Fats Waller: The Joint is Jumping

Young Fats Waller: Rediscovered Early Solos (a compilation)

Remembering Fats Waller, born Thomas Wright Waller, on the anniversary of his death 68 years ago.

Though Waller played thousands of engagements in his too-short career, presumably none was more memorable than one in Illinois in the late 1920s. Waller was the guest of honor at the birthday party for the gangster who had almost everything, according to the independent.co.uk, invited by Al Capone’s men at the point of a gun.

According to the independent’s account, Waller “found himself bullied into a black limousine, heard the driver ordered to East Cicero. Sweat pouring down his body, Fats foresaw a premature end to his career, but on arrival at a fancy saloon, he was merely pushed toward a piano and told to play. He played. Loudest in applause was a beefy man with an unmistakable scar: Al Capone was having a birthday, and he, Fats, was a present . . .”

The party lasted three days, according to the website, which is a lot of encores. And tips. It was a tough crowd, perhaps, but a good time was had by all; we can be sure Waller wasn’t misbehavin’ with that audience.

From the Independent: “By the time the black limousine headed back . . . Fats had acquired several thousand dollars in cash and a decided taste for vintage champagne.”

Fitting since, Waller’s tastes and appetites for life, like baseball’s Babe Ruth of the same era, were reportedly as large as he was. He died in 1943 just months before he was to turn 40; history says his lifestyle contributed to his early passing, which in turn, enhanced his “larger-than-life” reputation.

“Lighting up, lest all our hearts should break,
 His fiftieth cigarette of the day . . .”

 wrote Michael Longley in his poem Elegy For Fats Waller.

“He plays for hours on end and though there be
Oases one part water, two parts gin,
He tumbles past to reign, wise and thirsty . . .”

Like Ruth, Waller yearned to be taken more seriously; the Yankees never made Ruth manager, and it’s largely — no pun intended — after Waller’s death that appreciation for his musical talents outweighed (ibid) his comedic ones. Richard S. Ginell on allmusic.com: “Waller did have so-called serious musical pretensions, longing to follow in George Gershwin’s footsteps and compose concert music (but) it probably was not in the cards anyway due to the racial barriers of the first half of the 20th century. Besides, given the fact that Waller influenced a long line of pianists of and after his time . . . his impact has been truly profound.”

From Orrin Keepnews’ liner notes on the compilation album Young Fats Waller: Rediscovered Early Solos: ”Surely it must be no longer ago than yesterday that he crowded his bulk onto a piano bench and began to cut the inflated lyrics of some insipid pop song down to size with the robust irony of his voice, or to extract every possible ounce of strength and of jazz out of whatever music was at hand.”

sources: wikipedia.org, bittersuiteband.com, independent.co.uk, allmusic.com

Steve Forbert: Steve Forbert’s Midsummer Night’s Toast

Steve Forbert's album Mission of the Crossroad Palms, released in 1995, which would make him at least 40 on this cover, though it's hard to tell

Birthday greetings to Steve Forbert, who celebrates No. 57 today.

Once upon a time, Forbert was anointed “the next Bob Dylan,” if for no other reasons than they both wrote music, played harmonica and came from states that started with Mi. (Minnesota and Mississippi).

Of course, this made them no more similar than William Faulkner and Sinclair Lewis because they both wrote books. Forbert’s songs were simpler, peppier and younger; Forbert often wrote about his world, with “a young man’s ear;” Dylan wrote about the world around him with an old man’s eye.

“Being called the next Bob Dylan wasn’t exactly a good thing . . .,” wrote Steve Leggett on allmusic.com, “first because who on earth would want that hung around his neck, and second because his approach and style were nothing much like Dylan in the first place. It was a recipe for perceived failure . . .”

A career letdown for sure. Forbert’s Romeo Tune, on his second album Jackrabbit Slim in 1979, peaked at No. 11, but he never got that high again; of course he wasn’t the next Dylan because there’s no such thing, anymore than there’s a next Ali or Sinatra or da Vinci.

 ”It was just a cliché back then, and it’s nothing I take seriously,” Forbert said in a 2009 interview with NPR (npr.org). “I’m off the hook — I don’t have to be smarter than everybody else and know all the answers like Bob Dylan.”

Many of Forbert’s early songs were coming of age, and having come of age, material wasn’t as prevalent. He’s continued to write and perform, and his work has matured, even if you can’t tell it by looking at him. It’s hard to believe the artist staring back at you from 2009′s The Place And The Time, his most recent album, was then 55.

Or maybe age is in the eye of the beholder. Young and hopeful, Forbert went down to Laurel for love  with “just a touch of madness in my eye” (“I’m glad to be so young talkin’ with my tongue, Glad to be so careless in my way”). He still looks young and hopeful, although even Forbert’s optimism didn’t spare Laurel (“It’s a dirty stinkin’ town yeah”).

(On a personal aside, we once wandered into Laurel, Miss. during the heyday of Forbert’s popularity on an overnight ride to New Orleans. I asked our server at the all-night diner if she knew that Forbert had written a song about her town. When she said no, I figured it best to spare her the details lest she spill the coffee. And though my memories are bleak, I don’t remember Forbert’s description being wrong).

A link to Steve Forbert’s Midsummer Night’s Toast below:

 I got my fingers a-tapping on the hard,
stone steps.
I’m waiting for lightning and the rains to fall.
Young lovers are loafin’ with their sidewalk smiles
And all their rainbow dreams.

sources: allmusic.com, wikipedia.org, npr.org

McCoy Tyner: Fly With the Wind

McCoy Tyner's 1967 album The Real McCoy

Birthday greetings to pianist McCoy Tyner, who celebrates No. 73 today.

Tyner is still best known for his association with John Coltrane, though that was — chronologically — a short part of his career and a long time ago. It’s been 46 years since the two split — Tyner left two years before Coltrane’s death in 1967 — and 51 since Tyner first became a member of Coltrane’s most famous quartet (with bassist Jimmy Garrison and drummer Elvin Jones).

“(Coltrane) wasn’t dictatorial at all,” Tyner said in an interview with jerryjazzmusician.com. “He didn’t tell you what to do, he left the playing up to you. If he had something specific he wanted out of the melody, he would tell you, and the rest was up to you. So, we had fun!

“It was because it was like that, that we had that sort of freedom, we would surprise ourselves, we would reach certain points together . . . Jazz is a very good moral teacher. You have to respect the other guy who is on stage with you in order to achieve what you are looking for. You have to respect the music and the person that is next to you, that way you can get the best out of the situation.”

You can suggest Tyner’s best came after Coltrane, even if it’s not his best-known, or even best-appreciated by audiences. I can remember seeing Tyner some 30 years ago as the second half of a concert bill with Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers; a third or more of the spectators vacated the venue after Blakey was finished.

“McCoy Tyner, so thoroughly identified with the rolling muscularity of Coltrane’s rhythm section, experienced a dry spell after he parted company in 1965,” wrote Gary Giddins on the liner notes to La Leyenda de La Hora (The Legend of the Hour). “. . . Many people wondered how and if he’d be able to sustain a career on his own. Tyner wondered, too, and there was a moment when he contemplated leaving the music scene.”

Fortunately, the moment passed. Like an actor most renowned for a role early in his career, Tyner’s name goes with Coltrane’s, even if he has long since evolved in his art.

“I asked McCoy in what direction he wanted his music to go from this point on,” wrote Nat Hentoff in the liner notes to 1967′s The Real McCoy. ” ‘I don’t think in those terms,’ he said. ‘You see, to me living and music are all the same thing. And I keep finding out more about music as I learn about myself, my environment, about all kinds of different things in life. I play what I live . . . I just want to write and play my instrument as I feel.”

A link to the title track of Tyner’s 1976 album Fly With the Wind below:

Sources: jerryjazzmusician.com, npr.org, wikipedia.org