The French Connection. It's not a Crime Thriller (1971), it's not a brand, it is a love story. Not your usual rom com, more complexity, more emotion, more heartbreak. I am sure my narration will not do justice. I'd best be brief instead.

I love music. It is one of the mainstays of my existence. A bit peculiar for someone so deaf. But really, on any given day I'll listen to any genre, except "both kinds", country and western. As deaf as I am, (100% in right ear) I have never heard stereo. At least I can sleep just about anywhere. Live music though just has that feel, the one that makes your skin tingle, in good ways.

So one night I'm walking, or maybe I was playing pool and the piano starts up. What a gift, this jazz was magical. I was one of the piper's rats. In the break, we hit a conversation and talk about our faves. It is soon clear we'll get along. After some probing, the pianist, Raph, discovers I may actually have some performing ability.

We set our first date the next week. I'd never dated anyone from France before. We had a connection that other musos know, and it sounded pretty good. Weeks passed and we developed our repertoire and a bond.

We'd had other musos come and go, our partnership was working out the nuances of all the standards. Raph hooked us up with a drummer, who quickly arranged a gig. Enter Bernadette stage left. She transformed every room, transfixed every ear. Our quartet was ready.

We headed to one of the cafes in Bowral, set up the gear and just jammed. Bliss, we even got paid, which still blows me away. The audience was wrapped. The next performance was packed, out the door. Venue; Stella Luna, in the then home town, Wollongong. We made more in tips than the payment of the first gig. With Christmas fast approaching we crammed another gig in at Bowral.

We all headed different directions for Christmas, it had been a good year. When I arrived back in the 'Gong there was not a sign of Raph. A friend of a friend told me about the return to Paris. Not a phone call, not a letter. I'd never been dumped before, I was gutted, totally. The jazz has never been the same.

In the end we called ourselves "Moanin' ". It was our title track composed by Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers. A good track, but "Moanin' " always made me think of the audience in pain; a low, sustained, mournful cry. I'd always wanted us to be called "The French Connection". Kitsch yes, but apt. Cheers, here's to Raph.