GUEST POST BY LEE
Revelation 8:6 And the seven angels which had the seven trumpets prepared themselves to sound.
Mary Duval has passed. The trumpets have sounded. And yes there were angels; a million of them, joyously marking the fact that Mary D was now in their band. But knowing Mary as I do, I believe these deities weren’t at all cloaked in flowing, diaphanous white robes, but rather in “steppin’ out” attire – black cocktail dresses and sharkskin suits; rocking ray-bans all.
No, for this contentious and invincible spirit I was thinking Saturday night Jazz. Progressive, mind blowing fusions that conjure up Miles Davis in a neon-coated off-the wall-late-night ad libitum that blows the doors – and parochial musical concepts – off their frame and into the street, is how I will remember Mary. For this is how Mary played. She was fire. She was electricity with no off switch. A fearless social virtuoso who went for the highest, boldest, and loudest notes…especially when the bar manager was signaling to keep it down. Please keep it down. Never happened; that is not how she played.
The stage is empty, the chairs have been stacked and the lights turned off. Mary played to encores and standing O’s. It was a performance for the ages.
But if one listens, though…I mean really listens, one can still here her trumpet wailing from the club upstairs; seems as though she ain’t done her set yet.
Does that surprise anyone?
Goodbye, friend. You were one hell of a player.