October 28, 2006
I'm on a school bus in somewhere in Pennsylvania. I'm with a group of people and we're headed to a school in New Jersey for mentally challenged children. It is unclear if we are students or just going to visit.
Our bus driver is a black woman of about 60. I recognize her immediately as the legendary singer Dinah Washington, the Queen of the Blues. I am stunned to see her and spend the rest of the ride figuring out what to say to her.
The bus makes a left hand turn into the parking lot of a strip mall. Apparently, this is our real destination. Everyone shuffles off the bus but I hang back so I can speak with Dinah. As I approach her perch in the driver's seat I say, "I just wanted to tell you I am a great fan of your work. I have dozens and dozens of your albums."
She thanks me and I tell her I hope she's still singing, "at least for your own pleasure." She tells me about a gospel song she sings from time to time, but that it has been about 13 years since she last sang professionally. I tell her that the Jazz stations still play her songs regularly on the radio. She asks me with true humility why did I think they continue playing her records. "Because they're great," I exclaim.
As she thanks me, I notice a black gentleman sitting about three or four rows from the front of the bus, nodding in agreement. He is what you might call a hepcat, dressed in a brown zoot suit and tie.
Gathering the courage to speak freely, I tell Dinah that I think there are still many of her records that could be even more popular if they were reedited. She asks me what I mean. "Well, you know what they said about some of your later work."
She nods her head, slightly pained at the memory and says, "Yes, I know...the background singers, the strings, too..."
"Syrupy," I finish her sentence. "But we could strip all of the syrup away and still have your heartfelt, soulful vocals, than we could add better arrangements to accompany them."
"Yes!" shouts the hepcat, "the technology exists to do this."
Seemingly at peace with her current life, Dinah is unsure about reentering the music business.
As I head off of the bus to rejoin my group, I ask Dinah if I could bring a CD for her to sign the next time she drives this route. "Sure baby," she replies.
Once off the bus I realize we are at a night club where Jazz chanteuse Blossom Dearie is entertaining the crowd on the sidewalk. I see a woman I know, Sandra, an old classmate from a songwriting workshop I participated in many years ago. Sandra wants to know why I've begun to cry. I explain that I am overcome with emotion at the thought that Dinah Washington has been reduced to driving a school bus. She dismisses me as sentimental.
"That's show business--get over it," she tells me.
"Well," I shoot back, "I guess you're a better man that I'll ever be."
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The great Dinah Washington actually died about two years before I was even born, but the thoughts I expressed in this dream pretty accurately sum up my own feelings about her work. If you are unfamilar with her, seek out her music; it is well worth a listen.
