Jazz stars of his era got nicknames. Lester Young was "Prez", Billie Holiday was "Lady Day", and Charlie Parker was "Bird". Jacquet, bestowed with something less upbeat, was known by everyone in the business (though never - my god - ever to his face) as "The Beast".
I took this photo of him, and was so delighted to have captured his true self that I somehow scraped together the cash to order a blown-up print:
Jacquet had vaulted to fame as a 19-year-old wunderkind in 1942 when he played the single most famous jazz solo of the first half of the twentieth century, a marathon-length tenor saxophone showcase on Lionel Hampton's mega hit "Flyin' Home".
For years, Jacquet was called to repeat the solo note-for-note, and he continued to do so decades after audiences were, shall we say, less feverishly demanding. When he picked up his horn, preparing to blow the world-renowned opening lick, his imagining of bright spotlight was so powerful that his face would actually illuminate.
40 years after his heyday, Jacquet repeated the same solos nightly on all the other songs in our repertoire, too. It was utterly mysterious to me, given that he was a master improvisor who could effortlessly produce a fine spontaneous solo. Finally, the guys in the band (which included legends like Cecil Payne, Eddie Barefield, and Richard Wyands) explained the situation with rolled eyes and helpless shrugs. Jacquet, I was told, was hoping those canned solos would become equally famous, treasured, and demanded if he repeated them enough. Like jazz solos might still become ubiquitous anthems in late-1980s America.
Show me someone angry enough to pick up a nickname like "The Beast" and I'll show you a mismatch between reality and self-image. Self-styled giants forced to endure the indignity of mere normalcy never go gentle into that good night. This is the most noxious form of immaturity.
Jacquet was not a bright man, but he had enormous cunning. The wheels were always spinning, making it devilishly hard to decipher his thinking. For example, he very rarely let me solo, though I always ignited the crowd (not boasting, it's just true). Over time, he backed me down to a mere 8 bars (about 15 seconds) per night, and I still managed to earn thunderous applause, to his undisguised annoyance. I might have sulked, but instead I viewed it as a fascinating psychological knot to unravel.
The obvious answer is that he didn't want to share limelight. Yet there were other musicians he went out of his way to feature, multiple times per night. It took years to map out his thinking, and here's the schematic:
A young black alto saxophonist, Jesse Davis, played lots of notes (and very well, too; he's still a deservedly popular player). Jacquet would let him unleash his technical prowess, then smugly hoist his own horn and waft out simple strokes of buttery soul, undercutting all that had preceded. The counterpoint worked for him. Show biz!
But a mystery remained. Joey, the band's white lead alto player, could waft out credible buttery soul, himself. So why was he featured several times a night, Jacquet screaming his name into the mic to whip audiences into a frenzy? It finally dawned on me. Jacquet needed a foil. Joey was like the Washington Generals - the Harlem Globetrotters’ perpetual opponents, urged by management to play their best to keep the stars on their toes and ensure a tight show. You need a second banana - a Mini Me - playing the same game for the presentation to have heft and structure. It was all dramatic narrative, all kayfabe.
I was just as young, just as white, and just as buttery/soulful, but Jacquet already had a white kid in that slot; he didn't need a second one. So while Joey blew his heart out, Jacquet would freeze his face in a camera-ready kabuki mask of faux pride and delight. And when I blew my heart out, he'd bear it with his back to the audience, showing his true face: that of a glowering, malevolent, dead-eyed old woman. Here, again, is that face:
It's well known that victims of abuse go on to abuse others, and that, indeed, had been Jacquet's origin story. His mentor/tormentor, Lionel Hampton (with whom I, ever hapless, also worked) had a public image as an elegant, dignified elder statesman, but musicians knew him as a ghoulish narcissist who literally could not stop playing so long as the crowd kept cheering. Sets would stretch for hours - venue owners begging him to get off the damned stage - while some remaining gaggle of drunks kept clapping to egg him on. Oh, and I will not be so foolish as to publicly discuss the truth (well known by jazz musicians) behind the untimely death of Hamp's wife. Ask a jazz musician in, like, 2080, when our progeny might consider it safe to finally share the tale with civilians.
But while Jacquet may have been The Beast, and Hampton may have been the Uber-Beast, Hampton's mentor/tormentor was one of the most evil bastards ever to stick a horn in his face. I'll offer my single favorite of many, many Benny Goodman stories passed down through the generations.
It was mid-January and the band was rehearsing in Goodman's palatial Manhattan townhouse. The thermostat was set somewhere in the 50's (Benny was a notorious miser), and the musicians were suffering. Suddenly Benny cut off the group mid-song and asked:
"Hey, fellas, is it just me or is it cold in here?"
The band replied, en masse (complete with chattering teeth and shaky voices) ala "Yeah, Benny, oh yeah, cold, yep, awful cold, Benny."
Benny strode wordlessly out of the room, returned in a sumptuous mink coat, and counted off the tempo.
Illinois was managed by a stern, austere woman named Carol whose ex-husband had been Woody Allen's original producer. She'd seized great gobs of money in the divorce, and used it to buy band uniforms and publicity for Jacquet, with whom she lived (we all assumed it was platonic) and whose playing she worshipped nearly as fervidly as her evil guru, Gurumayi Chidvilasananda, who promised her and Jacquet eternal life so long as they kept the donations coming.
Jacquet was all for the "eternal life" thing, but less so the spirituality thing, so he continued boozing on the sly, hiding a profusion of glasses and flasks in the landscape around the bandstand (under the piano lid, in potted plants, etc), perennially out-foxing Carol, who tried to maintain her facade of elegant dignity while rooting around for these stashes like a truffle pig.
I could keep going. Endlessly (and, again, I did not view a body). But this must suffice for now. Sleep well, all.
Oh, here's my backstage pass from when we played the Pori Jazz Festival in Finland:
Forgot to note. Oddly, Jacquet really loved my name. He decided it had show-biz pizzazz. He loved to holler out both names at errant moments, like a Tourette’s tic: "JIM LEFF!"
2 comments:
jim it may be, in fact it likely is, the surrealness and cooped upness of this covid lockdown, but i just cannot stop laughing. its incredible. i mean these are our jazz heroes with the curtain pulled back a bit. and what do you know, they are human beings and the show is an act. of course its really not funny at all, its sad, i dk why its doing this for me here now. anyway, i hope you dont have any regretful feelings about sharing, because you handled it fairly, with open eyes and complete grace. glad i stumbled in here tonight — take care — aka mrnyc from chowhound.
Your take was what I’d hoped for. Illumination, dark humor, and a surreal tale rather than character assassination (however he might have deserved it). This is what the world is, and it’s not a fairy tale of lightness and joy, but there's unmistakable richness and complexity. Thanks for reading and commenting!
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