Bassment Deep

by Curtis Bennett

  Before she could say anything he placed one hand to his forehead and shook it from side to side, saying, “Lawd, forgive me, less you think my momma raised me with little or no manners. Please allow me to introduce you to the boys in the band.”

  “I would like that very much,” she said reassuringly.

  After the introductions, he returned his smiling gaze to her. “Now, what did you want to say a minute ago?”

  “Well, actually two things. One of them is yes; we still cook the best country breakfasts you’ll ever want to eat. Secondly, of the people I’ve spoken to in the music business, all of them think you are going to be the next living jazz legend. I mean, up there with Armstrong, Dizzy, Monk, Parker, Miles, and Marsalis.” Not a knowledgeable jazz fan, Margo was glad she had done her homework. By the sparkle in his eyes she could see that he was impressed.

  “Is that so!” he exclaimed. “Now that’s mighty flattering company.”

  “Well, that’s what they’re saying. The critics, too,” she told him.

  “And what do you say, now that you have had an opportunity to hear us play?”

  “I think you’re incredible! I mean, I honestly did not want you guys to stop playing.”

  “So you’re a bonafide fan. That’s great! Been following the group a while, huh?”

  Margo stared at him solemnly before she replied. “To be honest with you, I had not heard of you or your ensemble until I received this assignment.”

  “I see,” his voice trailed, his head lowering. “And when was that?”

  “Would you believe, two days ago?” she murmured, slightly embarrassed.

  After a thought-fill gaze, he said, “Well, I guess you have a lot of catching up to do, Ms. Cassaneto. Or is it Mrs.?”

  “It’s Ms.”

  “Okay, Ms. Cassaneto. And just when do you plan on conducting this interview with me?”

  Anxious to get his comment on the statement made by the chairman of the NAACP, she answered, “We can begin first thing in the morning.”

  “First thing in the morning?”

  “Yes,” she replied, trying in vain to stifle a sudden yawn. “Excuse me,” she quickly apologized, “but it’s been a long day of travel for me. I’m really sorry about that.”

  “I understand,” he shot back with a light chuckle. “Look, anytime I begin to bore you, you just let the Bassman know. By the way, Bassman is what everyone calls me.”

  “I’ve noticed. And Mr. Bassman...believe me when I say I find you anything but boring,” she replied. “Honestly, I’m just tired from the travel, that’s all.”

  “Well that’s reassuring,” he said, with eyes that glittered, then in an animated voice added, “Look, are we going to spend the next seven days adhering to such formalities as Mister and Ms. or is it all right with you if I called you Margo?”

  “That’s quite fine with me,” she said, trying desperately hard to appear immune to his charming personality and handsome looks. For the third time she reminded herself that she was a reporter on assignment and he the subject. Damn! Why did he have to be so dead-drop gorgeous? She thought.

  “Hey, have you ever met Ne-Kay Parker?” he blared.

  “No, I cannot say that I have.”

  “You have heard of him before tonight, am I right?”

  “Who hasn’t heard of Ne-Kay Parker,” she chuckled.

  “Well, now. I’m hoping that’s what people say about me in the very near future,” he mused. “And they should after reading the fine article you’re going to write about my band.”

  Margo beamed.

  Taking her hand, he looped it around his large bicep, then escorted her over to the far side of the reception hall to where Ne-Kay Parker stood talking to a small group of people. Within seconds, she was introduced to the Grammy award-winning musician. And yes, she dared to ask for his autograph.

  Minutes later, Ne-Kay Parker, his entourage, and members of Jazz Tyme, along with the Eu’Tabee Jazz Ensemble, drove off in two stretch-limousines to dine at one of Philadelphia’s finest upscale Society Hill restaurants…Fredericks. Located next to the Delaware River, and not far from Penn’s Landing and the brightly lit Benjamin Franklin Bridge, the diner was Ne-Kay Parker’s favorite Philadelphia five-star restaurant. Talk about having the time of one’s life. Could it get any better than this? She mused.

  Chapter 2

  A secretive smile softened Margo’s lips as she tried to reach for words to describe the wonderful time she had had the night before, but nothing worthy would come to her mind. Besides, it was eight in the morning, much later than she had realized. It did not help that she had returned to her suite well after 2:00 am. The excitement had been too much for her to absorb in one abbreviated night of sleep. Blissful, that’s how she’d explain to her best friend upon her return. One day she’s working in the cool comfortable surroundings of her home on an article about restless wives on the prowl and two nights later she’s on a major nationwide tour with some of the most talented and coolest musicians she’s ever met, and having the time of her life. It just doesn’t get any better than this, she thought.

  After a refreshing shower, she dressed, fixed her hair, and packed her belongings. She was certain the band’s tour bus had already left for Baltimore, Maryland. Right now, she needed to go down to the hotel lobby and catch a cab over to the train station. There, she would grab a bite to eat, and then check in for her 12:50 pm departure. A quick glance at the clock indicated she had little time to spare. She was scheduled to meet with the band around four that evening.

  Just as she exited the hotel, a bellhop behind her toting her luggage, she saw a familiar face. It belonged to Ma’Kentu, quite to her surprise. He was leaning back against a cab, his trouser-clad legs crossed at the ankles, nonchalantly reading the morning daily. Or was he just pretending to read the newspaper?

  She hesitated momentarily. The man was interesting, and apparently interested in her, she gathered.

  “Good morning!” he greeted her, with a charming smile.

  “Ma’Kentu! What brings you this way? I thought you guys left well over an hour ago.”

  “Oh, but we did! Well, they did…the band that is.” he replied, catching her eye, adding, “Did you forget we had an interview this morning? You told me last night we would start first thing in the morning. Well, this is first thing in the morning.”

  “You know, I did say that, didn’t I?” she chuckled. “I’m sorry, but that was before I knew I’d be out all night.”

  The two smiled.

  “Well, we certainly cannot hang around here all day reminiscing about last night,” he said, his voice calm, his soft gaze steady.

  “But how in the world are you going to get to Baltimore?” she asked.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve pulled some strings and made a reservation at the train station. I hope you don’t mind my joining you.”

  “No. Matter-of-fact, I’m delighted. And you know something, perhaps we’ll get around to starting that interview.”

  “Fine with me,” he beamed, as he folded his newspaper in half. “Now, if we hurry and get into this cab we just might make it to the train station on time.”

  As the cabby loaded her belongings in the trunk of the cab, he slipped his arm gently around her waist and assisted her inside. He entered next, sitting beside her. The cab driver adjusted the music level then quietly pulled off. Several minutes into the ride he wondered what thoughts lied hidden behind her quick stare when she paused to look at him the moment he touched her waist. At best, she was just a little startled. At worst, he had violated her space and comfort zone.

  “What’s in your case in the trunk, if I might ask?” she said, unable to hide her curiosity.

  “Oh, that’s Shaka, my bass guitar,” he answered. “Shaka goes wherever I go when I’m on tour. You never know when you might happen upon a good jam session.”

  “Ooh,” she nodded in response. After a moment she said, “Shaka.” Then quite suddenly, she started to c
huckle.

  “What’s funny?” he wondered, genuinely puzzled.

  Margo faced him, as she stifled her giggles. “Well it just dawn on me - you have a new song entitled Zulu Nation Groove. Now you tell me that your bass guitar is aptly named Shaka. It all adds up now. You must be alluding to Shaka Zulu, the legendary African warrior and leader of the Zulu Nation.”

  “Not bad! Not bad at all,” he chuckled, his gaze riveted to her face. “I see you did your homework or you just know your history.”

  “You might say I know that and a few other things.”

  “I must say that I am impressed.”

  The two traded smiles.

  After his train ticket purchase, Margo followed his handsome form, cautiously sidestepping other passenger’s loose luggage on the station floor. Her point man slowed when they arrived at the train. Together they boarded the passenger car and found their seats. Not long into the ride they decided to have an early lunch in the diner car.

  Ma’Kentu spooned a generous amount of sugar into his coffee as she watched with great fondness. It was sugar he produced from a carryon bag. It reminded her of her father who always started his meals off with coffee, and she told him so.

  “Do you always carry around your own sugar?” she asked.

  “Most of the time,” he replied with a smile. “You see, this is a new product that tastes like sugar and is all natural but minus the side effects of enriched white sugar.”

  “I see,” she mouthed.

  As they waited patiently for their orders, she took a refreshing sip of orange juice. When their order arrived he lifted his coffee mug one last time to his month and drank the remainder of it. Pushing her glass of orange juice gently aside, she watched as the waiter set her plate of food gently before her. Ma’Kentu’s plate followed.

  After their meal they returned to their coach seats. Then she remembered she had packed the laptop in her luggage bag, which was in the cargo car. No problem. She would conduct the interview the old fashion way.

  “So, where should we start?” she asked, opening her purse.

  “As we say in the business, how ‘bout taking it from the top,’” he replied, briefly staring out the window at a passing train.

  “Great idea!” With her note pad in hand she began her interview. “So tell me, what’s your earliest musical memory? What is it that got you interested in music and in playing the bass guitar?”

  “My first musical memory, uh” he echoed. “Let me see…”

  “I know you’re a Julliard alumni and that you once played string bass for the Count Basie Orchestra. You even toured with George Benson. What were these experiences like? And what influence did your parents have in your life and music?”

  Straightening up in his seat he smiled. “Again, I see you’ve done your homework. Well, my father left us when I was fourteen. It’s something I rarely talk about. Now, mother, though a nurse by trade, had always been a musician by heart. It was mother who tweaked my interest in music. She taught me the fundamentals of playing piano when I was six. By the age of twelve I was playing concert halls and writing my own music. And you’re right. I played with the Count Basie Orchestra for two years. Matter-of-fact, it was one of their premier tenor sax players, Emmanuel ‘Manny’ Boyd, who inspired me to break out on my own. He said that I had the talent and skills to become an innovator like Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, Armstrong and Coltrane.

  “Now, touring with George Benson was a real treat, too. Though George is known more for his popular tunes, few people know that his roots are in jazz.”

  “I’m crazy about George’s music. Any favorite Benson tunes, you’d like to share, the ones you played bass on in concert?”

  “Well, I love all of George’s work. But I must say I get a charge playing bass on his monster urban funk hit Shiver. It’s not a jazz tune but the bass line is awesome. Man, you should see Shaka and me get down.”

  “I have,” she mouthed, as she looked up at him with eyes that were dreamier than she’d want to let on. It wasn’t every day she met such a talented and accomplished man. More level-headed, she said, “So, you started off playing piano. Now, at what point in your life did you become interested in bass instruments?”

  With a thoughtful gaze, he said, “One afternoon a friend of mine stopped by with his bass guitar. It was a birthday gift from his father. I believe I was nine, at the time. Between the two of us, we attempted to play the bass line to every song we heard on the radio that day. Of course, it was a riot, at first. But as the day progressed, I picked up on it like I had been playing bass guitar all of my life.”

  “What song caught your liking that day?”

  “That’s an easy one,” he grinned. “Mom had an old 45 vinyl record by Henry Mancinni with a song on it called Peter Gunn. Man, I grooved to that song for hours! The bass line was repetitive but cool. Hell, mom nearly ran me out the house. When she bought me my own bass guitar, I became more proficient. A short while after that, I took lessons. In time, I joined the high school orchestra and played string bass in it.”

  “Ohh, so you were into classical music, too,” she said, resting the eraser tip of her pencil against her temple.

  “Not really.”

  “Not really?” she repeated.

  “I love classical music but my joining the school orchestra had nothing to do with it.”

  “What was the reason, then?” she asked, taking a pause in her writing.

  “You mean, who was the reason,” he answered. “The reason went by the name of Viola ‘Blossom’ Mallory,” he answered. “You see, Blossom was the gorgeous looking violin player I had taken a liking to. Originally from Arkansas, her parents had made a job related move to the Indianapolis area that year. I’m telling you, she was as fine and as talented as they come. Now, don’t get me wrong. I was never the Casanova type. But hell, I figured that my chances of getting to know Blossom would be better if I joined the school orchestra.”

  “Well, did you win her over?”

  “Not at all. She fell for a Black trumpet player named Elvis Anderson.”

  “My! Talk about a bad break.”

  Ma’Kentu chuckled. “Hey, that’s the breaks. Anyway, we managed to become good friends.”

  “Speaking of matters of the heart, I’ve got one for you. What song or songs do you associate with love?”

  “Understand now, I think I’ve been in love only three times in my life. So my repertoire will be limited.”

  “You think?”

  “Well, I believe so. The first time I fell in love my favorite song was Marvin Gaye’s ‘How Sweet it is To Be Loved by You.’ The second time it was Dean Martin’s very Italian rendition of ‘Volare.’ Ironically, the third time was James Taylor’s version of Marvin Gaye’s ‘How Sweet it is To Be Loved by You.’

  “And what about you, Margo? How many times have you been in love?”

  “Just once…that I can remember,” she chuckled. “The songs I associate with that period of my life the most are I’m Going to Love You A Little More, by the late great maestro Barry White and later down the road Vision of Love by Mariah Carey.”

  “Why these two songs?”

  “Well, I met this particular love interest during a time I was young and envisioned being in love. And the Barry White song should be obvious.”

  Ma’Kentu smiled, but said nothing.

  After taking a moment to jot something down, she continued, her eyes still averted. “Ever been married?” She exhaled mentally. Finally got it out! It was the question she had wanted to ask from the onset but for some odd reason, did not feel comfortable asking. It just was not like her to lose the interviewing edge. Inhaling, she reminded herself that this was an interview, that she was on the clock, and asking this kind of question was part of her assignment. Still, she knew his response held personal ramifications.

  Without missing a beat, he replied, “No. But I came close to it twice.”

  “Twice? What happened, if you don’t min
d me asking?” she said, feeling a sense of relief. If he was still single, perhaps he was available too.

  “Let’s see,” he murmured. “I’ll start with Gloria. Gloria was a very attractive and young New Orleans businesswoman. I met her while playing a few clubs there. Most women in her field are strong independent types. This one wanted to marry and start a family and I just wasn’t ready for a long-term commitment. End of story there.”

  “That’s kind of unusual…a young businesswoman wanting to start a family so early in her career.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. Next came a beautiful woman named Jasmine who turned my world upside down. I was ready for a long-term commitment, by then, and Jasmine was the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. It wasn’t to be, though. A drunk driver killed her while she and her best friend were jogging early one morning. It torments me to this day.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” Margo added, with a touch of sadness in her tone. “A dear friend of mine was killed by a drunk driver, too. Believe me; I know firsthand, the pain that is involved. And it’s enormous.”

  “It’s been a real struggle. And I’m truly sorry about your friend.”

  “Thank you.” After a pause, she said, “Did they ever catch the person who did this?”

  “Eventually. It was some kid in his late teens that had a history of drinking and driving without a license. He got eight years in prison,” Ma’Kentu sadly recalled. “He should have gotten life.”

  “I agree,” she said, dropping her eyes before his steady gaze. In an attempt to lighten up the subject, she asked, “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “One brother, two sisters,” he said, his mouth curved with tenderness.

  “Any other home bred musicians in the family? Or are you one of a kind?”