Read Online Looking for Chet Baker by Bill Moody - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bill Moody
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is what attracts people.
I went through different stages with that. I used to feel very arrogant at one time, would hardly talk to anyone. Later, I was switched off in a different way. It’s hard because sometimes you don’t want to talk to anyone and there’s nothing to do but kill time, wait for the next set, then get back up there and lose yourself in the music. Time on your hands, and with some people, it can start funny habits.
Playing jazz, playing it well, is something that’s very hard to do, so if you drink, or smoke, or whatever at the same time, it doesn’t work, at least not for me. There’s an element of it that can be destructive when art takes place in clubs, and that element has claimed many musicians. The Bimhuis doesn’t feel like that. For the most part, these people have come for the music, to be witness to something they can talk about tomorrow or next week or next year, so they can say, “Yeah, I was there the night Fletcher Paige and Evan Horne played in Amsterdam.” Tonight they’re getting their money’s worth.
I come off the stand feeling up—energy keyed up and have all this time. I’m working, but everyone else is having a good time enjoying me working. Once, during the second set, Fletcher eyes me over his horn as if to say, “This is where you belong,” and in that moment, I know he’s right. However short-lived these moments seem, they mean everything.
When we finish for the night, Fletcher and I have a last drink at the bar, avoiding as much as we can the constant well-wishers who want to come by and say hello—especially those pseudo fans who’ve come to be seen, to sit in the front, wear sunglasses, snap their fingers, nod their heads, hoping they’ll be perceived as cool.
I sit there with Fletcher, basking in the glow, knowing I’ve played well. “Feels good, huh?” Fletcher says. He looks totally at peace with himself.
Leaning back, relaxed for the first time in weeks, I can’t help but grin. “That it does,” I say. “That it does.”
But then, across the room, something makes me sit up straight, break the spell. Fletcher sees my expression and turns to see what I’m looking at, then rolls his eyes.
The resemblance is uncanny at first glance. It’s the ghost of Chet Baker, as if he stepped out of the photo in the hotel lobby—this young man in jeans, white T-shirt, hair falling over his eyes. The only thing missing is his trumpet. He sits at the bar alone and stares moodily, sipping a beer. Nobody is paying any attention to him.
“That cat’s around here all the time,” Fletcher says. “Got some obsession with Chet. Dresses like him in his younger days. Before that, it was James Dean, the actor.”
I can’t take my eyes off him. “Does he play?”
“Nothing but the radio.”
I nod, relaxing a bit now. “It’s spooky, though.”
“Yeah,” Fletcher says. “Ghosts always are. C’mon, man. We got some more music to play.”
On the last tune of the night, “I’m Getting Sentimental Over You,” we take it at a medium tempo. But after everyone solos, Fletcher doesn’t take it out. He starts on a long tag, inviting us to join him as he turns the chords inside out, challenging me to stay with him, playing like he’s somewhere else than a club in Amsterdam. The bass player digs in, and the drummer finds the groove as we roll on almost to the breaking point. Then Fletcher, with only a slight nod, finds an opening, and we go out.
Over the applause, he eyes me as if he’s done that tag to prove a point. It’s like a drug, but I also feel another kind of pull, in another direction, a path I’ve been down before.
It’s one I don’t want to follow, not yet. But the question, as always, is how long can I avoid it.
Chapter Five
After breakfast, I decide to check once more at the front desk for messages. Maybe Ace has called in, left a message or asked about his portfolio. “No, nothing, Mr. Horne,” the clerk tells me, “but the owner
I went through different stages with that. I used to feel very arrogant at one time, would hardly talk to anyone. Later, I was switched off in a different way. It’s hard because sometimes you don’t want to talk to anyone and there’s nothing to do but kill time, wait for the next set, then get back up there and lose yourself in the music. Time on your hands, and with some people, it can start funny habits.
Playing jazz, playing it well, is something that’s very hard to do, so if you drink, or smoke, or whatever at the same time, it doesn’t work, at least not for me. There’s an element of it that can be destructive when art takes place in clubs, and that element has claimed many musicians. The Bimhuis doesn’t feel like that. For the most part, these people have come for the music, to be witness to something they can talk about tomorrow or next week or next year, so they can say, “Yeah, I was there the night Fletcher Paige and Evan Horne played in Amsterdam.” Tonight they’re getting their money’s worth.
I come off the stand feeling up—energy keyed up and have all this time. I’m working, but everyone else is having a good time enjoying me working. Once, during the second set, Fletcher eyes me over his horn as if to say, “This is where you belong,” and in that moment, I know he’s right. However short-lived these moments seem, they mean everything.
When we finish for the night, Fletcher and I have a last drink at the bar, avoiding as much as we can the constant well-wishers who want to come by and say hello—especially those pseudo fans who’ve come to be seen, to sit in the front, wear sunglasses, snap their fingers, nod their heads, hoping they’ll be perceived as cool.
I sit there with Fletcher, basking in the glow, knowing I’ve played well. “Feels good, huh?” Fletcher says. He looks totally at peace with himself.
Leaning back, relaxed for the first time in weeks, I can’t help but grin. “That it does,” I say. “That it does.”
But then, across the room, something makes me sit up straight, break the spell. Fletcher sees my expression and turns to see what I’m looking at, then rolls his eyes.
The resemblance is uncanny at first glance. It’s the ghost of Chet Baker, as if he stepped out of the photo in the hotel lobby—this young man in jeans, white T-shirt, hair falling over his eyes. The only thing missing is his trumpet. He sits at the bar alone and stares moodily, sipping a beer. Nobody is paying any attention to him.
“That cat’s around here all the time,” Fletcher says. “Got some obsession with Chet. Dresses like him in his younger days. Before that, it was James Dean, the actor.”
I can’t take my eyes off him. “Does he play?”
“Nothing but the radio.”
I nod, relaxing a bit now. “It’s spooky, though.”
“Yeah,” Fletcher says. “Ghosts always are. C’mon, man. We got some more music to play.”
On the last tune of the night, “I’m Getting Sentimental Over You,” we take it at a medium tempo. But after everyone solos, Fletcher doesn’t take it out. He starts on a long tag, inviting us to join him as he turns the chords inside out, challenging me to stay with him, playing like he’s somewhere else than a club in Amsterdam. The bass player digs in, and the drummer finds the groove as we roll on almost to the breaking point. Then Fletcher, with only a slight nod, finds an opening, and we go out.
Over the applause, he eyes me as if he’s done that tag to prove a point. It’s like a drug, but I also feel another kind of pull, in another direction, a path I’ve been down before.
It’s one I don’t want to follow, not yet. But the question, as always, is how long can I avoid it.
Chapter Five
After breakfast, I decide to check once more at the front desk for messages. Maybe Ace has called in, left a message or asked about his portfolio. “No, nothing, Mr. Horne,” the clerk tells me, “but the owner
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