The Dr., Mavis and Yolanda

Get that photo

Bill King Photography

For years, Kristine and I held the run of the place at the Toronto TD Jazz Festival, cameras slung like old friends and senses tuned to the hush between notes. The real gold wasn’t onstage beneath the spotlights. It was back of house, where legends walk like mortals and stories breathe freely in the pause between sets. There were no horn-suckers in mid-solo, no vocalists mid-wail, just the pulse of life when the show folded in for a beat.

One scorched late afternoon, I spotted Mavis Staples and her sister Yolanda gliding in slow-motion style on a golf cart, like royalty in denim and grace. I never rush a moment like that. You wait, let the air settle, the players dismount, the vibe find its rhythm. I kept back camera in hand but not yet raised—respect matters more than the shot.

The cart pulls in, and tires whisper on the grass. I make my quiet approach and ask Mavis if I might grab a photo of the sisters. Before the Queen can answer, Yolanda cuts in with the kind of warmth that untangles your nerves: “We got us a good-looking man with a camera.” That lands like a blessing.

But Mavis has her eye elsewhere, beyond my shoulder, locks on a slow-moving silhouette coming our way, cane tapping in time like a second line parade slowed by time. Dr. John. Gris-gris soul and all. Mavis doesn’t miss a beat: “You want a better picture? Tell the doctor we’re over here. That’s the shot.”

The wind nudges me forward. I catch stride with the Doc, tell him Mavis and Yolanda are calling. He peers past me, sees the sisters waiting, light lifting just right. “That’s Mavis and Yolanda?” he grins. “Take me there.”

What followed was pure soul communion. A holler, a hug, a binding of spirits circling in gospel harmony since the delta days. Mavis folds me in with a wink: “Told you I’d give you the best photo you’ve ever gotten.”

Click.

That frame? Still sings. Still sanctified. Still swinging in the sweet spot between history and heartbeat.