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The art era of the roaring 80’s had come to an end and the last of a visual empire sat in the final throes of death on Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills. The Rodeo Drive, of the time of which I speak, was a quaint place where a young man like myself could open a fine gallery and sell hundreds of millions worth of oil on canvas by the great ones of the past. I recall now the feeling of walking from the front door to the sidewalk, late at night, long past retail closing times, and staring at the beautiful tree of lights, which watched over the Drive from its nonexistent planter atop the Regent Beverly Wilshire—it was the month of December. So peaceful those final days were I could bring myself to do nothing, but stand on the street for an hour and enjoy the solitude—there was just the right chill in the air.

I no longer recall how it came to pass that Johnnie Taylor’s kid came to wander the last of my galleries, but there was something special about her—black and lovely on the outside, a true Jewish Princess on the inside. And a touch of bitchiness that I was sure would make for many forks in the road. Again, as all who have lived twenty-seven lives during the course of one, I have no recollection how or why Tasha Taylor came into tow, but she did. From galleries to clubs to dinners to my home she was around. The daughter of a soul legend aspiring, like so many young girls do, to become an actor.

And then there was the night at the Mondrian on Sunset, the old Mondrian owned by the Ashkenazy’s, Severyn and Arnold, the first time it was cool—before the skybar. An open mic night it was that Tasha got up from the table and sang. The song still plays in my consciousness, I do not recall all of the words, but humming the melody out loud is enough to utter, “these are a few of my favorite things”—“My Favorite Things” was what Tasha Taylor sang that night. “Forget about acting,” I told her, “you should be a singer. It’s in your blood.”

The entire story, not worth telling, ends with the end of our friendship.

Almost fifteen years later the iphone received a most interesting text message. Rick Taub, a downtownster of many years and a very good bass player, was informing me that Tasha Taylor would be throwing down some serious soul at the Redwood on 2nd between Hill and Broadway—no cover! Life is so pleasantly interesting for those who bother to live it. Continue reading TASHA TAYLOR REVISITED