When I was navigating the awkward hallways of middle school at 13 in Pfafftown, North Carolina, my friend Melinda Johnson was my constant companion on the school bus. Melinda, petite in stature but immense in intellect, introduced me to the art of crawdad hunting and regaled me with captivating stories. Her narratives were elaborate tapestries woven with secret whispers, stolen glances, and palpable anticipation, always culminating in the same thrillingly scandalous confession:
“And then…” (a dramatic pause for effect) “…and then… he kissed me.”
This repeated punchline, delivered with the same wide-eyed wonder each time, never failed to elicit a mix of excitement and shock in my young mind. Years later, as I stepped into the daunting world of professional jazz, signing with GRP Records in my 30s, Melinda’s memorable phrase resurfaced in an unexpected way. Surrounded by jazz luminaries, I often felt like an outsider, a harpist in a realm dominated by seasoned instrumentalists.
Despite being the ‘artist’ on my own albums, a sense of imposter syndrome lingered, casting me as the eager younger sibling trying to keep pace with the musical giants. Often, my interactions with these incredible musicians were fleeting, sometimes non-existent until the mixing stage. It was during the recording of my third album that I encountered a phenomenal percussionist, whose name I believe was “Cafe” (my apologies if my memory falters – those sessions were a whirlwind!).
We were laying down a track, a blues-infused piece I had penned titled “And Then He Kissed Me…”, a nostalgic nod to Melinda Johnson and her captivating storytelling. During a playback session in the sound booth, a lighthearted banter sparked between the percussionist and me. He playfully addressed me in French, a language I didn’t comprehend, while I responded in English, completely misinterpreting his words.
His voice, rich and resonant, held a captivating quality. Suddenly, a flash of inspiration struck me. Being an ardent admirer of Ken Nordine, the pioneering figure of “Word Jazz” – a genre blending spoken word with jazz rhythms – I recognized a unique opportunity. The nonsensical French-English exchange set against the backdrop of our bluesy tune resonated with Nordine’s innovative style. “This is so… so Nordine!” I exclaimed, conviction seizing me. “We have to record this!” Mustering a rare surge of boldness, I proposed, “Could we possibly capture this on tape? We can always discard it if the label disapproves.”
And so we did. We stepped back into the studio, positioned ourselves before two microphones, and it was then, under the studio lights, that his striking presence truly registered. Realizing the spontaneity of my impulsive suggestion was about to become reality, I froze. My earlier witty banter vanished, replaced by a sudden shyness. Overwhelmed by his charm, I could only manage a soft sigh and a nervous giggle – a far cry from the poised persona I aspired to embody.
Surprisingly, the record label embraced the unconventional, agreeing to include our impromptu sound booth conversation on the album. To this day, listeners who followed my music during that era fondly recall and chuckle about that peculiar track.
Years later, fate led me to France for an interview with a French journalist. To my astonishment, he launched into a near-perfect recitation of the French dialogue from that very recording, erupting into laughter. It was in that moment that a realization dawned upon me: French-speaking audiences would not only understand the percussionist’s words but also fully grasp my utter cluelessness in the exchange.
The moral of this story? Perhaps there isn’t one. It’s simply a whimsical anecdote, a tribute to Melinda Johnson, the enchanting allure of the French language, and the unexpected turns in a musical journey. The beauty of both, much like a memorable melody, persists whether fully understood or simply felt.
