers are heading toward the exit with plenty images stored in both memory banks. I’m feeling a bit embarrassed like I folded under pressure until I see my partner Kristine clutching a Kleenex and gently dabbing her eyes.

Dave Brubeck ((Salle Wilfrid- Pelletier de la Place des Arts) July 4th 7:30

I really expected a media battle for space while attempting to capture a purposeful image of a legend as certified as Brubeck. I know his music like the number of roads leading out of my hometown. Brubeck was there for me in high school and college.

I knew his red hot and cool period – the cool tone of alto saxophonist Paul Desmond and smooth ride. The music swung with barely a pulse. Brubeck at the time wasn’t a favorite among jazz critics who were fixated on the re-harmonizing of jazz by pianist Bill Evans – the express train fingers of Oscar Peterson – the Duke was still around – so was Teddy Wilson – Keith Jarrett was to catch fire with Charles Lloyd. Herbie Hancock was making waves with Miles. Wynton Kelly was still saying all of the right things. The argument was - Brubeck was too rigid – didn’t swing long and far or hard enough. Then ‘Time Out’ hit! “Take Five” suddenly became a monstrous hit! Now every kid with an instrument had to master five/four. Not even the old guard left behind by the dance era who could read their way through the encyclopedia Britannica couldn’t get a handle on the peculiar beat – let alone hold it in place.

I had tried on a couple occasions to catch a decent image of the man I so admire but failed. The face always seemed to turn towards the shadows. This night had to be different!

As soon as Brubeck appeared with saxophonist Bobby Militello escorting him to the grand piano I knew the night would be generous. Brubeck wore what seemed a cream colored jacket and a broad smile. None of us knew he’d lost a son a couple days before. There was no evidence of that in his composure and comfort behind the piano. Throughout - the smile remained stationary.

The playing was solid Brubeck - big chunky chords and hard swing. I moved a few feet one direction then to another trying for a clear view of the hands. This couldn’t be accomplished without standing dead center the auditorium and offending two thousand plus paid attendees. I kept returning to the face and what a beautiful face with all of the native features of birthright still in place.

Shorts: Joshua Redman / Joe Lovano - Chris Botti - Wayne Shorter - Al Jarreau - Miles from India - Kenny Werner Quintet, Jamie Cullum and Madeline Peyroux.

Joshua Redman is always a difficult subject to capture – he’s all about movement - much like Kenny Garrett. The sound comes from all regions of the body. The legs rise and fall as patterns dictate – the head bobs and weaves and skin looks as if it’s ready to blow. The horn is only half the instrument.

Chris Botti comes finely tailored. It’s all in the details which I surmise are predetermined. The music is sumptuous and easily savored. No hard edges or unexpected dissonance. The lens embraces. Botti moves about like a well choreographed line dancer. The shoulders aligned perfectly with instrument. This is poster stuff.

Wayne Shorter and the camera have never been best of friends. This has nothing to do with an aversion to being photographed but more to do with his quiet nature and manner in which Shorter brings his music outward. There’s very little body movement – little expression and zero travel. What happens – happens in place. Lighting is always withdrawn during Shorter’s affairs. What happens between musicians is an entirely different thing. On this occasion pianist Geoffrey Keezer filled in for Panamanian counterpart Danilo Perez. From this vantage I would say the brief period spent in the company of Shorter and Keezer was the highlight of the festival. Interplay was unreal. Keezer kept agitating the harmonic tension goading Shorter to answer in ways unimagined.

For Al Jarreau this wasn’t a big chops situation. The voice sounded stressed and bit behind the curve. Still, with everything in place the master ‘s night was full of surprises and for us on the sidelines a feast of image gathering.

Miles from India was big fun and big sound. Sitars – tablas – saxophones – three drummers – brass and plenty more yet this should have been more compelling. There was plenty to extract from the wired expanse yet not much in the way of prolonged excitement. Saxophonists Bill Evans and Rudresh Mahanthappa pushed the hardest yet the weight of too many competing players may have been a bit inhibiting. Three kit drummers in total synch didn’t catch fire. I kept thinking Mahavishnu Orchestra and all of those jarring interludes and how they so magically broke space between soloists.

Kenny Werner Quintet! A pianist – pianist! Visually appropriate and musically – bold and inventive.

Jamie Cullum is pure showmanship with solid music principles. From the downbeat it’s about the chase with the lens – the guy never stops grooving. It’s as if Disney let loose on this guy having an animation seizure. It’s all wonderful! Cullum can sing – goad an audience – entertain and most definitely play the piano. From the galley the maneuver is known as ‘chasing the cricket.’ You’ve got to love the guy!

Madeline Peyroux isn’t the most active participant in her shows. In fact, it’s the near motionless stage demeanor that appeals. The recordings come with more polish and assuredness.

Throughout the coming months I’ll review and listen to the photos. Music remains imbedded in each image. Those glorious tones, searing melodies, unspoken body languages and physical interplay will continue to inspire and penetrate the quiet regions of heart and mind. Click!

www.billkingmusic.com - Concert Photography 


Dispatches: 2009 Quebec City Summer Festival Pt.1

Bill King

The 42nd summer edition has been a endurance test of sight, sound and leg work. With three large outdoor venues – the Bell Stage on the Plains of Abraham; featuring mainline artists –Pink Martini, Sean Paul, Loreena McKennitt, Brian Setzer Orchestra, Styx, French cult group Indochine – The Lost Fingers: Scene Molson Dry – with Jeff Beck, Quebec rock group Miriodor, Van Der Graaf Generator, hip hop K-OS; Scene Metro with world beat artists – Asa, King Sunny Ade & his African Beats, Jane Bunnett Embracing Voices; it’s an Olympic challenge traversing the hillside climbs from one outdoor venue to the other. Get ready to shape up!

Thursday night Pink Martini headlined with a languid at times predictable performance. It’s lounge music given a severe polish with reverence for Cuban society music of the forties and fifties. Its grand ballroom styling with brief controlled solos much what you’d read in those stage band charts from the dance band era. In the center of it is one exceptional singer – China Forbes who easily shifts between French and English or wherever else a lyric travels. There’s a natural rhythm to phrasing and attractive, graceful stage choreography. The background players fulfill roles with precision but it’s Forbes who keeps the eyes and ears engaged. Rarely did Pink Martini bring the heat even though the evening was one of those few days the summer of 2009 has been generous with comforting temperatures.

Friday night it was Canadian world artist Loreena McKennitt’s turn to connect with what seemed a mile deep audience of fans. The Bell Stage on the Plains of Abraham was used to house Paul McCartney ‘s extravagant set in the past. One must estimate this to be one of the largest concert structures anywhere comparable to those mammoth events reserved for the world’s undeniable legends.

McKennitt quickly cut down the distance both vertically, horizontally and across the adoring landscape with her out worldly voice. Throughout the Plains jumbo screens brought McKennitt within feet of everyone. The voice is angelic - coloured with true emotion and crafted to give each distinct travel song purpose. With a crowd as broad and numerous as this, one could second guess the programming believing only those artists with high energy pyrotechnics engage. McKennitt quickly dispelled the theory transporting the entire populous from Celtic adventure to night crossing the Sahara desert. McKennitt is somewhat a mythical character herself. The dress is Victorian – the smile – practiced, the hands –thin and delicate. The golden locks seem to fall dreamily from the pages of a childhood fairy book. Altogether image and style work beautifully as companion props in support of a genuine artist. McKennitt is known to control and protect her enterprise with fierce determination. The same came be said for her vision and astounding artistry.

Jeff Beck followed local hero Steve Hill on the Molson Dry Stage at the Parc De La Francophone with a confident display of guitar dominated virtuosity. Every moment was consumed by Beck’s lyrical playing. Hill for his part took the sledgehammer approach – hitting hard, harder and then leave them dead! As a showman Hill won hands down – rock God facial ticks – flying hair and body posture. Hill even won in the excessive volume category. Beck for his part captured the evening with sublime taste. Each carefully considered note spelled a complete meaningful sentence. Hill’s ideas were borrowed fragments left dead on the stages by the giants who paved that way long before – pocketed then recycled.

Place Metro De Place D’Youville is the stage to the rest of the planet. The Kasai All Stars from the Republique du Congo gave one of the most bone chilling performances. This was music untouched by the outside world. There’s a level of danger at the core of the rhythmic and vocal exchanges. It consumes the eyes of the musicians. This is a land of continuing conflict and unimaginable atrocities. Undoubtedly, everyone in the sprawling ensemble has been touched by the lingering nightmare. The North American interpretation of all things African comes for the most part with a costumed sweetness. There is nothing in these voices and thunderous pounding that conveys anything less that the pure, honest unvarnished truth.


2008 Riviera Maya Jazz Festival – Playa del Carmen, Mexico
Bill King

Editor Ejazznews.com

As the descent began I scanned the countryside as far as the eye could distinguish seemingly lost in trance like meditation. I imagined what it was like year 1511 when Spaniards accidently landed in Mexico stranded in a hurricane bound for Espanola.

Below a densely carpeted deciduous forest bound together by interlocking vines, trees and every imaginable tropical plant awaited my arrival. There were moments of panic as I amused myself with thoughts of being adrift in unfamiliar terrain lost afar in the darkest regions of a suffocating humid night. A land where the jaguar is king, the boa constrictor lies in waiting and the ground swells with nocturnal feasting.

12 to 15 centuries ago ancient cities flourished throughout the Maya World – the states of Yucatan, Quintana Roo, Campeche, Chipas and Tabasco. Today, much of the countryside remains the same – a broad jungle home to over 1,100 bird species – the second biggest coral reef –the Palancar reef, archeological vestiges of Maya culture – cities under restoration; Chichen Itza, Uxmal, and Palenque.

In contemporary times the region has found favor with the world traveler and sunshine chasers. For some, the lure of history and adventure makes for a satisfying getaway. For the weary work-burdened vacationer it’s the large estates that trim the sea coast advertising luxury accommodations and grand hospitality that curry visitors.

For my ears it was the invitation to hear some Mexico's top musicians at the sixth edition of the Riviera Maya Jazz Festival that intrigued. These are names few will recognize unless plugged into the global jazz scene.

The Riviera Maya is a forty-mile tourism district along a work-in- progress highway extending from Playa del Carmen to Tulum. The highway is a modern thoroughfare under construction.

Playa del Carmen is a resurrected fishing village of all-inclusives, villa rentals, restaurants, hotels, gift shops and other attractions with a populous of 100,000. What distinguishes Playa del Carmen from neighboring resort metropolis Cancun is its place in Mayan history.

The first account of visitors date back between 300 and 600 A.D. as journeyers chose the area as a rest stop as they made the trek between the great Mayan cities on their way to Cozumel.

Modern day Playa del Carmen still exudes the colors and brilliance of tradition yet offers travelers the comforts and youthful night life at a principled cost.

As with most Caribbean jazz festivals most are built around tourism. Those founded primarily as pure music forums have a dedicated following or have vanished due to competing entertainment interests.

It’s still all about timing. North American jazz festivals run from April until October - their southern counterparts – November to May.

The 2008 edition of The Riviera Maya Jazz Festival located at Mamitas Beach Club was timed to capitalize on the American Thanksgiving holiday. Surprisingly, entering and exiting Mexico were the easiest travel procedures I’ve endured in years. From custom officials to immigration – ticket handlers to transportation everything was managed with courtesy and efficiency.

Now, the jazz festival.

Few jazz festivals pay attention to the roots of jazz or those artists who best demonstrate tradition. The Riviera Maya Jazz Festival aligns itself with festival producer Fernando Toussaint’s affection for fusion jazz – a music more in tune with 1970s pop/jazz – Frank Zappa, Weather Report and at times the power motives of Alan Holdsworth. This is understandable in a country that has long struggled with a music politicians and intellectuals called ‘savage music.’

Fusion is not exactly the most riveting music available yet it keeps audiences amused and in place. My hope was for more culturally interfaced sounds bridging  past with the present. Those moments were rare.

Day one, pianist Pepe Moran led off with a loosely constructed set of pop jazz that was neither memorable nor proficient enough to garner opening status. Fortunately, this would be the only ensemble that seemed absent focus.

Sisters Ingrid and Jennifer Beaujean followed under the banner 'The Beaujean Project'. The twenty-two year old vocalists display a cool detached singing style as if pop jazz singer Sade surfaced in duplicate. There’s a breezy flow to the material and light fanciful choreography between the women that never appears rehearsed or contrived. During solos both found themselves adrift in improvisation waving arms and swaying to Brazilian rhythms.

Sister Ingrid  sustain herself during the best singing moments as she explored her full vocal range. There’s a sweet soulfulness in the upper register and ease when improvising through some of the more complex harmonic passages that made her a festival stand out.

Aguamaca is one of two bands connected to festival producer and drummer Fernando Toussaint with Enrique Pat in the keyboard chair, Bernardo Ron – guitar and Luis Ernesto bass. Of the two units this was the most predictable.

As the world of music moves towards diversity Aquamaca stays grounded in progressive rock/jazz - a dinosaur long extinguished. This doesn’t discount the passion and devotion but it does leave one feeling as if everything played has been recycled in numerous basement sand clubs from here to Melbourne half a lifetime ago. It’s raw, intense and a hundred per cent male testosterone. Songs go the long distance. Everyone solos and has a grand time.

Perhaps the real deal of the whole festival was pianist Hector Infanzon and his quartet. This was music of great brilliance – counter rhythms – sophisticated harmonies – group dynamics - melodies that soared and improvisation that roared in all directions far across the night sea.

Infanzon captures so much of Latin America in his music. There are lovely Spanish themes that caress the heart which seem for a fleeting moment to beg permanence. There are also interconnecting lines either played in unison with bass or drums that bridge the various motifs and sub-themes, which enthrall. This is music one has to still themselves to absorb the impact. Bravo!

Singer Iraida Noriega studied in New York under Sheila Jordan and it shows in presentation. Noriega was joined on stage with pianist Nicolas Santella, Israel Cupich double bass, Tavo Nansayapa drums and Miguel Alcerrerca – vibes. Noriega plays in a zone inhabited by Jordan, Norma Winstone, Flora Purim and a few others. There was a moment I thought I’d possibly include the late Betty Carter in this group. Much like the Beaujean Project – Noriega courts Brazilian coolness. While she chooses to imitate horn players deep in improvisation - that’s where her limitations arrive to battle. It’s like a conversation that keeps repeating but never ends. When Dianne Reeves and Dee Dee Bridgewater improvise the notes blend and push the song along. It’s about range and imagination. Noriega found herself in a memorable duet with guitarist Earl Klugh. Her voice penetrated and carried above all that was below. It was Klugh’s finest moment.

Earl Klugh. What can be said about the light-jazz icon. Klugh managed to digest all of the goodwill Wes Montgomery left behind and turn it into a commodity. I can’t say I remember a song or a melody. Klugh has made a sound living based around scraps of melodies. These are mostly short motifs regurgitated time and again to suit a particular rhythm. One day the repetitive idea is played as a samba – the next a California drive up the Pacific Coast highway – light and sunny. Nonetheless Klugh has fans. The fans on this occasion remained in close conversation until the last number then abruptly cheered.

David Sanborn is truly a giant. He has his detractors but the facts are – the guy can play his bottom off and always thinks his way through recordings. There are no diluted melodies or surplus showy moments - just the hard groove – great hooks and splendid solos. There were several standout moments - two being Sanborn classics ‘Chicago Song’ and ‘Maputo.’ It’s all in the details. Sanborn keeps the soloing in balance. There are ample counterpoint lines and connecting sections that make each song complete. The arrangements are seamless making the solos seem more to the point. There was no argument – Sanborn took top honors in the international category.

Billy Cobham? What can be said about the sixty-four year old Panamanian drummer that hasn’t been recited on numerous occasions? He’s the Godfather of fusion/jazz drumming. He also appears as muscular and fit as in his early years with Mahavishnu Orchestra.

For his part, Cobham gave the crowd what it wanted – extremely loud guitar hammering rock/jazz. As far as keeping up with the times – Cobham loses out to drummers like Dave Weckl. Weckl absorbed the crunching extravagances of early fusion and shifted gears. Instead of pouncing on every beat Weckl broke those beats apart and found a useful marriage between funk, jazz, world beats and beyond.

Luca Littera & Sacbe. This performance is another highlight of the festival featuring producer/ drummer Fernando Toussaint along with brothers –Eugenio piano and Enrigue -electric bass. The magic came with the inclusion of Italian born harmonica player – Luca Littera.

This was gorgeous music with broad sweeping melodies and grand interludes. This was also a smart blend of African, Asian, Brazilian, Mexican and American jazz and world rhythms. In contemporary terms this is what today’s fusion is all about - cultures that intersect and bleed into one another.

Luca Littera has harvested the inner passion and technique and a universal bond between brothers in trade – Toots Thielemans, Hendrik Meurkens, Bruno De Filippi and Mauricio Einhorn. Time again he lifted the ensemble each moment he brought the instrument to his mouth. It was jazz as it should be played – effortlessly without intimidation –the universal language of communication and shared invention.

As for show closers Fourplay?

After discussing how liberal their views had changed on video-taping and photographing performances during an earlier press conference the band issued a proclamation to the press – no photos – no video. Hummmmmmmmm.. Have a look at You Tube and see what was caught beyond the press’s reach. You may beg for us to lift our lens next occasion.

A final note –a big, big thank you to Donna Jannine and Raminta Tsopelas of Adams Unlimited Public Relations and Marketing, PR Manager Jeanette Rigter of Riviera Maya for her good cheer and grand hospitality; all those associated with Riviera Maya Jazz Festival 2008; Ana Mari C. Irabien, Adolfo Lecona, and the gracious staff at Blue Bay Grand Esmeralda resort who hosted us journalists.

Dispatches: Park City Jazz Festival, Utah 2008

With the 2008 rainy season in Toronto extending from May to August an invitation to escape to the land of eternal sunshine was most appealing.

I remember Dad recounting his summer in Utah as part of a national works project after the Great Depression fighting forest fires and apprenticing as a forest ranger. Then, World War 11 claimed precedent over ambition. Sixty plus years later it was my turn to relish the wide open expanses and inhale the air that groomed his nightly stories of adventure.
Jazz festivals have a common tone about them – locale, staging, music and ambience. The music for the most part remains much the same. The performers can rightfully claim entry into an elite touring club playing prime stages from Switzerland to Indianapolis. Park City Jazz Festival 2008 was programmed with the same sensibility featuring prominent jazz musicians - Joshua Redman with stellar sidemen Rueben Rogers and Gregory Hutchison, Christian McBride, Stefon Harris, Los Hombres Caliente, Javon Jackson and Les McCann. Jazz festivals in the modern age rarely play to the devout purist – it’s about survival and broadening the audience. In doing so, a bit of blues, Latin, gospel, funk, pop jazz and other related genres enter the mix. This season’s big ticket acts - Blues Traveler, Blind Boys of Alabama, Big Bad Voo Doo Daddy and the Rippingtons attracted fans from nearby communities filling the outdoor amphitheatre located at the base of Deer Valley Resort. This was the star component that pays the bills.

Park City resides 7000 feet above sea level with daytime temperatures ranging from mid seventies to mid eighties but as the sun slides behind the mountains temperatures dip into the 40’s and 50’s. An intense brilliant sun will cook skin if you aren’t prepared with double digit sun screen and protective head covering. I made the miscalculation only once while trekking from The Lodges at Deer Valley to Deer Valley Resort - home of the jazz festival under one of those rare moving clouds absent the shelter of a baseball cap. Although the festival entrance was in view, just walking the half mile with beaming rays striking exposed flesh made me near delirious. I kept asking myself how anybody could survive ten minutes in blistering desert heat.

Park City was founded by prospectors in the late 1860s. It was silver mining that fed the community into the 1970s. In 1963, Park City Consolidated Mining started the first ski business. Since the 80’s and 90’s the community has relied on tourism for survival and to sustain growth.

The jazz festival is one of the great summer showcases. There’s also big competition throughout the season. Gladys Knight, the Gipsy Kings, and Bob Dylan are just a few of the celebrated artists making the rounds.
Day one of the jazz festival was about the headliners. Joshua Redman and company gave a free -wheeling performance with broad expanses given to improvised interplay. Redman put aside his funk ensemble a few years back and pared things down to three-piece absent any instrument capable of harmonic under padding. Redman succeeds by filling space with the missing chords – all part of a vertical tapestry of unfolding ideas. With two empathetic sidemen, Redman can shape phrases around rhythmic or melodic thought and get instant results – most times – exhilarating. I wondered how this kind of exploratory jazz would be received in such a setting. Much to my surprise the audience listened with tuned ears and gave Redman and partners a rousing send-off.

The Park City Jazz Festival is governed by The Park City Jazz Foundation, founded in 1997 – a nonprofit organization whose purpose is to promote jazz through educational, performance and other opportunities. The jazz festival is the centerpiece yet it is the students that get prime attention. Each year the foundation brings well known jazz educators to work with the students. This year it was bassist Christina McBride, saxophonist Javon Jackson and vibraphonist Stefon Harris. The foundation connects with five schools and the Boys/Girls Clubs in the Salt Lake City Metro area providing access to jazz education and improvisation to 5,500 students.

The shining example has to be the Crescent Super Band under the leadership of Caleb Chapman.
The band has played prestigious festivals like the North Sea Jazz Festival – Dizzy’s Club in Manhattan, the IAJE, Montreux, Umbria, Telluride and others. In 2007, Down Beat Magazine proclaimed them the Top Performing High School big band in the country.

It was easy to see why as the band kicked into high gear with Stefon Harris up front. This is the kind of large ensemble that can swing like the classic Basie band or capture the nuances of the Gerald Wilson Orchestra. Only the top students from the state of Utah make it into the program.

The acts that caught the most attention were those with a broader base. The Blind Boys of Alabama were formed in 1939 with lead vocalist Jimmy Carter still at the helm. Carter is a magnificent vocalist with great range and power and the ability to sustain a note indefinitely.

The unit won Grammy’s between 2002 and 2005. Much of the performance material was culled from their current recording – Down in New Orleans. Still, it’s the staples – House of the Rising Sun and Amazing Grace that stir the masses.

Blues Traveler attracted a younger crowd ready to mix it up. The band has been together since 1987 and had a couple hits in the mid- 1990s – ‘Run Around and Hook.’ The band takes a cue from the Charlie Daniels band straddling territory between bluegrass, country blues, and Southern Rock. This is one of those can’t miss bands – great energy, quick pacing, and lots of theatrics. With temperatures cooling by performance time, this was the right band to invigorate the crowd.

Another wise addition was Big Voo Doo Daddy still hanging about since 1989 when the swing dance craze almost gained traction. The band burst on the scene with three hits – “ Go- Daddy –O’ “You and Me and the Bottle Makes Three Tonight” and ‘Mr. Pinstripe.’ That was enough to sustain the contemporary dance band.

The cool night air played havoc on lead singers. Every time someone reached for a high note the voice cracked – most evident with Traveler and Voo Doo Daddys.

Two other shows – Los Hombres Caliente and Javon Jackson with Les McCann garnered substantial applause.

Los Hombres set was by far more challenging and structured. This was a fusing of Latin rhythms, Afro- American and rhythm and blues with detailed arrangements and striking solos.
Even the warhorse ‘Caravan’ was given a clean read.

Jackson and company kept a hard groove, funked it up and stayed close to one tonal center. It was old school jam nothing fancy other than elongated solos with rhythm at the core. McCann broke the trance when he delivered one of those Jay McShann Kansas City vocals. And yes, he did perform ‘Cold Duck’ and Jackson and gang did the song justice.

The jazz festival started Friday night for us at 5:30, Saturday 3:00 and Sunday 3:45. The time in between was dedicated to a bit of thrill-seeking, courtesy Park City Chamber Bureau, Deer Valley Resort and Utah Olympic Park.

When asked if I’d be up to some daring mountain biking my quick reaction was ‘Bring it on!’
I’ve been cycling nearly 40 continuous seasons year round so wheeling high above low ground only seduced my imagination.

June past -Deer Valley Resorts hosted its 12th national mountain bike race drawing around 1,500 competitors. How could one resist this course?

Deer Valley resides in the heart of the Wasatch mountain range. There are 55 miles of trail suitable for biking and hiking with chairlift rides for both bike and patron. This is fat rubber and full-suspension territory.

There are more than 20 dedicated trails for the passionate biker winding through breathtaking scenery.

After my first long haul through an area dense in flaking Aspen trees I hit a pristine meadow just as a young deer goes bolting by. I watched as it disappeared in the tall growth. This is nature as imagined. It then dawned on me I had just descended more than 1,000 feet and was intent on not craving the body up or fracturing a precious limb so I stayed focused on every pointed rock and patch of shifting earth. Speed has a unique place with dare devils; not with this dude.

The next bit of thrill seeking was in Utah Olympic Park located 28 miles from downtown Salt Lake City. This is the same Olympic course where the U.S. earned 8 medals during the 2002 Winter Olympic Games. I’d been lured here to discover the gratifying rush that accompanies that 55 mph sensation of what it is like to be a ski jumper or freestyle aerialist through Xtreme Ziplining.

Ziplining is so far off my radar as to be the next obstacle to overcome on the Amazing Race or something that captures immediate attention as I quick stop on the Outdoor Network channel.

Olympic park has two lines – Ultra – length – 754 feet – maximum speed 42 mph - done in 30 seconds and Xtreme – 1454 feet – maximum speed 55 mph – done in 55 seconds. I went for the whole deal.

The ride to the top was magnificent. There’s nothing like dangling above earth on a slow moving tram inspecting the tops of tees. Off to the sides I could see mountains roll as far as the eye could focus.

Tightly fitted in harness and knees planted firmly against the starting gate the door popped and I was in full flight. During the flight never once did fear enter the head. The only real worry was travelling full speed into the final resting spot. I was still at maximum speed when I hit home base. Whatever the apparatus was that stopped me it has to be an invention of great ingenuity. It resembled in some ways an abacus.

The final thrill came on the Quicksiver Autoboggan made of stainless steel. Careening downhill in full metal container gives one the sensation of a competitive toboggan – one controlled entirely by you. There’s a lever situated dead centre that allows braking when curves arrive quicker than anticipated. I mostly stayed within the limits of sanity.

I almost forgot, Park City is the home of the Sundance Film Festival. Actor Robert Redford lives nearby. Even had a moment to dine in one of his restaurants – Zoom and check out a Francis Coppola Pinot Noir – very nice!

Just want to pay a special gratitude to those who made all of this possible: Craig McCarthy, Stephanie Nitsch and Bev Sincock of the Park City Chamber and Visitors Bureau, Kris Severson Park City Jazz Foundation, Jeanne Lehan and Thomas Cooke who accorded us the amazing suite at Deer Valley Lodging/ The Lodges at Deer Valley, Erin Grady and Emily Summers at Deer Valley Resort, Linda Jager – Utah Olympic Park, the Park City Historical Society , Paula Fabel – Park City Mountain Resort and Donna Graham, DCI.