I’ve gone to see the Dave Brubeck Quartet a couple of times in the past few years. The experience is always transcendental.
The last time I went, I didn’t buy tickets til the day of the concert. There was a lot going on, Tim couldn’t commit, and I figured I’d see what the day would bring—then if tix were still available, I’d go by myself.
That morning I ran into Leslie at the post office. On a whim, I asked if she wanted to go, and she said yes.
I’d been warned about the balcony at the Paramount—about how the rows were too close together, that there was barely room for one’s knees. All true. But the only seats left were there.
We spent the first set in those uncomfortable seats. But then Leslie spotted some empty chairs on the side balcony—those kind you find around dining tables in ballrooms, ten to twelve to a table. She knew an usher and asked if we could go sit there.
We could. We sat right above the Dave Brubeck Quartet, stage right.
I alerted Leslie to my crush on Bobby Militello, the saxophonist. We realized that we were now close enough to possibly throw undergarments on stage. She suggested a bra, and I said I couldn’t do that, because, well, a bra in my size is just too embarrassing. This is when she recommended carrying a bra in a much larger size in one’s pocketbook, for occasions like this one.
Here’s Bobby and Dave, along with Michael Moore on bass and Randy Jones on drums.