Ilgihletter 93024-0240 I Vol

P.(). BOX 24-O Ojai, Calif. ilgihletter 93024-0240 i Vol. 9 N0. 3 March 1990 D-minor chord I senscdlooming behind me, - .- - 8 $l1ad°WY Letters, presence that made my skin creep, though I did not feel Influence? You honor me. Thank you. \ physically threatened. The sparse applause died. I turned and The Jazzletters are great. saw him emerge from the gloomy recesses of the bar, ‘bloated, I heard Bix in a store in Spokane in 1937 when I heard ponderous, walking with his hands slightly in» front of him, 5181“ Teddy Wilson. I didn’t even know about anybody yet. Thank only in a corner of one eye, gleaming black face held at a God for a certain Blackfoot Indian. angle, single eye straining for light. Then he was in a ' Jimmy Rowles, Burbank, California deep gruff voice as he bent over me, hands spanmng my shoulders, the beer-swollen paunch pressing gently into my Honor? I always submit the Janletter to people whose back -- a pudgy man’s inadvertent caress -- "That was pretty, knowledge is expert, particularly those with a sense for and love son, but try this chord in the second bar." of history. L The piano piece and that on Bill Challis were read The incredible flat spatulate fingers spread on the ivory, a by Benny Carter, whose memory is long and accurate, and Gerry Debussy-spaced chord resounding as if from a submerged flulligan. This is not to implicate them in my judgments, but cathedral (and ringing in my mind the next day). But the ey and others help me to minimize oversights and historical intervals were too irregular, beyond my harmonic ken. I errors. Bill Crow reminded me of your influence. ' couldn’t fix the configuration in my mind. 0 "Do that once more," I said in my dream, but he was already off to the next bar and as I slipped out from under his arms The Writers he lowered his squat portly bulk onto the stool. The room I still shake my head at the myth that jazz musicians are grew very quiet, only the musicians knew who he was, but inarticulate, which persists despite its untruth and the fact that everyone seemed alert to an extraordinary transition, skinny Q: many of them are also writers. I’m about to introduce you journeyman white pianist giving way to the burly black man, -- if you haven’t met him already -- to a writer new to this face raised awkwardly to the light, the thrilling plangent publication, Don Asher. godlike sound swelling to every corner, drums and bass awed, You may remember Don as the house pianist at the hungry wisely laying out; no one plays with the High Commissioner. i in San Francisco, back when it was booking Lenny Bruce, Mort Sahl, Richard Prior, Dick Gregory, Bill Cosby, Irwin At the time I was studying with Worcester’s foremost classical Corey, et al. Don has an MS from Cornell in organic piano teacher, Martha Cantor. My Bach inventions and chemistryand worked after graduation as a research chemist Chopin etudes were competent and respectful, but the music in a soap factory. "I got waylaid," he says, "by Jaki Byard, who that was luring me sprang from contemporary revolutionary was playing the piano in the joints around my home town, keyboards: Earl Hines, Fats Waller, Nat Cole, and most Worcester, Massachusetts. I began to study with him and soon spectacularly, the blind virtuoso who had invaded my dream, was playing in the same joints he had worked. Often I’d fmd Mr. Art Tatum from Toledo, Ohio. myself in the same combo;~Jaki would be on sax or drums." "It’s cartwheels and magic," an older pianist said, lending me Qon has published six novels with major publishers and many a couple of Tatum’s records. "He puts us all in the deep ort stories and essays in Harper's, Paris Review, Rolling shade." Stone, and The Saturday Evening Post. He collaborated with ‘ Soon after, Miss Cantor detected something coarse and alien his friend Hampton Hawes on the latter’s autobiography, Raise infiltrating the texture of my playing. "Your legato lines are Up Off Me (Da Capo Press, 1979). losing definition and clarity, Donald, and I can’t seem to put my finger on the difficulty." He was booked solo into Boston’s Hi Hat club. A half Keys of the Kingdom dozen fledgling musicians piled into my older brother’s jalopy by Dcn.Asher g and drove down the pike. The anticipation level was as high Come this November, he’ll have been gone thirty-four years, as if a carload of teenage baseball freaks were making their and no one’s ever got within shouting distance. initial excursion to Fenway Park in the days when Ted When I was fifteen I dreamt one night that I was much Williams ruled the pasture. older, playing the piano in a trio in a roaadhouse outside Our first sight of him was in the bar a floor below the main Worcester, Massachusetts, one of those gutbucket saloons room. I recognized him from photos, which had been strung along the Worcester-Boston Turnpike like dingy boxcars accurately reflected in my dream. I was surprised he was so on a coal-littered My daydream was to become a short -- five foot six or seven, gauging by my own comparable premier jan pianist; I was eight months away from my first height; but broad, a dense low-gravity weight to him. The professional gig. bartender was bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer into ThetuneIwasplayinginthisdream,withbassanddrum a glass pitcher. When it was nearly brimful he handed it to accompaniment, was Yesterdays -- not the tepid Beatles Mr. Tatum. The pianist raised the pitcher to his mouth; he Yesterday; it hadn’t been written yet -- Jerome’s Kern’s tilted his head, opened his gullet. Down the hatch in three or Yesterdays, sweet sequestered days. As I endgd on a tremolo four stupendous swallows. Some of us were just starting to Q .: _ drink -- glasses of beer and ale, swigs of Four Roses in back of the garage. But this was man’s work. What I had heard eyed classmate was trying to beat his thumb in sync with the was true: he drank like he played, lustily, prodigiously. It was tempo; it was like trying to match a hummingbird’s wings. On an auspicious introduction. the edge of my chair, tense with the rollicking charge, I found We followed him upstairs to a semi-dark two-thirds-filled myself gradually relaxing, slipping into reverie -- I had boarded room. He eased onto the bench, arms loose at his sides, head the train at the last station and was giddily swaying now with cocked as if sniffmg something in the air. Only when the its careening motion, watching power poles, occasional barns, rustle and conversational hum subsided did he lift his hands. and grazing animals flash by, able to appreciate the landscape It was not a leisurely entry, no ruminative chording or testing- because of my instinctive trust of the engineer. He might have the-water arpeggio work. The hands plunged. And the music been a wild man, half-crazed or stoned or just naturally shouted and poured, wide as a river. exuberant, but trust him I did on this highballing trip. Besides, I can only convey image-flashes of that evening, a night what choice did I have but to gut it out, ride the express down landscape revealed in flares of bolt to the end of the line? Passages of whomping way-back whorehouse stride merged Two choruses into Fine and Dandy, some boisterous partyers into jalmty lambent measures: a well-bred slightly sassy girl settled at a table near the piano. Tatum instantly dropped his promenading in a new satin dress . a locomotive way I hands to his sides, patiently waiting until the interlopers were /_ to a unicycle. The sly passage work and raffish embroidery glared into silence. Then he was off again, this antic engineer“ suggested Debussy playing barrelhouse. It’was a matter of Iithrottle out, a mother superior on wheels, booting it home, how receptive a state you were in, how loose a rein you running with the wind. allowed your imagination. We were subdued driving back, our exhilaration tempered by incredulity and, ultimately, depression, the pianists in the crowd Some pianists’ hands caress the keyboard, others prance, contemplating a goal that could never be reached, knowing skip, sculpt, browbeat, or bluster. Tatum’s alternately tap- that much of what we had heard could not be done. We were danced and marched; the dance puckish, airy, fantastic, the young, nowhere near the limits of our powers, but we suspect- march that of an assured boulevardier. The latter bravura mode conveyed a spectacular parade, a panorama of the ed -- taking a squint down the long road -- that the best we’d music’s early history from the raunch and swagger of New manage would be to hold our hands at forbidding distance to Orleans levee and bagnio parlor, upriver by paddlewheel his bright flame and try to warm ourselves. Before the year was out I was working my first jobs in the (deckside brass bands outfitted in spanking regalia) to Kansas southside Worcester dives and turnpike roadhouses. I fessed City and Chicago, where gangster-run honkey-tonks, purveying up to Miss Cantor -- the indelibly fixed notes of "long-dead hot music, bootleg gin, and whores in silk dresses, jumped into composers, glorious though they were, no longer did it for me ’\lD/the sunrise.

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