The Wattree Chronicle: One For Jimmy

Beneath the Spin * Eric L. Wattree

ONE FOR JIMMY

I’ll never forget the day my father brought home my first saxophone. It was on a Sunday morning. He opened the case, and there it was, smiling at me for the very first time, with its pearly-white keypads and glistening gold body gleaming in the sunlight against the deep blue felt lining of its case. Even now, I can remember my excitement as the newness of it’s smell filled my young nostrils.
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But to my surprise, he also brought Jimmy home with him - for what, I didn’t know. Jimmy was the neighborhood’s quintessential dope fiend and general substance abuser. Thus, to my even greater surprise, it turned out that he had brought Jimmy home to teach me to play the saxophone. I was very doubtful that Jimmy could teach anyone to do anything but shoot dope, toss back a pint or two and nod, but I wasn’t worried about that at the time - I just couldn’t wait for him to put that horn together.
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It seemed like it took him forever to extract the pad-saver and adjust the reed on the mouthpiece. Then they finally put the strap around my neck. Jimmy showed me where to place my fingers, and then I blew my first official note on the saxophone, and got one of the most horrifically agonizing sounds out of that horn that ANYONE has ever heard. It made my mother jump up out of bed and run into the living room yelling, "What is going on in here!"
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I became immediately frustrated, because I just couldn’t figure out how something that was so beautiful could produce such a horrible sound. Then my father said, "Wait a minute, son. Jimmy, show him how this thing is supposed to sound."
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Jimmy, as I mentioned before, was not only a dope fiend, but over the years he had degenerated into an extremely unkempt drunk as well. He had become the kind of person who was completely dismissed by even the most down-on-their-luck adults, and the kids used to like to play practical jokes on him when we found him nodded-out somewhere in the neighborhood. But when he put that horn into his mouth and began to play "Round Midnight," he became a different person. Now he was in his element - Jimmy was in command. All of the disappointments and humiliations in life slipped under his fingers and out the bell of that horn as some of the most beautiful licks that I’d ever heard before or since.
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Even as a kid I could see the confidence, the focus, and knowledge reflected in his eyes. I could see the young Jimmy. I could see all of his hopes and dreams that seems to have gone astray. And to this day, I have never heard ANYBODY play "Round Midnight" with such passion and ease of facility, and I’ve heard it played by some of the greatest saxophone players who has ever lived, but not one of them has been able to touch me in the spot that Jimmy reached that Sunday morning of my youth. And this was cold, on a brand new saxophone, and he probably hadn’t touched a horn in years - and not to mention he was loaded (one of the last times I ever saw him in that condition, by the way).
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I never looked at Jimmy the same way again. From that day on, he became a man to be respected and to be taken very seriously–at least, in my eyes, and later, others began to see him in the very same way.
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But as dazzled as I was, I hadn't heard nothing yet. My father became so taken with the seriousness and professionalism that Jimmy brought to teaching me to play that about six months later he took Jimmy to the music store and bought him two brand new state-of-the-art Selmer saxophones - a tenor, and an alto (we won't discuss how my father knew Jimmy, and how he had so much ready cash - let's just say he was a very successful businessman).
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But when they got back home and Jimmy placed his brand new Otto Link metal mouthpiece on that tenor, he took my breath away. The clarity and speed of the notes flying from the bell of that horn reminded me of the glistening spokes of a Cadillac El Dorado reflecting off the Sun as it gracefully cruised down Sunset Blvd. It was absolutely breathtaking. It was next to impossible to believe that this was same guy who just six months earlier was nodding out between the trash bins behind the pool hall. Jimmy was undoubtedly a world-class talent - and he knew it. My father would have him play along with records, and he'd routinely blow circles around some of the best in the business, and without bustin' one sweat bubble. He could play 16th notes in double-time that were so fast that it sound like a swarm of bees.

Jimmy has been an inspiration to me for my entire adult life. It's ironic, considering, what I thought of him when I first laid eyes on him. I've often wondered if he secretly knew that I was one of his most prolific practical jokesters. If he did, he never let on. But I know for a fact that he didn't know how much more he taught me than just music. Watching his transformation taught me about the foolishness of trying to judge people at face value, and also the power of excellence, character, and class.
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He remained quietly humble for the rest of his life, and never once did he ever try to take advantage of his newfound stature in the community to either exact revenge for the way he had previously been treated, look down his nose at others, or get a free ride - and any, or all of which, he could have easily done. He even walked in one day and tried to pay my father back for his saxophones, but I guess his class even rubbed off on my old man, because my father refused to accept it and simply said, "Jimmy, that was the best money I ever spent, and you’re not going to deprive me of that" - and we're talkin' well over $1500 here (in 1960's dollars), and my father was a hardcore man of the street, so a philanthropist he was not, but Jimmy was special..
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Jimmy’s hero was Gene "Jug" Ammons, a jazz superstar (most would have thought it was Dexter Gordon, because his tone and approach was much more in keeping with Dex). But after I was an adult, me, my wife, and virtually the entire community turned out to see Jimmy playing with Jug at a popular jazz spot call the Tiki Island Cocktail Lounge. It was one of the most powerful and emotion-filled nights that any of us had ever experienced - and especially me. I sat there watching my hero playing with his hero, and Jimmy was in top form. Jimmy and Jug were like two lions going at one another, and both loving every minute of it. The room was filled with grown men with tears streaming down their faces. My father denied it until the day he died, but he had tears in his eyes too. That night Jimmy proved, without a doubt, that he wasn’t just a neighborhood hero - he was a world-class musician, second to none, and jug could certainly attest to that. It was the night that Jimmy had prepared all of his life for, and he was on FIRE!!!

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So this one’s for you, Jimmy, because when the chips were down, you proved yourself to be the man, and without a lot of struttin' and fanfare. You just pulled yourself together and showed us what you were made of. And I’ve never forgotten what you said - 'BEAD' is the stairway to the stars," and you were right. So thank you, my man, for changing your life long enough to give me one. I’m thinking of you this morning with moist eyes - not from sadness, but with great pride in your dignity, and how you handled coming back from the very bottom to a man who commanded the respect of everybody who knew you. You've been an inspiration to me in many more ways than just music. You had character - more character than anyone I've ever known, and class.
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You showed ‘em all, my man, and you went out a winner. You and Jug blew the lights out at the Tiki (that was another night my eyes were moist), and your last gig was SRO. The people who used to laugh at you when you were on the bottom are now saying you were the very best, and they fought back tears as they carried you out of this world on their SHOULDERS. Bird didn't even get that kind of treatment, so you can't get no more respect than that, my man . . . I just hope I’m as lucky.

As I sit here at 3 in the morning with tears streaming down my face these many years later, I only have one regret - that I didn't keep your horns. But after you moved on, I couldn't stand looking at them. For nearly a year I would clean them, and look at them, as they stood there in their stand awaiting a master that I knew would never return. But finally, they met their inevitable fate - I played 'Round Midnight' one last time on your tenor, and I sold them back to Henry Grant. By that time musicians all over the city were talking about you, so Mr. Grant looked at me and asked, "Are you sure you want to do this?" and told him, "Yes." Unfortunately, I used the money to do the very same thing that prevented your name from reverberating throughout time with Dexter, Jug, and Charlie Parker, and the very thing you tried so hard to keep me away from. But the good thing is, your words finally got through, and today my son, Eric Jr., is a Fed (you would have loved him, and he would have loved you). He's dedicated his life to eradicating the demon that deprived the world of your genius. Just think of the irony in that - Mac's grandson is a fed!!!
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Finally, I just want you to know that the things that you taught me are not going to waste. I'm not the great musician that you told me I would someday become. Life led me into trying to fool the people into thinking I'm a writer instead (I never could figure out how that happened), but I do still get great pleasure out of playing my horn. I also have a dear friend - who I think is one of the great divas in the world today - who's benefiting from everything you taught me. We're dealing with BEAD as I speak, and I love seeing her soaking it up. She was scattin' along with Eddie Jefferson the other night, and she blew me away. She knows all about you, and I think she's as dedicated to your memory as I am. So just stand by, my man, because your story is far from over.
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I stay away from foreign substances these days, but every now and then I do indulge a little drink from time to time . . . and thinking of you has made this one of those "thens." The Sun just came up, so I think I'll run up to the liquor store and get me a pint of gin. Yeah, I know. It's the first thing in the morning, but my stomach don't know what time it is.
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By the way, Rita was making fun of me yesterday because whenever you come up, all of the swagger and macho in me dissolves into the damp-eyed kid I used to be when I first heard you play. But there's a reason for that. You taught me one of the most important lessons I've ever learned in life. That night at the Tiki you had some of the most hardcore people I've ever known crying like babies, because you represented us all. You showed us that life wasn't about swagger, and bluster. Life is about excellence, self-worth, and the power of character. You blew the lights out that night, Jimmy, and I'll never forget how Jug and the rest of the band were looking at you. But you didn't seem to even notice. Their expressions seem to say, "Who is this this guy?" But for you, it was just an opportunity to play with one of your heroes. And afterwards, instead of struttin' around with your chest poked out, you simply walked away. But that night, you were the hero, and everybody - including Jug - seemed to recognize that fact but you. That's why we loved you. People who used to laugh at you when you were down and shootin' dope, carried you out of this world on their shoulders. They didn't even give Bird that kind of send-off.
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So you rest in peace, Jimmy, until I write the book that Rita wants me to write about you. It's a story that's begging to be told, because you showed 'em. You showed 'em all - and with grace, and a lot of class.
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Oh, and one other thing. If Val is up there drivin' you crazy, just tell her that was a one-time thing at our wedding reception. You don't play Al Green. Because I know my baby, and so do you - if don't get Val straight right off the bat, she's gonna bug you into a second death.
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Squirt