Waltz (For Edie Adams)

Last week, stage and television star Edie Adams died. Although she was a talented singer and Tony-winning actress, Adams was known as being a crucial foil for her husband, Ernie Kovacs, the comedic genius who was a major force in shaping both American comedy and television as a bona fide art form back in the '50s. Whether she was belting out a song or a "victim" of a Kovac-ian slapstick attack, Adams was a class act.

I was a hateful senior in high school ("Everyone in my school sucks as much as Journey. Why can't they listen to the Clash?"), when I chanced upon reruns of The Ernie Kovacs Show running on PBS. On one particular night, Kovacs dedicated a good part of the show to an impressionistic story taking place on a set rendered like a city. There was no dialogue in the "sketch," only musical accompaniment with Adams and other actors telling the story via dance. The classical music Kovacs used was downright confusing: It was as brash as a conquering hero, mysterious as a ghost story and melancholy as the loss of a loved one (sometimes all three emotions at once). My teenage brain was significantly blown and dammit, I had to have this piece of music as much as I needed a new copy of Pink Flag. This was my first exposure to Bela Bartok's Concerto For Orchestra, and it was all courtesy of a pair of TV visionaries. (Hey, I was too busy buying records to care about what was on TV back then.)

I never got to meet Edie Adams. I do know her son, Josh Mills, and he hooked me up with an autographed copy of her book, Sing A Pretty Song many years ago. I'd like to think that a little piece of her lives in my heart. It's the part that reminds me to be open-minded to anything because influence, passion and the extraordinary can crop up in the most unlikely places. Josh, my thoughts are with you and I hope the next time I make it out to L.A., you will tell me some fabulous stories about your remarkable mom.

Thanks, Edie.