In December of 2018, my wife and I spent the Christmas holidays with my in-laws in Queens, NYC.  As per usual, every time I visit the city, I try to catch some sort of musical performance.   Fortunately, one of my favorite guitarists, Mike Stern, was performing at the Iridium with none other than Dennis Chambers, Randy Brecker and, the outrageously gifted bassist, Tom Kennedy. 

I had seen Mike and Dennis on several occasions, Randy at the 2018 UNC/Greeley Jazz Festival and Tom, never.  Alone, each of these musicians is nothing short of outstanding; together, I knew that this group was going to be sensational.  

I purchased three tickets:  one for my wife, my brother in-law, Frank, and myself. Sadly, this would be the only Jazz show Frank ever attended.

Jazz, to me, has always been a form of extremely refined communication; the subtle interplay between silence and sound that produces an original moment never to be repeated.  Jazz represents life itself with all of its tempo changes, melodies, screeches and quiet, dead quiet.   To make it so, the musician must both listen and express with intentions.  To honor what has been said, and to respond in kind.  What else can be said other than this is beauty, art, a sculpture in motion.

Those that have never experienced this artform may be a bit bewildered.  They may feel uncomfortable or perhaps confused because they do not know what to make of these sounds.  This, however, was not the case for Frank.  He may not have understood all the musical nuance, but he was excited to hang with his sister and me and to be introduced to something new, tremendously new.  

Unbeknownst to us, we were in for a real treat that night:  Leni Stern made a guest appearance.  I had no idea that she was Mike’s wife.  Knowing this made the performance all the more poignant.  What greater life than to spend it with someone you love creating music.  From what I remember, I believe the group played two or three of Leni’s songs and then she left.

At some time later, Frank went to smoke a cigarette and found Leni outside doing the same.  As he told it: “I just saw that dude’s wife outside.  She was smoking a cigarette and I told her that this was my first Jazz concert and she gave me a hug”.  How wonderful is that:  to be greeted by appreciation and kindness, to be welcomed into a community, to be embraced for attending.

Frank, as my wife describes him, is one of those New York boys who never left the hood.  Although his family is off-the-boat Croatian, he never ventured outside of his comfort zone of Astoria, Queens. I would describe him as a late bloomer, the kind of guy who was emotionally trapped in his adolescent years i.e. worried too much about the opinions of others and never established an inner calm and connectedness with himself.  

I was hoping that an introduction to Jazz would provide him with a realization that the world has much greater depth than the lifestyle to which he was accustomed and, for that matter, the viewpoints he held.  That there were many other ways that human beings could communicate with one another.  That you did not have to know everything nor be the “best” in order to share, to give, to connect with someone.  Ironically, a hug from Leni and not the music put the biggest smile on his face. That night he beamed with happiness!

Frank passed away of heart failure some time Sunday morning, on September 6, 2020, two weeks to the day after his 39th birthday.   For those that knew him, this is a tragic loss.  And for those that know the family, their hearts break.  

Like that night at the Iridium, I hope that Frank has been welcomed by another community in the great beyond.  I hope someone like Leni is there to greet him.

RIP, brother.