death.”
I don’t remember hearing about any such film. “I would like to take a look if it’s possible.”
“Certainly.” She takes the tape off the shelf and shows me to a small room set up with a VCR and a television. “Take your time. I’ll be in my office if you need something.” She puts the video in the player and turns on the television.
“Thanks.”
I sit down at the machine and hit the play button. The narrator’s voice—it’s a woman—startles me at first. It’s very cold, objective, even harsh.
“Chet Baker, trumpet player and singer, died in Amsterdam, the thirteenth of May, 1988. His death was caused by falling or jumping from a hotel window. Chet Baker was fifty-eight.”
I rewind and watch it again. Cold, hard facts, nothing else. Then there’s a black-and-white photo of Chet, lying on his side in the alleyway, as the narrator continues.
“His face was covered with blood. At first, the police think it is a drug addict aged about thirty. In the hotel room, the papers of a fifty-eight-year-old American named C. H. Baker are found, so they assume it is a junkie who has robbed a tourist.”
I press the pause button on the black-and-white photo, freezing the frame, and feel those familiar stirrings, looking over the edge of a dark, deep hole, but not quite able to step back. For a moment I’m right there, in that photo, looking at Chet’s body, glancing up to the window of his room. But there are no clues, nothing to tell the real story. Not Chetty or Chet of the golden-tone horn. Just a dead junkie, his face covered in blood, discovered in an alley in a foreign country.
The rest of the film is fascinating, and I wonder why it’s never been shown in the States. Seems like a natural for PBS. There are interviews with, among others, Russ Freeman, Chet’s longtime pianist, the photographer William Claxton, record producers, friends, and a Rotterdam pianist, recounting a night when Chet just wandered in a club and asked to sit in. There’s also a segment with Chet and bassist Red Mitchell sitting at a piano together, talking, reminiscing, playing a couple of tunes: Red friendly, smiling; Chet holding his trumpet, watching Red warily play the chords on “My Romance.”
The story is told chronologically from May 7, five days before Chet died. The interview with a policeman who describes the scene and gives his opinion in no uncertain terms still leaves it very vague and inconclusive.
“We believe,” the detective says, “that Mr. Baker, under the influence of drugs, simply fell out of the window of his hotel. He was found at approximately three in the morning. There was no conspiracy, no sign of foul play, and his room was locked from the inside. Perhaps he thought he could fly,” the sergeant says, but he isn’t smiling. There’s even a brief glimpse of an Interpol memo, recounting, I suppose, Chet’s scrapes with the law in various countries.
I fast-forward through the tape, skipping over the many musical segments at various points in Chet’s career, seeing the physical changes that occurred over the years. I stop now and then for some of the interviews. When I have more time, I’d like to watch the entire film. I stop the tape and lean back, thinking about the detective’s comments. I’d have to check the locks on the doors again at the hotel, but if the door was self-locking, anyone could just close it behind them—or, if they were really worried about being seen, lock the door, then shinny down that infamous drainpipe—but it’s not even mentioned. None of this, I remind myself, tells me anything about Ace’s whereabouts. And even though I said I wouldn’t help Ace, here I am, already speculating, getting hooked on the story.
I rewind the tape, hit the eject button, and put it back in its box. Flipping through the file of clips, I find only two in English. I take those out and go back to the office. I knock and stick my head in.
“Helen?” She’s on the phone.
I don’t remember hearing about any such film. “I would like to take a look if it’s possible.”
“Certainly.” She takes the tape off the shelf and shows me to a small room set up with a VCR and a television. “Take your time. I’ll be in my office if you need something.” She puts the video in the player and turns on the television.
“Thanks.”
I sit down at the machine and hit the play button. The narrator’s voice—it’s a woman—startles me at first. It’s very cold, objective, even harsh.
“Chet Baker, trumpet player and singer, died in Amsterdam, the thirteenth of May, 1988. His death was caused by falling or jumping from a hotel window. Chet Baker was fifty-eight.”
I rewind and watch it again. Cold, hard facts, nothing else. Then there’s a black-and-white photo of Chet, lying on his side in the alleyway, as the narrator continues.
“His face was covered with blood. At first, the police think it is a drug addict aged about thirty. In the hotel room, the papers of a fifty-eight-year-old American named C. H. Baker are found, so they assume it is a junkie who has robbed a tourist.”
I press the pause button on the black-and-white photo, freezing the frame, and feel those familiar stirrings, looking over the edge of a dark, deep hole, but not quite able to step back. For a moment I’m right there, in that photo, looking at Chet’s body, glancing up to the window of his room. But there are no clues, nothing to tell the real story. Not Chetty or Chet of the golden-tone horn. Just a dead junkie, his face covered in blood, discovered in an alley in a foreign country.
The rest of the film is fascinating, and I wonder why it’s never been shown in the States. Seems like a natural for PBS. There are interviews with, among others, Russ Freeman, Chet’s longtime pianist, the photographer William Claxton, record producers, friends, and a Rotterdam pianist, recounting a night when Chet just wandered in a club and asked to sit in. There’s also a segment with Chet and bassist Red Mitchell sitting at a piano together, talking, reminiscing, playing a couple of tunes: Red friendly, smiling; Chet holding his trumpet, watching Red warily play the chords on “My Romance.”
The story is told chronologically from May 7, five days before Chet died. The interview with a policeman who describes the scene and gives his opinion in no uncertain terms still leaves it very vague and inconclusive.
“We believe,” the detective says, “that Mr. Baker, under the influence of drugs, simply fell out of the window of his hotel. He was found at approximately three in the morning. There was no conspiracy, no sign of foul play, and his room was locked from the inside. Perhaps he thought he could fly,” the sergeant says, but he isn’t smiling. There’s even a brief glimpse of an Interpol memo, recounting, I suppose, Chet’s scrapes with the law in various countries.
I fast-forward through the tape, skipping over the many musical segments at various points in Chet’s career, seeing the physical changes that occurred over the years. I stop now and then for some of the interviews. When I have more time, I’d like to watch the entire film. I stop the tape and lean back, thinking about the detective’s comments. I’d have to check the locks on the doors again at the hotel, but if the door was self-locking, anyone could just close it behind them—or, if they were really worried about being seen, lock the door, then shinny down that infamous drainpipe—but it’s not even mentioned. None of this, I remind myself, tells me anything about Ace’s whereabouts. And even though I said I wouldn’t help Ace, here I am, already speculating, getting hooked on the story.
I rewind the tape, hit the eject button, and put it back in its box. Flipping through the file of clips, I find only two in English. I take those out and go back to the office. I knock and stick my head in.
“Helen?” She’s on the phone.
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