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Authors: David Donnell
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addition to which Hayden had an immeasurably greater knowledge of music than Tom possessed, and had never been even faintly tempted to write stories (although Hayden had stories, but he was a quiet amused kind of guy in regard to conversation) in the manner, although he had lived in Paris for a while and had driven a little Peugeot minor, of some French guy like Albert Camus.
Hayden had been an A student at Jefferson High School in Brooklyn, a scholarship student, music obsessive, tight end distinguished for broken field play at Yale in the late 60s, a music compulsive, Juilliard in New York, and then Paris in 1974.
His mother was a school teacher and a regular churchwoman. His older sister Dahlia was the neighbourhood beauty in their part of Brooklyn, and a bit of a sass and also a bit of a snoot, she could look down her nose at a school teacher or a bank manager with equal ease. But she sang in the church choir and when she sang she was a somewhat different kind of sister.
Anyway, first song, as in first love, first sex, first time bareback, first time driving home from Jones Beach, not that his family owned it, nobody owns Jones Beach, although it isn’t really public property either. Hayden Jones wrote his first song when he was about 11 years old. It wasn’t a bad song. It was a song about playing tag with his brother. It was a 4-bar blues. And who knows, maybe it was about his sister. It wasn’t about his mother, and it wasn’t about Jesus. His mother said it was a good song. His father didn’t say anything. His father was at the race track in Detroit, Dee/troite, hanging out with Fox & Masters & Wilberson & Lapointe. It was a pretty good song for a boy who was already 5’10”, handsome enough to be noticed on the street, LaFayette & Lancaster, and hadn’t started showing any interest in girls as yet. It was a pretty good song with his own melodyand he did the harmonic himself both vocally and on the family living room piano. But he didn’t write another song or even think about writing songs again until he was about 27. He was a little older than the rest of the Desperados, the black / white blues band he helped to form after coming back from Paris, where he knew Tom Garrone from, where he knew Stash and the others. He was about 4 years older, and as far as music was concerned he was a lot smarter, but he didn’t go around saying so. Hayden was a composer, blues-based and a Bartok obsessive, and unlike most composers he was hooked up with a hard line, flat out band that was about to take America by storm, if they would listen to him, that is. He wasn’t, when Tom Garrone met him, walking around in a loft whistling scores to himself, although he sometimes did that as well.
Juilliard followed Yale. Hayden had been playing with groups and arranging, becoming an arranger as well as a brilliant keyboards player, but arranging was definitely his first and greatest love supreme, and had been since he was around 15.
It was amazing that he never worried about his hands when he played football. First at Jefferson, then at Yale. At Yale more seriously, because
it
was more serious; for example, these guys at Yale were tough, really tough. They were nothing like Yale boys doing their M.A.s in philosophy and having a sandwich and a beer at Cookie’s, a familiar sandwich place for lunch, booths and all, in New Haven. Uh, uh. They were tough.
But Hayden never worried about his hands when he played football, and he never worried about his mind. He didn’t joke around with the older guys in the locker room that much, not especially, not so you would notice, Hayden was very contained, again, not very much like Tom who is tall and thin and likeable, but at times a bit of a schlemiel, a sincere guy but a guy who babbles a bit too much.
Hayden lived in a garrett, well, a third-floor maid’s room, when he studied in Paris. Not quite like Erik Satie, to whom Hayden’s heart belonged absolutely, although he was not to
Hayden had been an A student at Jefferson High School in Brooklyn, a scholarship student, music obsessive, tight end distinguished for broken field play at Yale in the late 60s, a music compulsive, Juilliard in New York, and then Paris in 1974.
His mother was a school teacher and a regular churchwoman. His older sister Dahlia was the neighbourhood beauty in their part of Brooklyn, and a bit of a sass and also a bit of a snoot, she could look down her nose at a school teacher or a bank manager with equal ease. But she sang in the church choir and when she sang she was a somewhat different kind of sister.
Anyway, first song, as in first love, first sex, first time bareback, first time driving home from Jones Beach, not that his family owned it, nobody owns Jones Beach, although it isn’t really public property either. Hayden Jones wrote his first song when he was about 11 years old. It wasn’t a bad song. It was a song about playing tag with his brother. It was a 4-bar blues. And who knows, maybe it was about his sister. It wasn’t about his mother, and it wasn’t about Jesus. His mother said it was a good song. His father didn’t say anything. His father was at the race track in Detroit, Dee/troite, hanging out with Fox & Masters & Wilberson & Lapointe. It was a pretty good song for a boy who was already 5’10”, handsome enough to be noticed on the street, LaFayette & Lancaster, and hadn’t started showing any interest in girls as yet. It was a pretty good song with his own melodyand he did the harmonic himself both vocally and on the family living room piano. But he didn’t write another song or even think about writing songs again until he was about 27. He was a little older than the rest of the Desperados, the black / white blues band he helped to form after coming back from Paris, where he knew Tom Garrone from, where he knew Stash and the others. He was about 4 years older, and as far as music was concerned he was a lot smarter, but he didn’t go around saying so. Hayden was a composer, blues-based and a Bartok obsessive, and unlike most composers he was hooked up with a hard line, flat out band that was about to take America by storm, if they would listen to him, that is. He wasn’t, when Tom Garrone met him, walking around in a loft whistling scores to himself, although he sometimes did that as well.
Juilliard followed Yale. Hayden had been playing with groups and arranging, becoming an arranger as well as a brilliant keyboards player, but arranging was definitely his first and greatest love supreme, and had been since he was around 15.
It was amazing that he never worried about his hands when he played football. First at Jefferson, then at Yale. At Yale more seriously, because
it
was more serious; for example, these guys at Yale were tough, really tough. They were nothing like Yale boys doing their M.A.s in philosophy and having a sandwich and a beer at Cookie’s, a familiar sandwich place for lunch, booths and all, in New Haven. Uh, uh. They were tough.
But Hayden never worried about his hands when he played football, and he never worried about his mind. He didn’t joke around with the older guys in the locker room that much, not especially, not so you would notice, Hayden was very contained, again, not very much like Tom who is tall and thin and likeable, but at times a bit of a schlemiel, a sincere guy but a guy who babbles a bit too much.
Hayden lived in a garrett, well, a third-floor maid’s room, when he studied in Paris. Not quite like Erik Satie, to whom Hayden’s heart belonged absolutely, although he was not to
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