Why Dick Buckley's Happiness?

Naming a collective blog isn't an easy thing to do. Of course in the blogosphere, there's always the pressure to sound witty and quirky and cool. Blogs, probably even more than columns in newspapers, are seen as umbilical cords to our persona. (I purposefully use the word persona, because we all know what's presented on the net is the edited version of us -- and we have the photoshop and autotune to prove it.) At least at newspapers, there's an editorial board that determines what gets covered and how that coverage will be shaped. If we think about it, long-standing columnists at respective papers are the precursors to bloggers -- the Homo erectus to us Homo sapiens. There is an implied credential with them, no doubt. They must have something interesting to say because somebody is writing them a paycheck to say it. Today, as long as we have an internet connection and reasonable typing skills -- some times not even that much -- we all get to give our two cents' worth.

But to name a blog that is about art and talking about art -- and not just my own opinion about art -- is a tricky matter. I had no editorial board with whom to confer. By default, I set it up, so I had to name it. Then, why "Dick Buckley's Happiness?" I can't remember when I first heard Dick Buckley on WBEZ, but I can tell you that I miss listening to him now. (Mr. Buckley passed away this summer.) His deep pipes and congenial manner -- with just a hint of irascibility -- made me tune in week after week after week. His voice was about more than his vocal chords. He knew the inside scoop that made the music into a story. He knew the names of session musicians that were left off the liner notes. He knew who was hung over during a recording session and who had just had their heart broken. He pointed my ear toward the instrument that would catch my breath in my throat if I listened for it or the one that would make me cringe, and he played tunes that made me dance around my living room because they were meant to get the blood going.

Dick Buckley was a fan -- most importantly a knowledgeable fan -- and he wanted to share his knowledge and infectious love for jazz with everyone who listened. He could tell you why the tune was exceptional or why somebody had missed the mark that day in the studio. All of his comments were respectful, but not all of them were complimentary. He'd tell you who his favorite trombonist was and why he wasn't a big fan of tenor sax. I didn't start out loving jazz. Dick Buckley made me love it because he taught me how to listen to jazz. His depth of knowledge was immense, but I don't want to call it encyclopedic. To say that would imply that he stood outside the work and catalogued it. Dick Buckley did a lot more than that. Every time he talked about jazz, you'd swear he was in every recording studio and every smoky jazz club. (I think the latter is probably true.) To me -- and I never met the man but I was friends with his voice -- he was a top-notch curator, an impeccable reviewer, and an educator. In other words, he was the voice in the wilderness directing his listeners through to the light.

So for the emerging voices who will be writing for this blog -- I wish you the spirit of Dick Buckley. You don't have to know as much as he did on any given art form. Just jump into the work with both feet as he would have. Find what interests you or confuses you or makes you want to find out more. That's what he did. And if we can get even an ounce of the love he had for jazz into any of our observations -- imagine, jazz set the path of his life -- then we'll be doing just fine.

Happiness? That was his signature sign-off. Here's to you Mr. B.