I was 25-years old and dressed in my favorite outfit -- a dark blue top and short skirt that fit snuggly and was, if I do say so myself, not unflattering. I had taken extra care to curl my short hair around my cheeks and on my feet wore light green peek-a-boo shoes with very high heels.

It was a cool late-winter evening in Paris, and I was sitting at a small round table in the New Morning jazz club with my new friend, Onzy Matthews, an American jazz pianist trying to revive his career in the French capital.

We met as I was trying to make inroads into the expat jazz scene as a radio reporter for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, whose bureau chief had asked me to interview as many American jazz musicians living in Paris as I could find.

It was 1982 and I knew just about nothing about jazz. But ignorance had never stopped me as an eager, young journalist so I spent hours in local English-language bookstores rifling through jazz history books before the manager would find me and ask me to stop; I couldn't afford to buy the books myself.

I made quick notes on who was still living, who might be in Paris, who had played with whom, any tidbit that would help me find these guys and seem less oblivious when I finally met up with them, if I ever did.

But Onzy was my best resource and we were at the New Morning that night to hear the great tenor saxophonist Dexter Gordon and meet him backstage during a break. Onzy, who had been one of Duke Ellington's final arrangers, knew everyone and everyone knew him.

Though he'd never made it big as a solo artist, having put out just a few albums in the 1960s, he was still and always would be an insider in that world.

We shared a box of Dunhill cigarettes and sipped Grand Marnier in bulbous glasses that we warmed with our hands. Onzy was dressed, as he always was, in a tuxedo with a ruffled shirt, bow tie and gold cufflinks.

I would not be lying if I said that we stood out from the crowd, which was mostly young French men with long hair wearing wrinkled shirts and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes.

While jazz had lost much of its cachet back in the States, which had led so many of the great musicians to leave home for Europe, the French were rabid fans and enthusiasts, packing gigs that would be near-empty back home.

When Dexter stepped out onto the stage and took his place in front of his quartet of drums, bass and piano, the place roared its approval. He was huge, towering over everything in sight, and clasped his large hand over his heart while slightly nodding his large head. His hair was mildly gray and a tuft of silvery whiskers stuck out from below his lower lip.

He held his saxophone up horizontally, offering it up to the crowd, nodding again to acknowledge the cheers.

And then he began to play, and as he played, we all became very quiet, letting our cigarettes burn down to the nub, listening to the notes wind around the room, settle in corners then sneak back out and wander back up onto the stage.

We lightly bopped our heads, lifted our shoulders, tapped our feet to the rhythm. He played song after song, sweat beading up on his face, trickling down his chin and dripping onto his clothes, his sax, his pants and his shoes.

Some time later, during the first break, Onzy took me backstage to meet the man himself. I was terrified as I spied him in the middle of his small dressing room, wiping himself down with one bath towel after another.

When Onzy, who was a few inches shorter than Dexter's six feet six, introduced us, Dexter gave me a huge, toothy smile, said a deep, raspy hello, then enveloped me in his arms and pressed my face against his sopping wet chest.

He held me there as he and Onzy talked, their voices muffled to my covered ears as they caught up on their latest gigs and the latest gossip in the jazz world. I gasped to breathe and tasted his salty, jazzy sweat. He had clearly forgotten me but I was too shy, too mortified to make a move.

Finally, Dexter threw open his arms, looking down at me in surprise, throwing back his head and laughing loudly at the mess I had become. I glanced in his mirror -- my hair was flattened against my head, mascara smushed around my eyes, lipstick smeared across my cheeks, clothes rumpled and soaked.

When I felt my face blush, he and Onzy laughed even more. I could do nothing but laugh, too -- somewhat forced, yes, but a cheerful little twitter nonetheless.

Fortunately, the call came for him to head out for the next set and I followed Onzy, somewhat woozily, back to our seat where I immediately ordered another Grand Marnier, lit up another Dunhill, patted my face with the cocktail napkin and settled in for the next round of big, warm, loving tunes from that fabulous sax and its master.

As Dexter himself often said, "You have to have heart. If you don't have heart, you can't be in this business. You just have to have heart."

www.dextergordon.com

Photo of Dexter Gordon taken by Albert Kok in Amsterdam in 1980.

The New Morning is still a top venue for jazz in Paris.

Check this blog later for more encounters with jazz musicians in Paris.