In December 2018, my wife and I spent Christmas with her family in Queens, New York.

Whenever I'm in New York, I try to see live music. That year I discovered that one of my favorite guitarists, Mike Stern, was performing at the Iridium with an extraordinary band: Dennis Chambers on drums, Randy Brecker on trumpet and Tom Kennedy on bass.

I had seen Mike and Dennis several times before. I had seen Randy Brecker earlier that year at the UNC/Greeley Jazz Festival. I had never seen Tom Kennedy.

Individually, these musicians were remarkable.

Together, I knew they were going to be something else.

So I bought three tickets: one for me, one for my wife, and one for my brother-in-law, Frank.

I couldn't have known it then, but it would be the only jazz concert Frank would ever attend.

Listening to Something New

I've always thought of jazz as a particularly refined form of communication.

One musician says something. Another listens and responds. Sometimes the response is loud and immediate. Sometimes it's a few quiet notes. Sometimes the most important contribution is leaving space for somebody else.

When it's really happening, everyone is simultaneously listening and speaking.

Perhaps that's why jazz can bewilder someone hearing it for the first time. There isn't always an obvious roadmap. You have to become comfortable not knowing exactly where the music is going.

Frank wasn't a jazz listener.

In fact, this entire world was foreign to him.

But that didn't matter.

He was out with his sister and brother-in-law, experiencing something completely new, and he seemed genuinely happy to be there.

Then the evening gave us a surprise.

Leni Stern

At some point during the performance, guitarist and singer Leni Stern joined the group.

I didn't know at the time that Leni was Mike Stern's wife.

I remember thinking there was something particularly wonderful about watching two people who had built a life together also make music together.

She performed several songs with the band and eventually left the stage.

Sometime later, Frank stepped outside for a cigarette.

And there was Leni.

When Frank returned, he was positively glowing.

He told us he'd seen “that dude's wife” outside. He had introduced himself and told her that this was his first jazz concert.

And Leni Stern gave him a hug.

Of everything that happened musically that evening—the solos, the extraordinary musicianship, the interaction among some of the finest jazz players in the world—that was the moment Frank talked about.

Someone had welcomed him.

Sometimes the Music Isn't the Most Important Part

I had hoped Frank would enjoy the concert.

Maybe he'd discover something in jazz that he hadn't encountered before. Maybe he'd hear the communication I heard in it: people listening to one another, responding, making room, taking chances and creating something together that hadn't existed a moment earlier.

Perhaps some of that reached him.

But I think I was looking for the lesson in the wrong place.

The moment that mattered most to Frank didn't happen onstage.

It happened outside, during a cigarette break, when an accomplished musician encountered a stranger attending his first jazz concert and responded to him with warmth.

A hug.

That was enough.

Frank beamed for the rest of the evening.

The Last Concert

Frank died of heart failure on September 6, 2020, exactly two weeks after his 39th birthday.

He was far too young.

For those who knew him, his death was a terrible loss. For his family, it was devastating.

When someone dies, particularly someone so young, the mind has a peculiar way of returning to seemingly ordinary moments.

For me, one of those moments will always be that December night at the Iridium.

Mike Stern.

Dennis Chambers.

Randy Brecker.

Tom Kennedy.

Leni Stern.

My wife.

Frank.

And a young man experiencing jazz for the first—and, as it turned out, only—time.

I remember his smile when he came back inside.

I remember how happy that simple gesture had made him.

And I think about what jazz had taught me for years: that connection doesn't always require knowing exactly what to say. Sometimes you listen. Sometimes you respond.

And sometimes you simply make another person feel welcome.

That night, Leni Stern welcomed Frank into a world he knew almost nothing about.

I hope that when Frank left this one, someone was there to welcome him into the next.

Maybe even with a hug.

Rest in peace, brother.