Ann Rabson: A Bluesy Night at Rehoboth Beach

It was about twenty years ago, and I was only a few years into my marriage. Love was kind, and required no effort. The summer nights at Rehoboth were long and languorous. It was a time when the past was the past and the future was now. Those were the days of wine and roses.

Sydney’s Side Street Cafe was nearly empty at that time of day, and I had wondered why such a popular looking place was so quiet. Only two or three folks sat at the bar while the staff seemed to be preparing for an evening event. A chubby, middle-aged, white woman with a plump, round face and a bushy head of curly, graying hair struck up a conversation with me. She was so cheerful and inviting that I immediately thought that she had to have been the owner of the place.  I later found out that she was not Sydney, but was one of the musicians that would be playing jazz later that evening to promote the release of a new album by her group, Saffire: The Uppity Blues Women. (Yep, I said album, as in vinyl).  She continued on and described their group, Saffire, as “… just three bawdy old broads that like to play the blues!”   Before I knew it we had spent the next hour or so talking music – everything from B.B. King, to Albert King, to Carole King, to King Curtis, to Curtis Mayfield. We really connected and I knew that she was unlike any other musician that I had ever met. She had learned the blues, lived the blues and loved the blues.

 

Now listen, I can talk music from sunup till sundown and never get tired of it – that is, as long as the company is good.  And let me tell you, Ann Rabson was good company. She seemed to find a direct path to that part of me that I reserve only for those musicians who have known me for a very long time.  There was definitely a musical “click” between us.  But I never would have expected to be invited to “sit-in” with her band that evening.

“You haven’t even heard me play …” I cautioned.

She shrugged it off with total confidence and seemingly with no concern whatsoever.

“Oooh, I know you can play, my friend. I would love for you to sit in with us.”

I humbly expressed my gratitude to Ann for the invitation, and promised her that I would come back later that evening for the show, along with an even bigger promise that I would not ruin their release party by delivering an amateurish performance. We settled on doing a very standard version of “Stormy Monday” just to keep things nice and simple.  As unlikely as it was to screw up such a basic tune, I was still nervous as all hell.  Ann Rabson seemed to have not a care in the world. 

By the time I returned for the start of the show, Sydney’s was so crowded that I had to worm my way through the eager fans just to make it anywhere near the stage.  Ann had just announced me as a special guest and to my shock and awe, the crowd responded as if I was just as popular as the ladies. I had no idea that these blueswomen had acquired such an incredible following.  Was I in for a Las Vegas style roasting or what? I quickly dismissed that idea.  The Ann Rabson that I had met earlier was much too honest and much too serious about her music than to pull such a stunt. There was electricity and anticipation in the audience, and still, Ann Rabson showed no concern about whether the boy from Baltimore would be a colossal flop. The band’s real guitar player, Gaye Adegbalola, a great blueswoman in her own right and co-founder of the group, smiled gracefully and handed me her guitar to play. Perhaps no one else could see it, but her eyes locked onto mine and seemed to say, “not only better you not screw up, but if you damage my guitar, I will kill you - right here and now - and I will enjoy it.”

Gaye Adegbalola

Fortunately, my cameo appearance went off without a hitch, and the crowd roundly applauded the bluesman from Baltimore.  The Uppity Blues Women were all smiles – especially Gaye.

After the show, Sydney's Sidestreet Cafe was aglow with satisfied party-ers as the Saffire women shook hands and signed albums.  I moseyed through the crowd, inching my way toward the bar for a celebratory Jack on the rocks when two young women interrupted me and asked me when I would be performing in the New York area, and if I would sign their albums.  I have to say that I totally did not see that coming. Not wanting to break the mood and admit to the fact that I was a complete nobody, I simply explained that I was still putting my band together and that it would be a while before I could get all the guys to agree on when we would make our road tour.  (I had convinced myself that this statement, however misleading it had sounded in my own mind, was indeed the absolute truth. I had been planning on starting a band – I just hadn’t found any members yet). But my conscience would not allow me to sign the album without explaining that I had only met Anne that day, and that my signature on the album would make me feel somewhat of a fraud, given that I had no celebrity status whatsoever, and that my sit-in was simply a result of Ann’s generous nature.

“Well, you were still great! Good luck with your band!”

As I continued toward the bar for that drink, several other fans continued to shake hands with me, toasting drinks to me, asking me how they could buy one of my records, and promising me they would look me up the next time they came to Baltimore. It was a great feeling, even though it was awkward explaining that I really was just a guy who was spontaneously invited to share the stage with the ladies. There was magic in the night air that evening at Sydney’s.  For one special night, Anne Rabson had made me an instant star.

That evening before I left Sydney's, Ann and I hugged and traded accolades for our performances, vowing to see each other again at some point or another, as all jazz musicians do.  Years later, as their career and popularity blossomed, I did attend a few of their shows, but opted to lay low and never even let them know I was in the room until after the show was over.  That night at Sydney’s was a one-time experience, and I was music-savvy enough to understand that. There are some things that just can’t be duplicated and should never even be attempted.

But I will always be grateful for having met Ann Rabson, a beautiful soul whose spirit lives on as big as the sky - a great musician and humanitarian, and the one person responsible for me having gotten my first experience of what it felt like to have a complete stranger ask me for my autograph. 

God bless you, Ann.

April 12, 1945 - January 30, 2013