Read Online Looking for Chet Baker by Bill Moody - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bill Moody
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might catch you tonight, dig some sounds.” He stands up, waves at me. “Later.”
Fletcher shakes his head. Darren waves briefly at the bartender and is gone.
“Who was that?”
“Darren Mitchell. From Newark. Came over here a few years ago and stayed. I don’t really know what he does except try to act hip and bother me. Thinks he wants to be a PI. He gets his dialogue from old jazz movies. Bad old jazz movies. Used to call me Pops, but I had to put a stop to that shit. He tells anybody who will listen that when Chet was around, he used to hang out with him, score for him, that kind of shit, but he wasn’t even here then, and Chet didn’t hang around with nobody ’less it was a woman.”
“Did you ever play with Chet?”
Fletcher finishes off his stew and signals for another beer. “Yeah, couple of times, but Chet had his own thing. Beautiful player, I’ll give him that, but that dope fucked him up.”
“What do you think happened?”
Fletcher nods his head. “No telling. There’s all kinds of stories. He just leaned out the window too far and fell. He was pushed, or he tried climbing up that damn drainpipe and fell. Wasn’t no reasoning with Chet.”
“Who would push him?”
Fletcher shrugs. “Dealers, maybe. He always owed somebody money, and he always had cash. Word is he had a lotta bread from that last record date he did in Germany. Got paid and drove right here to score like he always did.” He stops, shaking his head as if remembering something. “But I lean toward the falling-out-the-window story. He just nodded out and fell.” Fletcher laughs then. “I saw Philly Joe Jones do that in San Francisco with Miles at the Jazz Workshop. Little small stage, drums against the wall. They were playing ‘Oleo,’ kickin’ ass—Philly, Red Garland, Paul Chambers, Hank Mobley—when the drums just stopped. Miles turned around, and there was Philly, his head against the wall—gone, out. Miles just walked off. But Chet? He’d been trying to commit suicide for a long time. Just took him thirty years to finish it.”
Fletcher lets me pay the check this time, and we get up to leave. Outside, the Old Quarter is getting busy. Fletcher looks up at the sky. Big white puffy clouds move by slowly in the deep blue sky. “Can you find your way back to the hotel okay?”
“Sure, I’m fine.”
Fletcher doesn’t look at me, just stares straight ahead. “Look, man, I know you worried about your friend, but there’s probably an easy explanation. If I were you, I’d just let it be, you dig?”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
Now he looks at me and smiles. “All right, then, catch you tonight.” He takes a few steps, then turns around. “Hey, you know ‘Lush Life’?”
“Yeah, you want to do it?”
“Uh-huh, long as you let me play the verse. You know Billy Strayhorn was only sixteen when he wrote that song? Cat was a motherfucker, huh? Later.”
“Hey, Fletcher,” I call to him. “You ever picture Darren on an instrument?”
He stops for a moment, thinks, then turns to me. “No. Darren would be a jive-ass singer.”
Fletcher Paige, on the verge of seventy, walking away, humming the first few bars of “Lush Life.” I watch him till he disappears around the corner. It’s a picture I want to keep in my mind.
***
We play “Lush Life” and more at the Bimhuis. Fletcher and I are meshing well, better than I thought possible. The bassist and drummer sense it and know enough to stay out of our way, just adding their support. The audience feels something too. They don’t know what exactly, but they feel it, some kind of magic happening right before them.
On the break, I can feel the electricity surge through the crowd. Nobody is leaving, but it’s hard to stay focused when people are talking to you, and they don’t know what to say. It isn’t just the language, either. They want to communicate, but they can’t get across that gap. You like to give, and the music, the playing,
Fletcher shakes his head. Darren waves briefly at the bartender and is gone.
“Who was that?”
“Darren Mitchell. From Newark. Came over here a few years ago and stayed. I don’t really know what he does except try to act hip and bother me. Thinks he wants to be a PI. He gets his dialogue from old jazz movies. Bad old jazz movies. Used to call me Pops, but I had to put a stop to that shit. He tells anybody who will listen that when Chet was around, he used to hang out with him, score for him, that kind of shit, but he wasn’t even here then, and Chet didn’t hang around with nobody ’less it was a woman.”
“Did you ever play with Chet?”
Fletcher finishes off his stew and signals for another beer. “Yeah, couple of times, but Chet had his own thing. Beautiful player, I’ll give him that, but that dope fucked him up.”
“What do you think happened?”
Fletcher nods his head. “No telling. There’s all kinds of stories. He just leaned out the window too far and fell. He was pushed, or he tried climbing up that damn drainpipe and fell. Wasn’t no reasoning with Chet.”
“Who would push him?”
Fletcher shrugs. “Dealers, maybe. He always owed somebody money, and he always had cash. Word is he had a lotta bread from that last record date he did in Germany. Got paid and drove right here to score like he always did.” He stops, shaking his head as if remembering something. “But I lean toward the falling-out-the-window story. He just nodded out and fell.” Fletcher laughs then. “I saw Philly Joe Jones do that in San Francisco with Miles at the Jazz Workshop. Little small stage, drums against the wall. They were playing ‘Oleo,’ kickin’ ass—Philly, Red Garland, Paul Chambers, Hank Mobley—when the drums just stopped. Miles turned around, and there was Philly, his head against the wall—gone, out. Miles just walked off. But Chet? He’d been trying to commit suicide for a long time. Just took him thirty years to finish it.”
Fletcher lets me pay the check this time, and we get up to leave. Outside, the Old Quarter is getting busy. Fletcher looks up at the sky. Big white puffy clouds move by slowly in the deep blue sky. “Can you find your way back to the hotel okay?”
“Sure, I’m fine.”
Fletcher doesn’t look at me, just stares straight ahead. “Look, man, I know you worried about your friend, but there’s probably an easy explanation. If I were you, I’d just let it be, you dig?”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
Now he looks at me and smiles. “All right, then, catch you tonight.” He takes a few steps, then turns around. “Hey, you know ‘Lush Life’?”
“Yeah, you want to do it?”
“Uh-huh, long as you let me play the verse. You know Billy Strayhorn was only sixteen when he wrote that song? Cat was a motherfucker, huh? Later.”
“Hey, Fletcher,” I call to him. “You ever picture Darren on an instrument?”
He stops for a moment, thinks, then turns to me. “No. Darren would be a jive-ass singer.”
Fletcher Paige, on the verge of seventy, walking away, humming the first few bars of “Lush Life.” I watch him till he disappears around the corner. It’s a picture I want to keep in my mind.
***
We play “Lush Life” and more at the Bimhuis. Fletcher and I are meshing well, better than I thought possible. The bassist and drummer sense it and know enough to stay out of our way, just adding their support. The audience feels something too. They don’t know what exactly, but they feel it, some kind of magic happening right before them.
On the break, I can feel the electricity surge through the crowd. Nobody is leaving, but it’s hard to stay focused when people are talking to you, and they don’t know what to say. It isn’t just the language, either. They want to communicate, but they can’t get across that gap. You like to give, and the music, the playing,
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