Remembering Di Anne Price

We have lost a musical legend, and one of Memphis's greatest treasures. Over the coming days, many, many people from all walks of life in Memphis will be telling their stories of how Di Anne Price affected their lives over the decades. This is mine.

Di Anne Price was a brilliant pianist, singer and, most of all, as she would step in and assert right now, storyteller. But more than that, she was a friend, to me and so many other people. Indeed, for a lot of people, especially a large group of people who she referred to as her "babies," who spent countless hours sitting at her piano, she was sort of a second mama figure. When you walked into her lounge at Mollie Fontaine, especially if it had been more than a week or two since she'd seen you last, she immediately would light up, invite you over next to her (without missing a beat in whatever she was playing, mind you), and utter those words that so many of us hear echoing through our heads right now: "Tell me everything!" And I did, and we did, and so many people did. She was a confidant in those times I would walk her to her car after she was done playing or when we'd talk on the phone on Sunday afternoons, but at least seventy-five percent of the time, we were just shooting the shit. She worked so hard, and by the end of her nights at Mollie's, after having played all day, all over the city, you knew she just needed to go home and relax, but Di Anne cared so damn much about every person she knew. She was a voice of loving support, but she also did not hesitate to call one out on one's bullshit. This is a trait I valued in her. She was a great person to giggle with, to celebrate with, and if you needed it, a great shoulder to cry on.

She held a space for so many people that went far beyond being out at a bar listening to music. She excelled in that department, of course, but for me and many people I know, going too long without visiting Di Anne's piano was something akin to needing to refuel your tank. "We need some Di Anne time." And whether it was one of those nights when it just wasn't Her Crowd (those morons...) or one of those nights when she played many hours past her normal time, those nights when "church" would happen -- if you know what I'm talking about, you know what I'm talking about -- it was always a blessing for those gathered around that piano.

If you know me personally, you know that my Real Passion In Life is as a pianist and singer and songwriter, and I learned a hell of a lot from watching Di Anne. In fact, she snapped at me one time because I was watching her hands while she played.

"Get your OWN style!"

"I HAVE my own style, but I love to watch the way you do it!"

I did pick up a few of her tricks, whether she likes it or not.

The piano was truly an extension of her body, and while a lot of players can carry on light conversation while playing, Di Anne could perform pianistic acrobatics [her technique was impeccable] while having an animated conversation with five people, turning to be introduced to a new person whose name she would never forget, and when she would start singing again, she'd land in the exact place where she left off before, as if nothing had happened. In short, she was a pro.

I learned other things from her, too. Di Anne wasn't kidding when she said she was a storyteller. The greatest singers, I believe, are storytellers, and she had stories to tell both behind and away from the piano. Di Anne was there at the height of the Civil Rights Movement. She told me the real stories of what was going on during those days, and what really brought Dr. King to Memphis. Apparently, as I found out, it's not taught very well in our suburban public and private schools. In sharing her stories, she helped to make me a better Memphian, and in sharing her wisdom, she pushed me to allow myself to work toward my own musical dreams. And when those conversations were happening, you didn't want to miss a word.

I'm going to miss her so much. Over the last several years, she has been there for me when times were wonderful and when times were heartwrenchingly bad.

About eight months ago, I was about to walk out the front door of Mollie's and she looked at me from the piano, stopped singing and said into the microphone, with a strangely knowing look on her face, "Even though it will be sad when we have to go away, we know we will always remember the good times, won't we?" Yes, Di Anne. Yes, we will.

So long, friend.

Evan Hurst
Editor, Effin' Memphis