Tempus Fugit, the noted philosopher Bud Powell once observed. Of course, if you ask a physicist versed in quantum mechanics, they’ll no doubt assert that time is universal, relentless, and absolute. But I’d rather ask a drummer - they understand that time flows, yes, but is as malleable as a heartbeat, and just as human.

I mention this because time has indeed flown since I first met Rick Stepton, decades ago. Some of the details have been lost, as details sometimes are, but what I can tell you is that I was an aspiring young jazz trombonist on fire for the music, and Rick was the keeper of the flame. His reputation, musical and otherwise, was nonpareil - miles and years logged with Woody Herman, Maynard Ferguson, Chuck Mangione, and the crucible of the Buddy Rich Big Band. After tracking him down to a gig somewhere in Boston, I made my awkward introduction. Was he, I stammered, possibly available to teach a lesson or two? He was, as it turns out, and he did.

And so I traveled west to his home in Lunenburg, MA, where I immersed myself in the stories and the music, and the afternoon light through the trees. Rick’s preferred pedagogy was not the academic, by-the-book curriculum of a university jazz program, but something else entirely, something wild and extemporaneous. He pushed and pulled, coaxed and cajoled, and occasionally ranted. It was Charles Mingus AND Bukowski, Albert Mangelsdorff and Anais Nin.

When my financial situation became a bit precarious (is this not the lesson all hopeful musicians are to learn?), we worked out an arrangement where I mowed his yard in exchange for his time. He didn’t have to do that, but in hindsight, perhaps he did - I surely had much more to learn, and he had more to teach.

Rick is justifiably proud of his status as a third generation trombonist, but I believe more than music filtered down through the family tree. There’s a work ethic at root there, finding expression in the title of his CD, “Blue Collar Trombone”. You take every gig, and you play to keep it. Period. This is the Stepton imperative, and everything else serves that directive. In the time we spent together, I don’t believe he once gave me a scale to learn; rather, what he instilled was the primacy of finding one’s unique voice, in music and in life. And more - the art of perseverance.

Time flies, and flows. Rick eventually moved to New York City, and I to Ohio. There were marriages and divorces, births and deaths. His career as a trombonist almost ended in the wake of tragic dog bite, and mine was ultimately done in by Focal Dystonia. But while he went on to triumph in pure Steptonian fashion, recording three wonderful solo albums only after having his lip sown back on by surgeons, I threw in the towel. However, I didn’t give up - I simply changed horses mid-stream, picking up and pursuing a career on the guitar from my mid-30s forward. And I will tell you without hesitation that it was the gift of Rick’s teaching that pulled me through - the example of his work ethic, his utter determination to be the best in every situation, that inspired my own musical second act.

Thank you for that, Rick.

So it was we found ourselves 35 years after that initial meeting, in a small studio in Leominster MA, making music once again. I was now a guitarist of some experience, and not the nascent jazz trombonist who arrived on Rick’s doorstep. No longer the perennial kid in the band, until one day I wasn’t; but a fire burned in my belly nonetheless. And Stepton still the keeper of the flame. Both of us older and grayer, of course, but ready to find and explore new voices, and old ones too. The result of that encounter is what you hold in your hands. The music reflects the nature of the session, and the session reflects the nature of our friendship - casual, intense, rooted in the past while living joyfully in the moment. The songs themselves are like old friends, common ground for shared memories, and what you don’t hear may be more important than what you do.

The cliche is that you can’t return home again, and as is frequently the case, there’s an underlying element of truth there. All too often, the landscape changes beyond recognition; foundations crumble, veneers crack, and what cherished memory holds as gospel fact is revealed to be nothing but a nostalgic daydream. But once in a great while, you can follow the thread home. I did quite literally, returning to New England after so many years, although this time with a teenage son in tow. But I returned figuratively and spiritually as well, revisiting the birthplace of my musical journey to stand side by side with my teacher and friend, making music now as colleagues.

It’s been one hell of a trip, and as you listen to this music, I sincerely hope you enjoy the ride as much as I have.

Jim Pelz
Cincinnati OH
April 18, 2021