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There Are Faces I Remember
By Ron Miller
When my good friend and man about music, Nelson Gary asked me to write this, I was aghast. I am not what one would classify as knowledgeable about musicians. What I know about George Harrison, his music and his life could fit in a thimble. Yet, thirty-four years ago, we spent 45 minutes together. Rather than tell you when he was born or died, his accomplishments, music, or whom he left behind, I will tell you the story of that night.
"All things pass away." I will try to remember that lesson, George. As I tell it.
It was a typical warm Los Angeles night in the Hollywood Hills. I think I have narrowed it down to 1966 or 67; I have no memory for dates. On that night, I had been invited by my friend, Ruth D, to attend a party. Ruth lived in the Hollywood Hills in a home looking over Lake Hollywood.
Ruth was special. She had married a man who took her to India and introduced her world of Hinduism Ruth emerged herself in it, became a lecturer, and teacher and exhaled love and wisdom with every breath.
She was a friend to everyone and knew anyone who was or wasn't anyone in India or the Hindu community in Los Angeles
As I desperately searched for a parking spot, I could hear the sound of a Sitar wailing on the night air like a cross between a cat that has its tail caught in a door and a heavenly lyre. Tonight it was playing counterpoint with the crickets and the beating of a tabla.
Given Ruth's interests, it was not unusual to hear the music of India flowing out of her windows. I was a young reporter at the time, and I loved Ruth and her parties as well. They were always filled with a wonderful eclectic group of people from all walks of life and interest who somehow all melded into each other under Ruth's gentle hand. When I got...
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