by Bill Moody
Chet’s old friends Herb Geller and Walter Norris are there for the date. Herb and Walter come into the control booth to hear the playback of “Well You Needn’t.” Norris, the brilliant pianist, sits quietly, legs crossed. Herb, his horn hanging from around his neck, watches him, listens, checking him out. Chet, smiling at Herb now, hearing his solo. So long since L.A., from the days when he and Gerry Mulligan packed the Haig for almost a year.
“Not too bad for an old guy, huh?” Chet says.
Herb nods. “You sound great, man.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you okay? You need anything?”
“Just hope that guy gets back here with the teeth glue.” He looks at the floor for a moment. “You know, man, if the uppers go, I can’t play anymore, but I have an appointment with a dentist next week.” Chet sighs, shakes his head, smiles that sad smile. “I gotta get out of here, man.”
Herb nods again and smiles back. It’s been over thirty years, but he knows how it is with Chet, how it’s always been. “I know. Well, only a couple of more tunes left.”
The engineer stops the tape as the track ends and looks at Chet. “That one is fine for you?” he asks.
Chet, glancing at Herb, catches his nod, saying, “Yes, it’s fine.”
As always, he hadn’t played for anyone. Certainly not the record company suits who were now relaxing in chairs, in the control room, beaming at each other. They were scared earlier when he hadn’t showed for the rehearsal. Chet didn’t need to rehearse, but the orchestra, one of the best in Germany, did. For two days. An eighteen-piece big band and forty-three strings. Chet just played. He examined these old songs, played them, and then put them away until the next time. They would always be there, waiting for him like the women, the friends he left and eventually returned to. They were waiting too. Even if he was sometimes selfish, untrustworthy, there was something about him, that sweet nature that made people welcome him back.
The band reassembles in the studio. The audience takes their seats. Chet, aware now of the musicians sneaking glances at him, wondering, he guesses, if he’s going to make it, but he’s never doubted himself. He’s been through too much for that now. It’s just these goddamned teeth. Then a man carrying a small paper bag comes in quietly, holds it up to Chet.
“I need five minutes, okay?” Chet says to the conductor.
“Of course, Mr. Baker.”
Chet goes out, taking the paper bag from the man, going to the men’s room, squeezing the gel out of the tube and quickly applying it, resetting the teeth, testing, biting down while sixty-one musicians and the audience wait. After all this time the teeth still give him trouble, but there’s nothing he can do about it.
He splashes water on his face, raises his head slowly, and gazes in the mirror, seeing an old man, a man older than his years, staring back at him. That face, perhaps once destined for Hollywood, is now lined, wrinkled, the cheeks sunken, the eyes sad and dark. The face of an old Indian. It’s a face he knows well, but occasionally he still sees the young man in the old man’s reflection. “You ain’t no movie idol now, are you?” he asks the mirror.
Drying his face and hands with a paper towel, he heads back to the studio, nodding to the musicians and conductor that he’s ready now. He looks for Herb Geller in the saxophone section and winks. “Okay, let’s do it,” he says to the conductor.
He’s chosen all the tunes. They’re going to call the album My Favorite Songs. He’s comfortable with these tunes, and no matter how many times he’s played them before, he finds something new, some new way to approach a phrase, hold or bend a note. He still doesn’t know how he does it, but that doesn’t matter. Doing it, playing, is all that matters.
The conductor raises his baton, begins a count: a lazy three-four tempo for “All Blues.” Chet nods his approval, and the orchestra starts the vamp figure. He holds the horn casually as always, feels one twinge of pain when he puts the mouthpiece to his lips, but it passes quickly. He picks his spot and blows that first long tone, simple and pure, letting it settle over everyone there like satin, easy, relaxed, slipping into the tune. In that moment the missed rehearsals, the late arrival, the interruptions, are all forgotten, unimportant now. All will be forgiven when everyone hears the playback.
Chet, eyes closed, breathes life into the horn, playing, already seeing Paris in his mind.
Chapter Three
I wake up as the train slows and rumbles into Amsterdam’s Central Station. I’ve dozed on and off all the way from London, glad now that I chose to go by train instead of flying. Part of it is the novelty. I can’t remember the last time I was on a train. Just sitting there watching the countryside fly by has been soothing, a breather from London and hassling with the airport and the confines of a jet.
The week at Ronnie Scott’s couldn’t have gone better, and the Dutch promoter who’d visited the club twice confirmed the Amsterdam gig near the end of the week before he headed back to Amsterdam. I gave him Ace’s hotel, and he’s promised to relay the message that I am on the way. I’m not sure whether the gig is because of or in spite of Mike Bailey’s story, but the end result is more work. I’m keeping the string going. It means a chance to see some of Europe, and I can have that drink with Ace, so I don’t feel so guilty.
I get my bags together as the train enters the station and clanks to a halt. I follow the other passengers toward the exit, come out into a bright spring sun, and stand for a moment on the steps, taking in the bustle of people hurrying in every direction. Then my eye catches the bicycles. Hundreds of them, maybe more, most of them basic black models, many with baskets, racked, leaning against rails, chained to fences, taking up virtually every square inch of space. I’ve never seen so many bicycles.
“They are for the commuters.”
“What?” I turn at the voice beside me and see a man in a raincoat, carrying a satchel. It’s no one I recognize, just a friendly local perhaps who sounds like a tourist guide.
“People cycle to the station, leave their bicycles here, then come back and cycle home,” he says. “There is little parking in Amsterdam. Bicycles are the main mode of transportation.” The man nods and starts off. “Well, enjoy your stay in Amsterdam.”
“Thanks,” I say, wondering how he knew to speak English. “Wait, maybe you can help me.” I set my bags down and consult the slip of paper with the name of the hotel the promoter has arranged for me.
“Yes?” The man comes back.
“Do you know the Prins Hendrik Hotel?”
He smiles. “Yes, you are very close.” He points across the wide boulevard in front of the station. “This is called Prins Hendrikkade. The hotel is there, toward the plaza.”
I look in the direction he’s pointing and see the sign. “Okay, thanks. Thanks very much.” I set my bags down and offer him my hand. “I’m Evan Horne.”
He takes my hand and shakes it vigorously. “Edward de Hass.”
“Well, thanks, Mr. de Hass. Thanks very much.”
“Not at all,” he says. “Enjoy Amsterdam.”
I grab my bags and start walking, crossing without the lights, taking in the traffic, the people, and even more bicycles, riding in a special lane. I stop in front of the Prins Hendrik Hotel and see the irony of the promoter’s choice. Next to the double glass doors is a plaque and a sculpture. The artist has captured that lined face so well.
CHET BAKER TRUMPET PLAYER AND SINGER
DIED HERE ON MAY 13, 1988. HE WILL LIVE ON IN HIS MUSIC FOR ANYONE WILLING TO LISTEN AND FEEL. 1929–1988
Next to the plaque is a list of contributors. I scan the names but see none I recognize except for a couple of record companies. It’s hard to walk away, though. I look around, but people are passing by without even giving it a glance. I push through the glass doors into the hotel lobby. Inside, on one wall is a poster-size photo of Chet, taken in 1955 at the Open Door in New York City. This is the young Chet, on the rise, before his first bout with trouble,
before those lines became etched in his face. All I can think is, Amsterdam is pretty cool.
At the desk, I show my passport and get checked in by a bored clerk. “You weren’t here then, were you?” I ask, pointing at the photo. “When it happened, I mean.”
It’s obviously an old question. The clerk doesn’t even look up. “No, only the owner was, and he does not come in much. Your room is C-18, and no, it is not the room Chet Baker stayed in.”
“Thanks. I didn’t ask if it was.” I start for the elevator, then turn back. “Do you have an Ace Buffington checked in?”
“A moment, please.” He taps some keys on his computer. “No, we did. Mr. Buffington checked out two days ago.” The clerk looks at me and smiles. “He stayed in C-20.”
“The Chet Baker room?”
“Yes.”
Riding up the elevator, I think about that. Kind of puzzling, but maybe Ace already got what he wanted here, didn’t get my message, was heading someplace else or even back home. The truth is, I hope he’s already left Amsterdam.
I find the room small and clean but stuffy. I try to open one of the windows facing a back alley, but it’s difficult. I get one of them halfway up and prop it open with this kind of stick thing attached to a chain. Below me is a cobblestone alleyway that winds back from the hotel. If I lean out, I can see one of the canals. I wonder if that’s what happened to Chet Baker. Chet, high, leaning out too far, just nodding off and…
I put that all out of my mind then and unpack, wait for Walter Offen’s call. Chet Baker, what happened to him, is for Ace to worry about, not me.
***
“So, you are ready to play?” Offen asks me. We’re in the hotel bar. It’s all old wood, carpeted, and very dark. No one is around but the bartender, and he’s busy with the newspaper.
“Yes, I’m ready. Looking forward to meeting the bassist and drummer too.”
Walter smiles, pushes his glasses up his nose. “Ah, you will like them, I’m sure. They are very good.” He grins at me sheepishly.
“What?”
“I have one small surprise. Do you know Fletcher Paige?”
Fletcher Paige. The name comes at me from the past, the back of album covers. Great tenor player, long time with Duke Ellington or Count Basie, I think.
“Yes, I know who he is, but I haven’t heard anything about him in years. I’m not even sure he’s still alive. Is he?”
“Oh, yes,” Walter says. “Very much so, and right here in Amsterdam. In fact, you will meet him soon. I have taken the liberty of arranging for him to play with you.”
“Fletcher Paige? Really?” It’s starting to come back. He went to Europe and just kind of disappeared but had a group of his own after leaving the big bands. I wonder, though, how we’ll fit together style-wise. “It’s okay with him?” It’s an unusual arrangement, to say the least, without some prior approval. I wonder if Fletcher Paige had any say in things.
Walter is nodding his head excitedly. “Yes, yes, he knows of your playing. This will be fantastic.” He looks at his watch. “We should go, yes?”
“Fine.”
“Finish your beer. I must get my car, and we will go. I am parked nearby. You wait outside, and I’ll come around in front.” Walter gets up, puts his coat on, still smiling, and taps me on the shoulder. “In five minutes, then.”
I sit for a minute, thinking about Fletcher Paige. He was something of a legend, like Lester Young or Dexter Gordon. I knew that much at least. He’d played with everybody who was anybody, I’m sure. So he had become one of the expatriates, finding an audience in Europe and liking it, staying over here. No wonder I hadn’t heard anything about him lately.
I go outside and stand, waiting for Walter, glancing again at the Chet Baker plaque. Walter arrives a few minutes later in a small car and honks. I jump in, and we’re off in a squeal of tires as I get my first taste of Amsterdam driving. Walter careens around corners, over canal bridges, and through a maze of shortcuts and one-way streets, and finally skids to a stop in front of a tall gray brick building.
“I drive too fast, yes?” Walter asks.
“No, not at all,” I say, finally letting go of the strap above the door. I get out and follow him inside.
The Bimhuis Club is upstairs and opens onto a long bar. To the side is a large open room with tiered, amphitheater-type seating and a fairly large stage. I stop for a moment. On the stage, a small black man in slacks and sports coat is seated on a stool, running through some changes on his tenor saxophone. Fletcher Paige.
“Come,” Walter says. We go down the stairs to the stage. Paige stops playing, looks up, and smiles. He’s short, slim, wears steel-rimmed glasses. His hair is salt and pepper, matched by a well-trimmed beard and mustache.
“My man Walter.” He gets up and shakes hands, looking over Walter’s shoulder at me trailing behind.
“So,” Walter says, turning toward me. “This is Evan Horne.” Paige steps up and offers me his hand.
“How you doin’? Bet you thought I was dead, huh? He did, right, Walter?”
It had crossed my mind, and Paige knows it. “Well, I…”
Paige laughs. “See, I told you.” He points at Walter with a long slim finger, then looks back at me. “Don’t worry, man, a lot of people think I’m dead. Mostly record companies.” He laughs hard at his own joke.
I know we’ve never met, but somehow he looks familiar, as if I’ve just seen him recently. He catches me looking at him and smiles. “I could also double for Jimmy Heath.”
As soon as he says that I see the resemblance. Jimmy Heath, the tenor-playing brother of bassist Percy with the Modern Jazz Quartet, and drummer Tootie. I nod and smile. “Okay, you got me,” I say. I’d just heard Jimmy in New York before I came to Europe.
“I heard a lot of good things about you,” Fletcher says. “We just have to see if we are gonna play together.”
Walter watches this exchange and beams. He checks his watch. “Well, I must go. I will see you both tonight.”
“Funny little cat, huh?” Paige says. “But he got me a lot of work over here. He’s the reason I stayed in Amsterdam.” He gives me a quick smile. “Well, there are a couple of other reasons, but we’ll get into those later.”
“How long have you been here?”
“In Amsterdam? Eighteen years. Few little side trips to Stockholm, Copenhagen, Paris, but mostly here. It’s very cool for me here. Ben Webster lived here, and he is dead, so I figured, hey, why not?” Paige laughs again. It’s infectious.
I want to know more, but we’ve got some music to figure out, so I save my questions for later. I look around. There’s a drum kit set up and a bass lying on its side near the piano. “Where’s the other guys?”
“They’ll be along. I figured you and me should get acquainted first. Why don’t you try the piano?”
“Okay.” I sit down at the grand. It’s well tuned, and the action is nice. I run through some chords, spin out a few single-note lines, aware of Fletcher Paige’s eyes on me.
He nods, says, “Yeah, we gonna get along fine. We’re billed as co-leaders—I hope that’s cool with you. So I guess we can both pick tunes. I got some music, but for tonight, we best stick to standards, blues, shit like that. Okay with you?”
“Sure. How about ‘Stella by Starlight’?” It’s the first thing I think of.
“One of my favorites,” Paige says.
I play a short intro, then Paige comes in with the melody. He plays with it a little, makes it almost his own composition, and makes me think I’ve never heard a tenor like this before. His tone is not rough and hard like Coltrane nor silky like Stan Getz, but somewhere in between. The notes flow out of his horn effortlessly, and when I veer away from the predictable changes, he goes right with me, as if we’ve been playing together a long time.
He drops out after a couple of choruses, and I try to play something equal to his solo. While I’m playing, he walks over, stands near t
he piano, then joins me for the final chorus, playing lines against my own till we meet again at the melody and go out. We both stop and look at each other.
“All right,” he says, grinning, holding out his palm to me. I slap it and smile back.
Damn. Fletcher Paige.
***
We eat dinner at a small place around the corner from the Bimhuis, owned by a musician, so Fletcher tells me. There’s no menu, just a half dozen specials printed on a blackboard. I let Fletcher do the talking and ordering. We sit by a window and watch the bicyclists pedal across the canal bridge. The food is good, and so is the carafe of red wine.
“I can see why you like Amsterdam,” I say, lighting a cigarette. Fletcher joins me and blows a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.
“Yeah, it suits me, and I don’t have to put up with no shit here, if you dig what I’m saying. That’s why a lot of cats stayed over here—Kenny Clarke, Don Byas, Art Farmer. Man, there’s a whole history to this scene. But plenty of white ones too for a while. Phil Woods, Dave Pike—he played the Bimhuis a few times—Herb Geller, Walter Norris, Chet Baker.” He pauses for a moment, thinking. “Not so many pianists, though. You might do okay here if you stay.”
“It’s not something I’ve really thought about. I just wanted to get away for a while, and these gigs made it easy.”
“Yeah, it’s like that at first. Phil Woods came over with three gigs and stayed five years. But then you become a local. Bread goes down, and you not in demand so much.” He smiles again, kind of wistfully. “Hell, when I first got over here, it was like Lockjaw Davis used to tell me. All I had to do was tune up to get applause.”
“Well, I don’t have that kind of reputation to build on.”
“You’d be surprised. You got your own kind of reputation, least with some folks.” He stubs out his cigarette and signals the waiter for coffee. “I know all about you,” he says, grinning slyly.
