New York was going through a bad case of blackout. The R Train we were on got stuck between 25 Street and Prospect Avenue, and the possibility of missing the Birdland concert was looming large. According to the announcer who sounded concerned to a hysterical degree, electricity in central Manhattan was off, and Brooklyn trains had to slow down. "Power outage!" she kept screaming. "Power outage!" Those were nervous times because the concert was due to start in 40 minutes and the idea of a Polish pianist performing without us was getting more and more realistic. A huge Puerto Rican lady unfolded her deckchair in the middle of the subway car, brought herself down and started talking to her kids in a sloppy and loud manner. The tone of her voice must have been natural to her and other New Yorkers, but not to us.
In the end, the train moved a little, huffed and puffed to the other side of the Hudson River, and we ran out of the subway on 28 Street. The announcer said that the train would not go any further. Manhattan, as it happened, was in the state of collapse. We saw it as we started moving towards Times Square in complete, ravenous darkness of New York. This was a sight like nothing else. Millions of people walking in every direction, as busily and purposefully as ever, just in the dark. Millions of mobile phones were flashing out like this was all part of a big show. Meanwhile, time was running out and we, too, had to run towards Times Square that stunned us like never before. Because Times Square was shining bright. While everything else was drowning in dead windows and dead restaurants, the neon lights of Times Square advertisements were on. It was as if they were powered by some black sorcery. Unable to take it all in, we turned left and stumbled upon the legendary jazz club that did not look legendary that particular night. The sign was off and you would have been forgiven if you had missed it entirely. In fact, we almost did.
There was no hustle around Birdland that day. In fact, we were fully expecting that the girl at the reception would inform us about the inevitable cancellation. Which would be devastating. The girl, however, looked impressed that we made it to the jazz club. Few people did. We got inside and saw the place almost completely empty. Out of thirty tables in the room only two were taken, and we managed to get one in the front row - right in front of the stage. The mood was precious. It was quiet, dark, respectful, and there were candles placed on every table as if awaiting a seance or a David Lynch screening. There was even a candle on the piano that Konrad Paszkudski would start playing in a minute or so. We ordered red wine, and began waiting.
The entire concert was played for the audience of seven or eight, but the Konrad Paszkudski Trio were not discouraged. In fact, it felt like this was one of the most memorable gigs of their lives. Not many people made it to Birdland that night, but, somehow, it made the experience all the more precious for those who shared it. There was a properly motionless double bass player, a slender and intricate guitarist who looked like an Italian New Yorker from 1920s, and there was Konrad Paszkudski who was moving us to tears with a quietly sensual performance. And then, right in the middle of the show, the lights were on, and suddenly, New York was back to its old self. Which was both fascinating and a little disheartening.
Later still, when the concert came to an end, he said that there was another gig in Birdland that night, and it was taking place in a different hall. Freddy Cole was performing, and we were all welcome. In fact, he would be there himself. And then he finished with the words none of us could miss: "You cannot imagine how fortunate we all are today. We are going to be seeing one of the last living jazz legends of the 20th century".
Which was how it happened that we saw Freddy Cole live in New York on a blackout night in the middle of July. The girl at the reception said yes, why not, we can use those tickets for the Freddy Cole show as there were a couple of empty tables due to the blackout. At that point, we were in a Guy Madding movie. We were not fully realising what was going on, but we entered the second hall and took the last free table as Freddy Cole was telling the audience about tonight's show. The atmosphere in the room was electric, but the electricity went off again the moment he began to sing. This was a different kind of electricity, a more potent and timeless one. Because the world may as well have come to a complete standstill when Freddy Cole was singing, just his voice, his effortless jazz croon, that filled the room the way sun-dried straw would fill the space around it after a damp night. It was simple, profound and totally out of time. For an hour of our lives, that voice was all that mattered.
We were walking home in a different New York, in a different time and a different life. The reality was muffled, and the only sound that was still making any sense was the voice of Freddy Cole still playing in our ears. The lights were on, and in the morning papers we would read about the first major New York blackout in a quarter of a century, but that particular night in July, the few stars in the sky could show us the way to our apartment.
It is always tragic to find out about the death of someone important and dear to you. But it is even more tragic to find out that this certain someone had died a year ago. Quietly, without you even noticing. Because all this time, you were lonely and you did not even know it.
