I first heard the great jazz singer Jimmy Scott as a boy, in 1952. My truck-driver dad took me along on a pretzel delivery to a bar in Newark, New Jersey, where Scott was performing. His voice, awash with mystery and pain, mesmerized me. I heard Scott for the last time in 2009, in the studio as he cut an album that has at long last been released: I Go Back Home, the final recording before his death in 2014 at 89.