Smelling Like Roses

With my own personal Jazz Education well under way, the CEO of the label at which I worked had a bright idea for promoting one of his new artists. This new artist was actually not that new, but heretofore had never been promoted as a soloist and was therefore relatively new to the Jazz buying public, small and loyal as they were. T.K. Blue, otherwise known as Talib Kibwe, was a reputable sideman for African-Jazzman Randy Weston as well as some other well established jazzers. Taking the opportunity to craft an artist according to his vision, Arkadia Records' CEO borrowed from the nickname-related history of jazz and renamed Kibwe (playing off of his initials) T.K. Blue. With a new album in the can and a nationally underexposed name/brand, T.K. needed to get his name out in the market. Arkadia's CEO decided that New York City as the nexus of jazz, would be a great place to start. In an aggressive 30 gigs in 30 days performance schedule entitled "The Blue Blitz" these NY-only gigs ranged from small, free afternoon venues like Starbucks to nights at the Jazz Standard or at Sweet Basil's two of the better known jazz clubs on the circuit.

One of the more interesting jazz clubs on T.K.'s itinerary was the Jazz Gallery downtown on the west side of Manhattan. As the name would imply, the Jazz Gallery was a unique studio/gallery space with a rotating collection of jazz-themed artwork from Jazz inspired oil paintings to photography and the occaisonal live performance. The Jazz Gallery was part of the Blue Blitz on a coveted weekend evening slot and many of the label staph showed up in support of T.K.'s fine new album. Holding maybe 100 or so people in an upstairs loft/gallery space, the Jazz Gallery was packed to capacity and buzzing with excitement. While it was a good turnout I remember that the facility itself was not completely equipped to handle live performances. The sound was a little muddy and the chairs for the audience were of the metal folding variety. After stting in those things for more than 30 min. I felt like my tuchus was being pinched with metal clamps instead of metal chairs supporting my weight.

I arrived a little too early with my date and the CEO arrived by himself later after most of the crowd had moved into the performance space. We greeted each other warmly - I always felt well appreciated by him when I saw our artists performing live. Another characteristic I noticed about my boss was that at times he seemed to forget to apply deoderant. The smell that sometimes eminated from him in these situations was that of old b.o. Not necessarily wet, stinky, rank b.o. that told you that maybe he had been sweating profusely a couple hours ago but old b.o. that let you know that while he wasn't really perspiring at the time he hadn't actually used any deoderant in at least 36, perhaps even 48 hours. The night of the Jazz Gallery I shook his hand hello and held back a cough that somehow shot down my nostrils and into my respiratory system. After a brief conversation we each began to work the room on our own. About 20 minutes later I noticed that our CEO's wife had arrived and was talking to her husband as well as a photographer we frequently used as well as a jazzbeat writer. As I moved towards them to say hello, my boss left the small group and headed directly to the men's room. I joined the group he had just left and made some harmless conversation. Within minutes the CEO had reappeared and when I acknowledged him I couldn't help but notice that his old b.o. smell had been replaced by a sweet powdery smell that could only be described as freshly applied Ban or Dry Idea. Apparently his wife, used to his tendency of not always remembering to apply deoderant, was carrying around a small deoderant supply in her purse for just such an occaison. Noticing her husband's earthy smell, she must have surreptitiously slipped him the deoderant accompanied by a slight nod towards the men's room.

Overall, I never chalked up this habit on the part of my boss to uncleanliness or being unconcerned with personal hygiene but being more about his being too busy and overworked to remember to do everything he was supposed to do. He kept long hours and seemed to be working all the time both day and night. Sometimes he would tell me how he was getting into the office later than usual because his home phone was ringing with work-related matters and he simply couldn't get away. With this type of schedule maybe he thought to himself "Look, with everything I have going on who cares if I forget to swipe my pits every now and then?" This would be one of those rare stories where personal hygiene is sacrificed for overwork and stress.