One morning last week I ran into Pere Ferré, a neighbor from the district, who was waiting for the traffic light to change. I stopped my motorcycle to greet him and to ask him if we would have a concert, as every Monday, at the Jazzman. He replied that he didn't know because precisely the day before, that is, this past Sunday, he was supposed to perform in a tribute to Tete Montoliu that was being held for La Mercè. I know Pere too late, just as I came to jazz late and clumsily, and I don't intend to know much but to improvise (I buy records based on the poetry of their titles, that says it all).
The thing is, I immediately decided to go; I wanted to see Pere on a big stage. Teatre Grec, 8:30 PM, free admission by the grace and mercy of La Mercè. I expected that this year the jazz tribute would be for Núria Feliu, but the people from Jazz Terrassa (and especially Pere Pons and Ignasi Terraza) had been working on it much earlier. I suppose and hope that the Piromusical will not forget our diva from Sants, but I already see in the program that our Tete of today will not forget her either. For some reason, in '66 they performed together that first week in New York at the Waldorf Astoria (where they ended up performing El cant dels ocells before an angry Spanish ambassador), and for some reason they performed together so many times transforming Misty into Gris; Willow, weep for me into Soc com un desmai and Bye bye, blackbird into Ves i perde't. So there it is: I will go to the concert to get lost, like someone in a garden who only wants to see the forest.
In Barcelona, since we don't have Greek ruins and we have to go see them in the Upper Empordà, in 1929 we built ourselves a Greek theater and had the nerve to call it Teatre Grec. It even gives its name to our annual performing arts festival. That said: the space is a luxury and its gardens know they are an exception in a city that doesn't know how to make parks. Montjuïc has been our only atonement, and with flying colors (everything else, Ciutadella included, is confusing parks with decorated dog parks).
I arrive at the theater after a labyrinth of detours caused by the correfocs (blessed motorcycle, an invention that the city council pursues like a Roadrunner's Coyote) and I see that the theater is full. Full means that, when I sit down, people are still arriving who will stand listening to the concert from outside. Tete Montoliu, 25 years without Tete Montoliu, 25 years in the dark. The man who has spoken (played) face to face with George Coleman, Chet Baker, Ella Fitzgerald, Dexter Gordon, Donald Byrd, Ornette Coleman, Chick Corea, et cetera. The year he debuted in New York, Miles Davis in person goes to see him play. "There are no wrong notes," said Miles the philosopher: "only the next note can make that one wrong or not." Miles ended up being the name of Tete's dog. So what, the dog would have replied. There are no wrong barks either.
I am ashamed to have never heard Blues for Tete, by Ignasi Terraza, a piece so joyful, elegant, and universal that it could be the start of any party at the inauguration of a great art museum. Ignasi introduces us to Horacio Fumero, an excellent double bassist, and Aldo Caviglia, a drummer like no other, two eternal travel companions of Tete, a pianist like a cathedral. Many years have passed since that first recording at the Palau, Al Palau (1979), and this pair seem to play the pieces as if they were invoking the master and making him appear with that pose of a clairvoyant perfumer, head held high piercing the darkness with his glasses, giving sparks and light to music that is played in caves.
After Blues for Tete comes the Milestones of the philosophical dog, with that long, prominent, and precise double bass prelude, somewhat accelerated, the whole concert seems somewhat revolutionized without losing an ounce of perfection. Even of the blues composed by Tete, they make a commendable medley: Montserrat, Blues for Núria, T'estimo tant, Carícies, Blues for Line…, still performed on the piano by an equally impeccable, equally blind, and equally clairvoyant Ignasi Terraza. The advantage of jazz, unlike symphonic concerts, is that the audience can applaud in the middle of the piece without any problem. It is also done in some opera arias, but in jazz, we are family and you can applaud whenever you want, you can even perform an applause solo. So what, right, Miles? Absolutely nothing happens.
Immediately the guest stars appear, starting with Núria Feliu, that is Ves i perde't, that is Bye Bye Blackbird sung by her niece Mireia Feliu, et podria dir que em fas (però no cal si te0'n vas), em fas molt mal, em fas molt mal, and the pianist is now the also immense Elisabet Raspall. When they finish, Pere Ferré comes on stage. Little by little, showing off his old age, making himself waited for and applauded, but above all making the audience stand up in a very long ovation that I know will make his legs tremble even more.
Pere can be seen not only at the Jazzman on Mondays with his trio, but also some Wednesdays at the Giardinetto, and whenever I have heard him in concert, with those thick hands tortured by so much black magic on the keyboard, he has ended his performance with a phrase from La Santa Espina. It seems he said, before the concert, that he should only be introduced as a very ugly guy. They played together with Tete at La Boîte, alternately, and afterwards they always went home together. At the end of his piece, Pere again raises a long ovation and gives way to pianist Manel Camp with El testament d'Amèlia (Catalan popular), Albert Bover and himself (on organ) with the very sensual Blues per al el pianista desconegut from the album Vampyria, which goes straight to my playlist. While they play boleros with Eladio Reinón's sax, behind me, someone smokes marijuana.
Laura Simó will lecture us singing Lush Life (to get the feed of life from jazz and cocktails) and the very sad Speak Low (love is a spark, lost in the dark too soon, too soon), before moving on to Serrat, the famous old neighbor of this neighborhood, with Per què la gent d'avorreix tant. A dreadful title, a beautiful song, an exquisite poem, as almost always happens with Serrat. The party is closed by Reinón's sax and Josep Maria Farràs's trumpet, with pieces like Fried bananas by Dexter Gordon.
I leave among the gardens of the theater very proud of the city, of ours, of having discovered so late, but so intensely the light inside the caves, the gaze behind the glasses, the piano inside the veins and the most absolute luxury inside a vulgar, I mean popular, major festival.