When Returning a Gift is its own Gift (Part III: The Last Dance)

(Continued from Part II)

I didn’t know it at the time, but today would be the last time I wore the dress. It had been pouring rain all day, but miraculously it stopped and the sun came out just before our Jazz Festival show. Puddles were everywhere, but the sun sparkled in them all, casting flirty jewels of light all around the outdoor venue. Held in an outdoor garden center with statuary, fountains and trees full of fairy lights, the scene was set for a magical early evening performance.

[Here is the soundtrack for your multimedia reading experience.]

It was a Saturday early evening slot at the Saskatchewan Jazz Festival, one of our regular annual performances. In addition to an opening slot for a main stage artist, we also typically played at least four to five other performances during the 10-day festival, which at the time was the fourth largest in Canada.

We were to do two 45-minute sets with a 15-minute break in between. The audience was small; we knew many would stay home because of the threat of more rain. (We were under a canopy on stage, but the audience wasn’t.) We’d never cared about how many people were in an audience; we’d happily sing and play for nobody (and often did), so just being there was special.

The first set was going great; the audience was small but mighty, and into the music. More people were arriving when we went into the final song of the set, our high- energy album title song, Go Fat Daddy, feeling great about how the show was coming together.

I don’t stand still very often when I sing, but I really get jazzed doing Daddy—I just can’t help it. It’s a happy, uncompromising jive tune with the guys jungle singing in the background…what could be more fun? And the lyrics…

“I got boobs and I got hips…I got a pair a big ol’ lips…I got lots to leave, leave behind…ya say I’m plump you’re bein kind…oh Go Fat Daddy…”

You get the idea. Well, right as I’m singing “lots to leave, leave be-hind,” I feel this giant swoosh! behind me and a sudden feeling of cool breeze up my…well, let’s just say I felt the sudden urge to reach behind me to feel what was going on. I tried to make it look like it was supposed to happen…I turned around to look at my drummer Don directly behind me as if to say, “whut thu!?”

Don, one of the best and most professional swing drummers I’ve ever heard, had a look on his face like, hmm…well, like he was 14 and had just walked in on his mom and dad in bed. But of course he never missed a beat. And neither did I. I turned back around, smiled and kept on singing… “Go Fat Daddy!” (And the guys responded, with what may have been a snicker or two, “Go Fat Daddy!”) I ignored them, and finished with “Go Fat Daddy, yo’ big mama wants to SCHWA-ing with you!” The final crash of the high hat sounded, the crowd applauded wildly and the announcer came on to say we’d be back shortly for a second set.

Meanwhile, I looked over my shoulder to see that the swoosh had been the 70-year-old cotton thread in the back seam finally giving up the ghost. It had simply disintegrated all in one motion—from the back hem of the dress to the bottom of the zipper, exposing my panty-hosed legs and rear end, all up in Don’s face.

I grabbed the two flapping pieces and held them together, inching around the back of the drum set. “How the hell did you keep drumming?” I said.

Don laughed. “Your face is almost purple, you know. Hey, I have no idea. I think I went on auto-pilot at that point.”

The show’s photographer and fellow vocalist Cidne came running up from the side-stage, whispering urgently, “what happened?” I showed her.

“Oh crap,” she said.

“We have another set to do in 15 minutes,” I said, playing Captain Obvious.

Horn player Garnet came over from the other side of the stage to see what the fuss was about.

“Oh. That’s not good,” he said, starting to laugh.

“Duct tape!” I demanded, ignoring him. Garnet always had some in his bag.

“What color?” he asked helpfully, grinning.

“Black please,” I said. “But how are we going to get somewhere to tape this up? I have to take the dress off…it’s after hours; the garden store is closed.”

Cidne scurried off to find the owner, and within a couple of minutes we had a key to the store. He pointed down a dark set of stairs. “Bathroom’s down there.”

(Continued in Part IV)