We saw him play at the Iridium, the funky little jazz club that moved — with Lester — from Lincoln Center down close to Letterman on Broadway. Arthritis had robbed him of the flashier chords, but he still kept time better than most 90+ people I know. His fretboard experiments gave us rock & roll, and he knew more about the board than anyone save maybe Chet Atkins or Jerry Garcia. Watching him stride that neck with such ease was just beautiful.
The last guy I saw play at the Iridium was Hammond B-3 specialist Jimmy Smith, who dropped dead about two weeks later. I’m so glad I wasn’t able to convince my friends from Mississippi to go see Les on this last trip; otherwise, I might have felt some responsibility. Go see how high the moon really is, Lester: goodbye, and thank you so much.