I saw him perform on television, at a cool jazz festival a few years back. A giant of a man, singing Autumn Leaves, with an almost eerily sincere voice. When I finally got to meet him, it became obvious that his gigantism wasn’t limited to his physique.
He told me that after the third time he went to yoga class, by the age of 56, he had lit a fag, and apologised to himself for all his anger. He had previously embraced the thought of premature death, but a series of events led him to pick up his old diary, and revisit his past life to figure out where it all went wrong.
We goofed around for a bit, making faces for giggles. I played him a couple of my tracks. He liked the timbre, he said.