When I heard the news that Charlie Watts had died, my mind flashed back to the night we went to hear tango in Buenos Aires.
I remember watching him listening. He was taking in the whole scene – the place, the orchestra, the young singer, looking like a 40s crooner, dapper, his hair slicked back, and of course, the dancers. It was 2006, and La Ideal, a grand, beautiful, run-down belle epoque café, was still open then, and it was a favorite of local tangueros.
Now and then, he would ask a question, very specific, about the music or the rituals of tango dancing and fade back in his chair. There was no chit-chat. He wanted to know.