Leslee Ross Davidson

Leslee Ross Davidson, who died Oct. 2, precisely a month shy of his 71st birthday, was a study in contradictions. If you look up "marches to the beat of a different drummer," his picture would serve as the definition.

He was irascible but gentle. Irreverent but spiritually curious. Industrious, yet forever scraping by. He loved the ladies but was often drawn to those who mistreated or sparred with him. And as a Boston cab driver for four decades, and more recently as a shuttle driver for Enterprise, he lived out his true musicologist calling by playing deejay to unsuspecting riders, schooling anyone who’d listen in the fine arts of music theory, popular culture, and patience. He would test-drive any disc he found, and keep it playing on rotation until he’d absorbed every vibe.

The firstborn among his siblings, Les grew up funny and clever in an idyllic enclave outside Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, known as Beacon Hill. There, he co-led a neighborhood bicycle gang, maintained a treehouse hideout for the “cool kids,” and late one night even climbed the blinking namesake tower, more than a hundred feet up, on a dare. Coming full circle, he later settled into a 10-by-10-foot condo in Boston’s storied Beacon Hill, stuffed full of tapes, vinyl, CDs, DVDs, musicians’ “fake books,” and other collectibles, like kitschy Christmas decorations.

Music was his passion and purpose. He communicated best through it and had a jukebox-like brain, ever deploying his knowledge to try to stump others. He was an impresario who thrived on impressing.

His first memory was “digging” the mobile that dangled above his crib as it played Brahms’ Wiegenlied, Op. 49, No. 4 (though properly identifying the tune came a wee bit later). As a toddler, he played his 45’s on his own little record player over and over. As a young child, he gave his little friends piano lessons, even though he'd never had any lessons himself. He played clarinet in the high school band and was a masterful pianist and percussionist, releasing a single as the long-haired, silk-shirted, groovy drummer of The Nouveau Riche. He had the most beautiful hands.

He attended Temple University for a year, then transferred to Berklee College of Music to study jazz composition. At one point, he sold copies of his arrangements on the streets of Boston for spare change. Highlights of his work were a scholarly “Just Me & El,” an ode to Duke Ellington that fused big-band, bebop, and progressive styles — the title also nodding to Ellen, his former wife — and “Must We Say Goodbye?” — a heart-wrenching ballad that he recorded in a dozen takes, both doing his own vocals and while accompanying sister Patti on the keys. His whispered, whiskery voice was hep; his laugh, devilish.

Leslee bore witness to many music legends, among them Louis Armstrong (a famous photo shows Les in his iconic suit near the stage with father Lindell — in junior high, Les routinely wore suits to school); The Who, back when destroying instruments at the end of their sets was a novelty; Cream, whose Ginger Baker he emulated; and Buddy Rich, whom he idolized. In the early Seventies, on a beach in Puerto Rico, Les ran into John McLaughlin of the Mahavishnu Orchestra and connected with him over jazz. McLaughlin invited him to attend a private concert in an Old San Juan plaza with legendary Carlos Santana, in the presence of their guru. But Les, a musical guru to many who knew and loved him, left early because they were sampling their “woo-woo” album that didn’t wash with him.

Having lost the love of his life to a cruel disease and punishing medical treatments, he pronounced that he didn’t believe in health care, rejecting most tests and therapies, even painkillers, when his body became ravaged by cancer. His stature and strength were formidable, and he was known to pull his own teeth rather than seek professional care. During a psych evaluation near the end of his life, he directed the shrink to listen to “Inside a Silent Tear” by Carmen McRae for all the answers to what he considered an inane inquisition.

Despite his distaste for conventional wisdom or niceties, he had a sweet generosity and would give his last nickel to help someone else.

Fittingly, one of Les’ favorite symphonies, Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique, which moved him to tears in his youth when his mother introduced him to it, served as his exit music. As the first movement climaxed, he rose up, eyes wide, and released his final, rhythmic breaths.

Les chose these words as his epitaph on his tombstone: Listen, Decide, Adjust, and Rest.

He is survived by his mother, Petra Maria Davidson, of Norfolk, Virginia; his sisters, Patti Davidson-Gorbea of Norfolk and Terry Byrne (Michael) of Chesapeake, Virginia; his brother, Andy Davidson (Beth Manthey), of Oregon City, Oregon; his aunt Sue Dinger of Norfolk; uncles Jimmy Davidson of Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and Joe Gorbea of Norfolk; three nieces, a nephew, a grandnephew and two grandnieces, and many admiring cousins, among other kin.

He was preceded in death by his father, Lindell Alf Davidson; his grandparents, Cornella Morrison Davidson and Alpha Cleveland Davidson, of Trenton, Tennessee, and Ursula “Sula” Cintron Schaffer and José Antonio Gorbea of Puerto Rico; and a niece, Kati Yehle Davidson.

He will be buried at Davidson Chapel Cemetery on Christmasville Road in Trenton, Tennessee, alongside his ancestors.