One night, I received a phone call from a friend who had tickets to a concert down the road at a local university. He had no idea who was performing. He'd gotten the comps from his job. The entertainment didn't concern him much. He just wanted to get me out of my apartment and cheer me up. I accepted. I'm not sure why. I guess I was running out of excuses. He knew I wouldn't refuse a chance to hear live music.
When we arrived at the campus, the welcome sign said, "TONIGHT: JON BATISTE." I perked up a little. I was a casual fan of his work. I'd seen him on Colbert and his own PBS special a few years back, and some of his songs landed on my playlists. His new album, Hollywood Africans, had just been released that day. So, what the hell was he doing out in the suburbs performing at a small college?
As a fan of jazz and its history, I appreciated his mission to move the genre forward while incorporating the original sounds of New Orleans, along with modern pop, funk, hip-hop, classical, ragtime, and blues elements. Plus, being around the same age, I felt like he might share the same passion for nostalgia. I didn't know at the time that he'd help move me forward.
Whenever I saw footage of Jon performing, he was usually accompanied by his bandmates in Stay Human. But on this particular night, only a black, shiny grand Steinway & Sons piano sat in the center of the stage of the small theatre. A tense murmur reverberated throughout the audience until he finally walked out to a half-hearted applause. This wasn't a young, carefree, festival-like atmosphere but more of a serious group of older guests who seemed exhausted by a negative news cycle inundating their lives like a dense fog.
Batiste addressed the crowd from the microphone atop his piano keys. "It's been a difficult time lately in the world," he said. They groaned in agreement. "But let's forget about our problems for just this moment and have a good time," he continued, beginning to play the standard "On the Sunny Side of the Street."
With those first familiar, good-natured notes, the general mood of the guests began to change. We soon realized we weren't just witnessing a musician perform but rather a healer, as long as we were willing to accept his offering.
At a Jon Batiste show, you are encouraged to participate from the very start. Once he sang the first line, "Grab your coat and get your hat," he stopped singing, but his hands kept playing. "Join in if you know the words," he said. The crowd sparsely crooned, "Leave your worry on the doorstep," like shy children in a classroom. This was only the beginning of his mission.
Batiste is not an entertainer who wants you to stay seated and look on. His vivacious spirit is an heirloom from generations past, from all of our parents and grandparents, where community singing was a vital part of daily life. The idea of togetherness in an era of isolation was the foundation for the 2013 album Social Music, composed of lively, upbeat tracks that spanned a century of music, from "Maple Leaf Rag" to "Express Yourself." At his performances, Batiste has always seemed driven to cure society's woes through the joy of physical movement and social interaction, all within a live setting. This evening was no different, no matter the demographic or vibe.Batiste is not an entertainer who wants you to stay seated and look on. His vivacious spirit is an heirloom from generations past.
tweet this
Song after song, Batiste made us feel like we were on a musical journey with him as he played renditions of "What a Wonderful World" and "Amazing Grace," and we became his choir. By the end of the night, we were all singing our hearts out so much that we felt closer to the strangers sitting next to us. As I remained present with Jon and the music, I started to forget my own troubles.
To close the show, he saved the last and arguably the simplest song as his finale. A stagehand equipped the performer with a handheld Hammond organ and wireless microphone. Within seconds, Jon jumped down from the stage and began roaming the theatre's isles to be part of the audience. He wasn't just performing at them but with them, proceeding to request they all stand up and clap along, turning the room into a church-like atmosphere. He'd then hand the mic to a randomly selected audience member and ask them to sing as he played widely known songs on his organ, like "Hallelujah." and "If You're Happy and You Know It (Clap Your Hands)." Some mic holders hummed softly while others belted out their best karaoke renditions.
Then, on the latter song, he made eye contact with me.
Oh, crap, I said to myself. Not me, not now. Sure, I was having a nice time, and I'd forgotten my personal sorrow during the duration of the show, but I wasn't ready to deliver what he and the other guests needed from me. I wasn't worthy. But still, he walked over and presented the mic to my mouth as he and the entire audience sang;
"If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands/If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands/If you're happy and you know it and you really want to show it/If you're happy and you know it."
And in that moment, as he looked directly at me, his warm smile and kind eyes put me at ease. He was giving me the support and approval I needed to feel free. And so, I went for it.
"CLAP YOUR HANDS!!!!!!!!!!"
He gave me a big grin and climbed back onto the stage to take his bow.
Jon Batiste saved me that night. Life did get better from that point on. Sure, ups and downs have persisted, but now, when I look back, I see things a bit differently each time.
Montreux Jazz Festival Miami 2025. With Janelle Monáe, Jon Batiste, Cimafunk, and more. Friday, February 28, through Sunday, March 2, at the Hangar at Regatta Harbour, 3385 Pan American Dr., Coconut Grove; montreuxjazzfestivalmiami.com. Tickets cost $199 to $999 via tixr.com.
