Tag Archives: fried chicken

RIPENESS IS ALL: JAZZ ON THE VINE AT CLINE CELLARS (July 13, 2013)

Might I remind my Northern California friends of something good (“algo bueno,” as Dizzy Gillespie would have said) on Saturday, July 13, 2013?

JazzFestPoster_2013

Some details.  You might want to take notes here.  Five venues, music going on simultaneously — the BARREL ROOM, the MISSION, the GREAT LAWN, the TASTING ROOM DECK, and the PIANO CORNER.  The bands are listed above; the piano sessions feature Ray Skjelbred, Bob Hirsch, Virginia Tichenor, and the Ragtime Skedaddlers.  Music from 11:00 AM to 6:30 PM, which is jazz enough for anyone.  In beautiful Sonoma, too!

And — the way things go at beautiful establishments like Cline Cellars — I have reason to expect there will be wonderful beverages in glasses and delicious things to eat . . . . for you to purchase.  My previous dealings with Cline have all been more than pleasant, even though this is the first Day of the Dixieland I have been to.  So I am looking forward to great combinations, say MABEL’S DREAM with a glass of zinfandel . . . anything is possible!

Picnic-Basket-Buttermilk-Fried-Chicken

I also hear tell that you can bring your own picnic, but be sure to bring more than you need, so that you can offer your jazz heroes and heroines a piece of fried chicken, a hard-boiled or deviled egg: playing jazz is hungry work.  They’ll love you for it.

Details and tickets here.

May your happiness increase! 

THREE WAYS OF LOOKING AT MONA HINTON

Mona Hinton, Milt’s widow, died yesterday at 89 after a long illness.  Those are the spare facts.  Here are three stories:

When Milt was a rather exuberant young musician, Mona made him behave himself, save his money, take care of business.  Irene Leeman, married for years to the great (and under-acknowledged) drummer Cliff, said recently, “Mona was always pushing and encouraging Milt.  ‘Get out there, Judge, and sing that song.  Take another solo, Judge.'”  Milt was a wonderful player and warm personality, but Mona’s loving prodding no doubt made him the beloved public figure he was.

My good friend Stu Zimny, a fine bass player who took a few lessons (and a good deal of on-the-spot spiritual guidance) from Milt, told me about being the happy recipient of Milt and Mona’s generosity.  And, he has emphasized more than once, her fried chicken was delicious, her portions generous.

When I saw Milt at an outdoor concert in 1981 in Glen Cove, New York (he was with Dick Hyman, Joe Wilder, Phil Bodner, and Bobby Rosengarden) I asked him, “Where’s Mona?” not seeing her anywhere.  With some amusement, Milt said, “Oh, man, she’s heard all my shit already.”

People like Mona — loving, generous — should always be celebrated.  We’ll miss her!