Remembering Maya Angelou - Poet Laureate, Orator, Scotch Drinker

I wasn't always a full-time musician. Like many performers who relied on other jobs to pay the bills in their youth, I bartended throughout my young-adulthood while my music career was in its infancy. Bartending in NYC, especially at some of the more legendary and notorious venues, allowed for a collection of characters and encounters that I hope to share here as the months go by.

With the passing of Maya Angelou, I am reminded of one such time.

It was 1998, and I was working at the Motown Cafe in midtown Manhattan. Every night during those first six months, there were celebrities and industry insiders coming through. On this particular night, it was the ASCAP Honors, celebrating the work of Ashford and Simpson. The room was packed with Motown legends, R&B stars and entourage-wannabes. Everyone had their table seats, but one person sat right in the corner edge of the half-moon shaped bar that ran the length of the room.

Maya Angelou.

"Dewars on the rocks," she asked. And as the small rocks glass was emptied, she requested another. And another after that. And one more.

Facing into the bar, only I was able to see her face, slowly giving way to the scotch imbibed over the course of the evening. Her head nodded downward, eyes gently closing into a whiskey slumber.

The evening continued along, with speaker after speaker, lauding the famous R&B duo with scripted accolades and prepared remarks. And then it happened.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your keynote speaker, and dear friend, Miss Maya Angelou." Even before the thunderous applause began, her eyes shot open, adrenalized with purpose. Only I could see the transformation, immediate as it was. She gazed over to me as if I were her mirror, raised her shoulders, and swung around off her bar stool like Ginger Rogers. By the time she ascended the stage, she was the picture of buoyancy.

She glided to the mic, and began to speak.

No text, no notes. Nothing prepared.

And she had the room hanging on every word. Witty, poetic, humble, gracious, emotional. And at its conclusion, the room shot to its feet cheering the speaker as much as her subjects.

After the obligatory hugs and photos, she sauntered back to her seat in the corner of the bar. I wondered what kind of gift it must be to possess such control over the language, to extemporaneously be able to make a room of jaded, bloated insiders laugh, cry, and scream with delight. What did it take to do that? As if knowing my question, she smiled and gently tapped the glass with her finger.

"Dewars on the rocks."

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