For his 75th birthday, Barry had treated himself to a gorgeous shiny-black grand piano. I sat on the drum kit just to his right. Just across the room, Barry’s wife Lois was putting on the strap of her banjo, which she strummed in a jazz rhythm style. Completing our rhythm section was a bass player, busy tuning his gargantuan stand-up instrument.

Barry had arranged the scores for that evening on his piano stand and, as band leader, he would call out charts and tunes.

I was lucky to be the back-up drummer in Barry Cartwright’s weekly jam session in North York. It was my last real music gig.

Barry’s the father of one of my high school friends, John Cartwright. John and I had played in our high school stage band; he had a sure touch on tenor saxophone, and I was back on the drum set keeping the beat.

Barry is a long-time jazz pianist who brought together musicians for weekly jam sessions at his home for many years.

“I’ll be there”

As back-up drummer, I was a bit like that Zamboni-driving emergency goalie who helped Carolina defeat Toronto awhile back. Once in a blue moon on a Wednesday night, I’d get the call from Barry:

“Ian, we need a drummer tomorrow. Can you make it?”

It was nice to feel wanted, knowing I could step up when the regular drummer was on the shelf. And unlike the emergency goalie, I got to play dozens of times over the years. “Okay Barry, I’ll be there.”

A typical night with Barry’s band started late, around 8 p.m.  My Ludwig drum kit was on long-term loan in his basement, so I just showed up with a pair of sticks and brushes.

Structure and soul

Over the course of the next four hours, Barry’s band would work its way through many charts and music styles from jazz to dixie to latin. Take a typical jazz standard like “All of Me.” The beauty of the song is the mix of verse and chorus, structure and freestyle.  The band plays together through a verse and chorus, then one by one, musicians playing instruments such as trumpet, trombone, clarinet and saxophone would have a go at soloing.

I recall Mr. Hallam, another father of a high-school friend, playing soulful clarinet solos, his sound soaring over the band while his torso twisted in empathy.

An elderly trumpet player — I will call him Bill — blew confident, melodic solos, sometimes using his mute to give sensitive contrast. When Barry called out a chart, Bill would give his thoughts on the mood of the song, to get his head around it before he played — “That’s a dreamy kind of number.”

Barry would take a turn at a piano solo, his adrenaline up, his arms and white hair flying. And once in awhile, the rest of the rhythm section would also get to freelance. For me on drums, sometimes the band “traded fours,” giving me alternating four-bar spots to adlib my way around the drum kit.

Then the full band would fall back into formation and go full power for the final chorus and finale.

Our motley musical crew played until midnight! We enjoyed a rollicking evening of music, breaking only for a chat over beer and beer nuts. During break, some of the musicians recalled their gigs in the glory days of big bands, back in the day when a trumpeter could earn money as a professional musicians. A few still played gigs from time to time at special events.

Midnight magic

When the clock hit midnight, more magic.

Lois would have put down her rhythm banjo around 11:30 p.m to sneak upstairs to the main floor of the couple’s spacious split-level home.

When the music stopped, we also headed upstairs to a midnight feast prepared by Lois — apple pie, cheese, coffee and other goodies. A chance to reminisce, recap the evening, talk about music, wish others well.

I was the “young guy” in my 40s and 50s, while many of the musicians in Barry’s band were well into their 80s. But they would tire me out. I’d be sitting eating apple pie afterwards, in the wee hours of the morning, thinking, “I gotta work tomorrow.” Then I would drive home in a blissful state through the darkened and empty streets of T.O.

I recall the last time I saw Bill the trumpet player, he of the dreamy touch on muted trumpet. I noticed he had small IV tube in his arm.  He had brought along a few favourite record albums that he wanted to give away, and during the break he got a few takers.  About a month later, Bill passed away in his sleep one night, after playing his final evening session with Barry’s band, and taking his coffee and pie at midnight as usual.

I ran into Mr. Hallam the clarinetist a while ago. He was doing well, still playing, although he told me Barry’s weekly jam session had ended. My phone no longer rang on a Wednesday night. I had been out of the loop for awhile. Sadly, Lois had passed away.

What a legacy. Barry had propelled his jazz band into his early ’90s, his fingers dancing on the keys of his grand piano. So much music over the years. So much pie, coffee and midnight chats, so much joy.