As I write this on the longest day of the year, I feel like I’ve just lived through the longest week of the year. We’re just coming off several days of weird smog from wildfires up north, when normally the air in this neighborhood is crystalline if not sweet. The mood, instead, is bittersweet.
There was entirely too much death among beloved musicians in recent weeks. It’s been shattering, as each old friend departs. None of these departures were astonishing but they were all unwarranted, coming as they did in a cluster. Bad things don’t just “happen in threes.” They happen when it’s time for them to happen. Unfortunately, June was that time.
Max Morath was the father of the whole ragtime revival. I can’t find words to express my sorrow at his no longer being here. In recent weeks we listened to his albums. I had the privilege of speaking to Max on the telephone, with profound thanks to our mutual friend Larry Melton. Max read and liked this publication, which is the highest praise it could receive. Max, after all, helped produce the early issues of The Mississippi Rag and appeared on the cover of the first one. I was in awe of him. We are indebted to him for our ragtime and our public television. His name resonates like those of George Washington, George M. Cohan, and Irving Berlin (whom he knew).
I am deeply grateful to Larry for being able to provide his loving re
