Allison Adams

Below is a tribute I wrote in April 2008 in memory of  Paul Jean, fellow musician and dear friend.

Ten years ago, I was at Emory University sitting in one of those late-stage job interviews — the one when you’re a top candidate, and you’re given an opportunity to see whether you have “rapport” with your potential colleagues. I asked the group of four or five folks a question about the position (it’s the job I have now), and something about the awkward way I worded the question tickled me. When I started snickering at myself, everyone in the room looked at me rather strangely. So much for rapport.

Except for this one fellow. He thought it was funny, too. Paul.

I have met few people whose sense of humor is as quirky as my own. Paul’s was quirkier. His dry, self-reflexive irony went right past many people, but I thought he was hilarious — once I caught up with him. And the more I got to know him, the more I discovered his fundamental decency, his deep integrity, and his genuine desire to help others and contribute goodness to the world.

I had heard that Paul, whose father was a musician in Vegas, had another career as a piano player, so about six years ago I asked him if he’d like to get together sometime and see how we might collaborate. That experiment eventually became Local Honey, the trio we formed with Paige Parvin. The three of us have played originals and covers together in local venues ever since. Paul played on every track of my CD but one. The photo on my profile of him here was taken at the CD release party back in September 2007.

Once a week we would gather at Paul’s house (so he wouldn’t have to lug his keyboards around) to practice, snicker, and swap stories. Paul would ask Paige and me (well, mostly Paige!) for decorating advice in the house he bought a few years ago. We always finished up before American Idol came on, because Paul couldn’t miss an episode.

One Friday night some years back I drove out to Smyrna (for you non-Atlantans, that’s a LONG way away from Decatur) to hear Paul play with another band, The Clique, they were called, at the regular weekly gig he’d had for the past sixteen years at American Legion Post 160. The air was thick with smoke, the beer was cheap cheap cheap, and the clientele were mostly in their 70s and 80s. But The Clique played some great old country covers and a few classic pop tunes, and boy did those folks scoot their boots. Paul was in his element. During a break between sets, he worked the room like the Chairman of the Board — he hugged every lady, shook every gentleman’s hand, noted requests on a scrap of paper from his pocket, laughed at the same old jokes they’d been telling for sixteen years. That gig ended a year or two ago — sadly, Post 160 has Karaoke night on Fridays, now. But Paul and The Clique reign supreme in members’ hearts.

And there were more — cover bands that helped pay the bills; fiddler Tim Cape’s contradance band, Cattywampus; the worship band at his church, Atlanta Unity; and Stray Dancer, a marvelous original folk rock/blues band that I heard perform at Java Monkey on quite possibly the hottest evening of 2007 last August. Paul built up a thriving, loving, and diverse network of musical friends who also found one another through him. As Tim, who shared his home with Paul for ten years, wrote yesterday in an email, “His music was brilliant, but the biggest delight of Paul was just Paul – smart, quick witted, quirky, funny and always interested in others.” (Tonight, Apr 23, Tim is hosting his usual every-other-Wednesday fiddle tunes jam at Java Monkey in Decatur from 8 to 11 p.m., and he’s invited those who knew Paul to come out for the gathering and just be with other friends of his. Nothing structured — just playing old-time fiddle tunes and probably other music depending on who shows up, and celebrating Paul.)

As beloved by many as he was, Paul was very private. So when he was diagnosed some two and a half years ago with Parkinson’s disease, he told only a few people. I knew only that he was very anxious about having a job with full health benefits — he had said that much — but he had not told me the exact cause of his great anxiety. I worried about him because it was clear that all was not right for him. But we continued to play music together. Even though he needed to play gigs that paid better than ours (he always said playing with Local Honey was good for his soul, but not his bank account!), he continued to find time and energy for us.

When I learned on Monday of his death the evening before, my first thought, oddly, was that we were scheduled to play at Caffé Lisette on Saturday, June 14 — the first Local Honey show in quite some time. Now it will be an evening of musical tribute to Paul’s memory, involving many of the bands and musicians he played with and contributed to over the years. We’ll probably just be there all night.

Yesterday morning my brother called with the joyful news that my sister-in-law is pregnant with their second child. And the day before one of my best friends set the date of her wedding. Ever hopeful, we begin and begin again. My belief is that Paul has begun again. He has found a lovely little independent coffee shop where he can hang out for hours in the early afternoons with some reading and a project or two and trade quips with the baristas. In the evenings, he’s backing up a little acoustic trio, a folk rock band, a contraband, a country and pop cover band. He’s found an American Legion Hall where everyone adores him, and they laugh together at the same quirky jokes forever.