Last Saturday night had a kind of energy you don’t plan—you just step into it and try to keep up.
Back in mid-February, Bertina Dew reached out through my friend Terry McCoy—one of those musicians who’s earned his reputation the long way, note by note across East Tennessee. She was looking for a jazz trio for her annual fundraiser, Ballet and Bubbly. That was all it took.
After nineteen years of leading Kingsport Ballet, Bertina knows how to build something meaningful. It felt like an honor from the start—to bring our trio into that room, alongside dancers, artists, and a community that clearly cares about what it’s creating.
We had just come off a strong night at the Hard Rock, so the momentum was already there. Over the next few weeks, Charlie, John, and I leaned into it—tightening arrangements, revisiting Oscar Peterson, and adding a few newer pieces, including Guaraldi’s Otra Vez. By the time Saturday rolled around, the set felt alive.
Downbeat: 5:45.
We arrived early. Spring had finally shown up. Everything was set by five, just enough time to grab a cold Dr. Enuf from Food City, put on the black suits, and settle in.
The first set moved the way good nights do—effortless on the surface, full of quiet communication underneath. We opened with Miles, brought Oscar in early, and let the music stretch where it wanted. An hour passed before anyone seemed to notice.
Between sets, I found myself distracted by a painting in the silent auction—Sea and Sky. I put in a bid, walked away, then kept thinking about it the entire time we played.
But the real moment—the one that stayed—was watching Charlie.
He was sitting just off to the side, in that same black suit, completely still as the dancers moved just feet in front of him. Soloists, duets, full ensemble—grace and control in a way that doesn’t ask for attention but holds it anyway.
That contrast stayed with me. The trio behind them. The dancers in front. No separation. Just one shared moment.
We finished the second set, and somewhere in the middle of applause and conversation, I saw someone write over my bid. I crossed the room and put in one more. Won it.
That painting’s now hanging at Colonial Heights—my first original piece in that space. It feels earned, somehow.
I’ve played a lot of rooms this past year—small corners, large galas, everything in between. None of them matter more than the others. What matters is the chance to show up with people like Charlie and John—musicians who keep you grounded while somehow pushing you further than you’d go on your own.
And then there was that image—Charlie, still watching the dancers.
It brought to mind a poem by Billy Collins—one I’ve always come back to. It felt like it had been quietly sitting there, waiting for a night like this.
If an angel delivered the mail, would he arrive
in a blinding rush of wings or would he just assume
the appearance of the regular mailman and
whistle up the driveway reading the postcards?…
but perhaps the answer is simply one:
one female angel dancing alone in her stocking feet,
a small jazz combo working in the background.She sways like a branch in the wind, her beautiful
eyes closed, and the tall thin bassist leans over
to glance at his watch because she has been dancing
forever, and now it is very late, even for musicians.
