Backstage at Philadelphia's Academy of Music on May 25, 2000, I was grinning.  I'd just had a dream fulfilled - I had performed with Stevie Wonder.  The occasion was a musical tribute to Grover Washington, Jr., who had passed that previous December.  Now to celebrate the saxophonist's life and music, the organizers were successful in securing celebrities such as Bill Cosby, Peter Nero, Kirk Whalum and, yes - Stevie Wonder.

     Originally he was scheduled to perform solo at the piano, however while on route to the theater, Stevie decided to perform with Grover's band instead.  Most likely this change of direction was just another last minute headache to the union stage hands, but to the musicians, it was the kind of moment that fuels fantasies.

     When he arrived for rehearsal, he got down to business immediately.  The introductions were brief, though not rude.  He was serious about teaching us his classic, "Ribbon In the Sky".  The run-through went well and within a few minutes, the band sounded good enough to lighten Stevie's mood.  He was satisfied.  We were ready for the show.

     The audience erupted when Bill Cosby introduced Stevie Wonder that evening.  The genius sat behind the piano.  I stood behind the genius.  Maybe I should have been nervous, but this is the stuff that fuels musicians' fantasies, right?  

     "Ribbon In The Sky" started off according to plan.  It was as though the song was playing itself.  Lush. Romantic.  Playing with the genius felt so natural.  Then, somewhere around the second chorus, Stevie took an abrupt U turn. 

     How can I describe the experience of someone who can't see you giving musical cues with his body that you can't decipher?  Stevie was urging us to do things with the song that we hadn't rehearsed: stop, start again, change keys, change tempos, play with a Latin groove, slow down, play a new ending.  It reminded me of the long semester of chemistry I spent with a professor who spoke English with a thick Egyptian accent.  It's not that the professor wasn't brilliant, I just had trouble understanding what he was saying.  The band's confusion says little about the brilliance of Stevie Wonder, and much about our inability to read minds or body language. 

     "Ribbon" wasn't a disaster.  Stevie salvaged it with one of his  virtuoso vocal endings that wiped away the shakiness of the preceding five minutes.  The audience lapped it up. So what did he do next?  Announce that he's going to play a song that Herbie Hancock taught him, "Giant Steps".  This Coltrane workout is generally known as the most challenging song in the jazz repertoire. Surprise!

     We chased Stevie again - this time through harmonic twists and turns.  All the while he seem to enjoy the high speed chase through terrain that he really hadn't mastered.  Imagine that.  Here was Stevie Wonder struggling and he was unafraid to display it in front of a live audience. 

     In all those years of being in awe of Stevie, I thought his genius was in his God given abilities. I had missed the point.   Prodigious talent is indeed awe inspiring, but the true mark of genius is in the unrelenting chase of something just out of reach, not in the attainment.