Vices

All for You: A dedication to the Nat King Cole Trio; Diana Krall

I think that I’ve mentioned before that I don’t smoke. I’ve never smoked. Anything. Ever. I don’t drink alcohol, either, other than the annual glass of wine with which I toast the Christmas holiday with Mom and my sister K. I abhor, revolt and yes, even fear, the inability I would have in maintaining control of thought, speech and bodily function due to the effects of alcohol. A can of beer or a bottle of scotch doesn’t tantalize me in the least.

I never knew Mom to smoke. Or drink. She does like coffee, though. And waffles. I can scarcely bring myself to label a penchant for waffles as a vice.

I remember when Dad used to smoke cigars. He used to keep them in the pickup. They got expensive at some point, however, so he quit. Then he took to smoking a pipe for a while. But then the pipe fell out of his shirt pocket out in the outhouse one day. And that was the end of that.

I’ve remained fairly sheltered from the world wide smoking community. I have a few friends who still light up now and then. At some point during our friendship, I search for the proper time to tell them that they should stop. Usually they tell me that they would like to, but the opportunity to do so hadn’t reared its head yet. It must be horribly difficult to quit. Those friends and family members who have been able put their lighter away have my undying love and respect. They are my heroes.

My vice is food. The good Lord has, so far, only given me strength sufficient enough to say, Maybe … maybe … I shouldn’t eat that brownie. Or that Oreo. Or the rest of that pizza. The word “maybe” is a coward’s word. It serves me daily in allowing me to “not need to justify” indulging in a Rice Krispie treat, Aunt Gladys’ blueberry crisp or a Little Debbie Nutty Bar. Perhaps I have fully spent my entire reservoir of willpower and stamina in my lifelong sanctions of drink and smoke.

Nat King Cole was one of the finest jazz pianists of the 20^th century. The instrumentation of his jazz trio … piano, guitar and bass … held sway over the stylings of other jazz pianists after him: Art Tatum, Oscar Peterson, Ahmad Jamal and Ray Charles. For me, it’s not so much the presence of a guitar that distinguishes the sound. No drums. That’s golden.

Mind you, I like to play with outstanding drummers. But, I like the rhythmic excitement that comes from the acoustical sounds of a piano, upright bass and … whataever … sax, trumpet, trombone or guitar. A drum set covers all that up. There, I said it.

I suppose Mr. King Cole had a great voice. I listen to it and hear the same beauty and style that everybody else does. But that impression is discolored by the knowledge that he smoked Kool menthol cigarettes heavily – often smoking several in rapid succession before stepping in front of the microphone – in the belief that smoking kept his voice low. He died of lung cancer on February 15, 1965, at the age of forty-five.

Diana Krall emulates Nat King Cole with this faultless and stylistically rich album of fun, polish, poise and elegance. This – is my favorite Nat King Cole album.

Credits: To restaurateur Maurice Vermersch, who sold his Brussels waffles under the name “Bel-Gem” waffles at New York’s 1964 World’s Fair. MMMMmmmmmmmm. Waffles.

This is the twelfth of my final forty-five CD's.