Skies filled with music
Just about every kid since Bill Haley and the Comets has dreamed of being a rock star. So I wasn't surprised when our older son, Hannis, called from Flagstaff one day to brag about his new band. "It's called 'Lobe,'" he said, "as in the ear and the brain."
"What kind of music do you play?" I asked.
"It's pretty unique," he said. "For now we're billing it as 'crazy acid-jazz hip-hop.' We've even burned a promo CD."
"That's cool!" I said, pretending I understood the description. But when I learned that most of the band members came from the stellar Northern Arizona University jazz program, I knew this could be good. "When do Mom and I get to hear Lobe?" I asked. "For all the times we've heard you play jazz, this will be entirely new for us."
"I don't know, Dad. We're hot right now in the campus bars, but you know how Mom dislikes smoke. The music's loud, too."
I refrained from recounting my long experience with smoky, ear-splitting performances. After all, Janis Joplin and Jefferson Airplane are ancient history. "Hannis, will you call when you're playing an appropriate venue for us to come listen?"
"Yeah, Dad, I'll let you know sometime." No amount of cajoling would net us a copy of the CD. "We're not totally happy with it yet," he said.
We heard little of Lobe after that, except for rumored hot gigs at nightspots like "Flagstaff Brew" and "the Monte Vista." I'd pretty much given up on ever hearing the band when Hannis phoned with a surprise invitation.
"We're playing in Sedona Saturday night," he said, "and need as many paying customers as possible. There's no smoking - it's some sort of New Age place - but admission is ten bucks. Most of my friends can't afford it, but do you and Mom want to come?"
This was an easy decision. Not only would we finally hear Lobe, but Sedona, Arizona, ranks among the most memorable pilot destinations anywhere. Set in the massive shoulder of the Colorado Plateau, the town is nestled among fantastical columns of rose-colored rock. The airport perches atop a 500-foot-tall mesa.
Picture yourself threading towering red rocks at sunset to land on an aircraft carrier, and you'll appreciate our arrival the evening of the concert. Around us on final approach, crimson spires transmuted to lavender with the falling of dusk. Blue and white airport lights beckoned from atop the dark mesa ahead, while above us bobbed fiery-edged black-bottomed clouds in a tangerine sky. Spicing the scene were occasional shafts of virga, hot pink where touched by the setting sun but somber gray everywhere else. Beneath it all lay Sedona's sparkling lights, lapping in blackness against the base of the mesa.
Securing the Flying Carpet in apricot twilight, Jean and I strolled hand in hand to the restaurant. It was too cold for dining on the patio, but we grabbed a corner table in time to watch final rays of twilight kiss vermilion spires before yielding to darkness. All this seemed a worthy overture for the coming evening of music. Dazzled, we phoned for a taxi after dinner to take us into town for the concert.
Ground transportation turned out to be a past-its-prime Lincoln Town Car. The driver, "Gator," wore a battered felt matinee-cowboy hat - immediately he set us laughing with irreverent stream-of-consciousness humor. At Gator's side rode his much younger girlfriend, adorned 1960s-style with waist-length blonde hair secured by a headband across her forehead, a long skirt, and plenty of beads.
As we descended Airport Road toward the lights of town, I shared our destination's address with the driver. Given Sedona's small size and Gator's tenure there, I was surprised that he'd never heard of the place. But sure enough a small theater and music studio materialized on a shadowy back street.
Collecting tickets at the door were name-tagged members of a spiritual group calling themselves "the Aquarians." Lining the walls inside were tasteful photos of their bearded and berobed spiritual leader, "Gabriel of Sedona." The one flash of familiarity on this ethereal trip came when Hannis greeted us before taking the stage.
Why people are always surprised to find talent within their own families I don't know, but Jean and I were suitably impressed. In fact, Lobe's show was the most exciting concert that we had attended in years. The band delivered a fluid blend of constantly shifting rhythms, riding a danceable beat for seducing the masses. And the supporting light show, courtesy of the Aquarians, would have done Jefferson Airplane proud.
At the break, we secretively purchased most of the few available CDs and stashed them away in purse and coat pockets. Jean lauded the band's unusually delicate melodies and the new-to-us musical contributions of the turntable player. I liked the way band members playfully tossed melodies back and forth like a hot potato between them, instead of torturing us with interminable rock guitar leads. It's the mark of a great performance that we didn't want the show to end.
As Jean and I waited in the parking lot for our ride back to the airport, Hannis and his bandmates shared their plans for making the big time. The glow projected by these young musicians was brighter even than the lights of their show. Lobe will go far if it stays together - and in any case, we couldn't have been prouder.
"Guess what!" called one band member as we climbed back into the aged Town Car. "We sold over half our CDs!" Smiling at our secret, Jean and I waved goodbye. Riding back to the airport we enjoyed barbs from Gator at his local taxi competition.
"You're gonna sleep in the airplane?" asked his girlfriend unexpectedly as we pulled up to the gate. I'd already confirmed availability of rooms at the mesa-top Sky Ranch Lodge, should weather or fatigue dictate that we stay overnight. But despite spattering rain throughout the evening, clear skies welcomed us when it was time to depart.
"No," I replied, chuckling, "we're taking off."
"Oh, I didn't know you could fly at night."
We saluted our hosts with a generous tip, then rotated blindly into blackness and flew home by starlight. It was one of those unexpectedly magical evenings not to be forgotten for a very long time - if ever.
Greg Brown was the 2000 National Flight Instructor of the Year. His books include Flying Carpet: The Soul of an Airplane, The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot's Flight Manual, and Job Hunting for Pilots. Visit his Web site.
Related Articles
