In 1963, I was in the U.S. Army, teaching music theory at the Army Band School at Ford Ord. I had a lot of time off so I decided I wanted to learn to play the guitar. I had been a trumpet player most of my life and had earned a Bachelor of Music Degree with a credential in instrumental education; but being drafted into the Army and forced to play an endless array of bad marches had soured me on the instrument.

My first inspiration when I started on the guitar was a young folk singer from Boston named Joan Baez. At that time, Joanie was living in Carmel, just about 12 miles south of Ford Ord and I actually spent evenings watching her pick her way through a plethora of early Americana ditties.

(Freight Train)

Then in the summer of 63, I heard a recording that changed my musical life. It was the Brazilian singer/guitarist Jao Gilberto’s collaboration with American saxophonist Stan Getz on Jao’s love song Garota de Ipanema. Gilberto’s wife Astrud sang the English version, “The Girl From Ipanema.” I had discovered the bossa nova and I had found my calling.

(Girl From Ipanema)

In 1964, the U.S. Army threw me out onto the streets of San Francisco and I launched my career as a guitarist/arranger and music director. Over the next three years I worked with the San Francisco Mime Troupe, The Actors Workshop and a satirical review called The Committee. During a time when every acoustic guitarist I know was amping up to Fender Telecaster and Stratocasters, I was still plucking away on my nylon string classical. I played standards:

(Misty); I played pop (On Broadway); and I even played some rock (Aint No Sunshine). But my main desire was always to play bossa nova (Corcovado.).

On one rainy night in 1968, I was working at an intimate bar in Sausalito called Gatsby’s, accompanying a young singer I had just teamed up named Al Jarreau. As we began the first set, I noticed this phenomenally beautiful brunet sitting at the bar. I started to walk over to do the mandatory “hit on the chick sitting by herself” maneuver, but she immediately turned her back on me. I retreated. She stayed the whole evening. After our final set, Al went home with his wife and I once more headed to the bar.

Brunet lady continued to ignore me so I just chatted with the bartender for a minute and started to leave. Without looking at me, Brunet Lady says, “That singer is really good.”

“Yes he is,” I replied.

“You play a lot of bossa nova.”

“Yeah, that’s mostly what we do.”

Brunet Lady finally looks directly at me. “He’s great. You play like a terd.”

I picked my guitar case and my ego off the floor and uttered, “Thank you and good night.”

As I headed for the door, Brunet Lady uttered, “It’s raining. Drive me home and I’ll show you what bossa nova is supposed to be.

Brunet Lady had a name. It was Naomi. She lived in San Rafael, about seven miles away. While I was driving, she asked me if I had ever heard of Baden Powell. Of course I had. I had been a Boy Scout when I was 12, and one of the first things I learned was that the Boys Scouts were originally founded by the English nobleman Baden Powell. When I said this, Naomi just howled with laughter. When we got to her place, she ordered me to sit on her couch. She put three long-playing LPs on her stereo and disappeared into her bedroom.

For the next two hours, I was mesmerized by the most intoxicating guitar sounds I had ever heard. That was my introduction to Brazilian guitarist/composer Baden Powell, a militantly anti-American musician who refused to come to this country to play. I was so fascinated by his music; I didn’t notice that Naomi never came out of her bedroom.

When the last of the LPs was over I went to her bedroom door and knocked. There was no Answer. I tried the door. It was locked. I left.

I never saw Naomi again. But two years later, I did see her picture in the paper. Naomi was actually Diana Oughton, a member of the militant Weather Underground. Diana died while trying to assemble a bomb in Greenwich Village.

I read everything I could find on her. There was one interesting bit of info that described the year this young lady of privilege spent at the University of Munich in 1963, where she became part of a Communist-tinged radical group, which also included the now-famous Brazilian musician Baden Powell.

I remembered the 2 hours I spent in that San Rafael apartment, listening to one of the most ingenious but also angriest musicians, that I have ever heard and one of the angriest young women, I never got to know. And I still don’t know why. (One note samba).

The End