All us old schoolers have a story. At least one. When Monk’s music opened us. A 20th century moment that caused us to say–to ourselves, as well as out loud to everyone, anyone, within earshot–“Oh, I see. And I’ll never be blind again.”

Rocky Mount, North Carolina born, New York City reared, resident. An architect of bebop, indeed, arguably “the” architect. Thelonious Sphere Monk schooled generations of hipsters on the sacredness of being one’s self.

If you were hip, his deep music always pulled you in. If you were square or newly becoming rounded, his music would teach you. A real creator of minimalism. He could drop three notes, one crashing chord. Silence. Jump up and dance. That would be enough to turn you around, meet your true self, and start down your own road to personal nirvana–not a place of riches but rather a state of knowledge. The realization of what we are here for, what we are truly capable of being/becoming. All the things we are.

Monk was not an easy man to understand. You could get to his music but you had to be willing to face yourself. Your feelings, why you really thought the way you did. Where you came from. How your parents and your environment, your experiences and the choices you made shaped you. What you said when you were young, who you reached out to hold as you got older. The person, or people, who became your chosen life partners as you matured. Perhaps, instead of a couple of years, it took a couple of decades. Whatever.

When you got there, Monk would be there, inscrutable, silently asking you with a dip of his head: what took you so long?

You would look away quickly, not wanting him to see the self-fear clouding your eyes. And when you looked back, he was already gone. All you had left was his music, permanently situated in your head, your heart. Monk’s music.

He had two women he really loved. Nellie, his wife. And the Baroness, a European friend who became a major fellow traveler. Nellie was not a starlet, didn’t have Hollywood looks, but was a star, a constant in his constellation. And the Baroness, was not a lover in the carnal sense albeit unwavering in her allegiance.

When the squares finally caught up, it was Time to put Monk on the cover.

I remember in the sixties, I would lay on the family couch in the back room between the kitchen and our bedroom. My two younger brothers would be out somewhere doing whatever brothers do. Larry McKinley on the radio between 3pm and 7pm on Saturdays. I would hear Monk. Learned to love Monk. Dug Monk. Like I said all us old schoolers have a Monk memory. Indelible. Will last as long as we are alive.