cornet players—in jazz history, a man who played brilliantly before meeting an untimely
end at the age of twenty-eight. Still revered by people who know the music, the man I’m speaking of is the late Leon Bix Beiderbecke,
of Davenport, Iowa. The composition is called ‘In a Mist,’ rendered by our own Vince Amatucci. Vince?”
I don’t know if I’ve ever heard Paul say so much in one breath. As for the tune, obscure but wonderful doesn’t even begin
to say it. I can’t even remember the last time I played it. I remember the first time, though, about a month after the band
started, when Paul brought me the sheet music and said, “Please indulge me, if you would. I just have to hear this in the
air. I came across the sheet music the other day—it’s quite rare—and have been hearing it from the page, and playing it one
line at a time on the horn, but it’s not enough. Could you…?” It was a special moment, a rare glimpse of vulnerability,
one of our first moments of bonding, and I feel a slight tightening in my throat as the memory comes back to me now.
The other band members are shuffling off the stage and I’m thinking all this and trying to remember what fucking key it’s
in—it’s in good old C, of course—and I look up and see the guy from the cab the other night, the guy who couldn’t make up
his mind, standing framed in the light of the entranceway, that same weird suitcase in his hand, leaning against the door
jamb, and I think, there’s still no Jeff, where the fuck is Jeff, and what is that guy doing still here?
And all this takes maybe two milliseconds to rattle through my addled brain, until I say to myself, “Not too fast, Vince,
do it justice,” and start.
It’s a strange enough piece, as if Debussy had smoked opium and played whatever came out and then transposed it upside down.
I’ve heard the old 78 of Bix himself playing it—playing it a little too rushed for my taste—but of course he was really a
cornet player, not a piano player, and self-taught on both instruments at that. And I’ve read the stories of how, when it
came time to write it down for the publisher, he couldn’t play it the way he had played it on the record; he just had to improvise
on his own improvisation, until they just said “Fuck it,” and had someone just transcribe the record. Play it too slow and
it’s a dirge. Play it too fast and you lose all the subtlety. Dense, packed chords, little runs, a rhythm that skips around.
Classical and jazz, jazz and classical melded into something else. And I try to shut these thoughts out of my head, and let
the lyricism of it flow through me, and start to get there about the time I get to the bridge, which is almost a funky bebop
kind of thing, fifty years too early. Then it just sings out, real stride piano, the left hand dancing up and down the octaves,
the right hand belting out on top, before it cycles back to the chorus, this shy little rhythmic thing, subtly building, the
chords all sly and thick. Until the very end, when it slows, and somehow darkens and brightens all at once, reaching up into
the stratosphere, almost as if he couldn’t bear to end it.
And I’m doing it justice, I think, and the crowd starts to applaud, until someone who just can’t wait for it to unfold its
curious logic starts clapping very loudly, yelling “Bravo, Bravo,” which is really inappropriate for this particular piece
of music and my own stumbling homage to it, and at the last second I realize it’s Jeff, striding up to the stand.
CHAPTER 14
The Cleaner
Airport Marriott—The Gig—Second Set
Saturday, January 11
10:02 A . M. : Something is fouled up. You can tell. Trumpet is dying to start, you can see it. But no sax. Trumpet introduces the band.
Buying time. Takes a little dig at the sax guy. Jeff Fahey, file this away. F-A-H-E-Y, F-A-H-Y, whatever.
Then the piano plays a solo. Strangest thing I have heard in a
end at the age of twenty-eight. Still revered by people who know the music, the man I’m speaking of is the late Leon Bix Beiderbecke,
of Davenport, Iowa. The composition is called ‘In a Mist,’ rendered by our own Vince Amatucci. Vince?”
I don’t know if I’ve ever heard Paul say so much in one breath. As for the tune, obscure but wonderful doesn’t even begin
to say it. I can’t even remember the last time I played it. I remember the first time, though, about a month after the band
started, when Paul brought me the sheet music and said, “Please indulge me, if you would. I just have to hear this in the
air. I came across the sheet music the other day—it’s quite rare—and have been hearing it from the page, and playing it one
line at a time on the horn, but it’s not enough. Could you…?” It was a special moment, a rare glimpse of vulnerability,
one of our first moments of bonding, and I feel a slight tightening in my throat as the memory comes back to me now.
The other band members are shuffling off the stage and I’m thinking all this and trying to remember what fucking key it’s
in—it’s in good old C, of course—and I look up and see the guy from the cab the other night, the guy who couldn’t make up
his mind, standing framed in the light of the entranceway, that same weird suitcase in his hand, leaning against the door
jamb, and I think, there’s still no Jeff, where the fuck is Jeff, and what is that guy doing still here?
And all this takes maybe two milliseconds to rattle through my addled brain, until I say to myself, “Not too fast, Vince,
do it justice,” and start.
It’s a strange enough piece, as if Debussy had smoked opium and played whatever came out and then transposed it upside down.
I’ve heard the old 78 of Bix himself playing it—playing it a little too rushed for my taste—but of course he was really a
cornet player, not a piano player, and self-taught on both instruments at that. And I’ve read the stories of how, when it
came time to write it down for the publisher, he couldn’t play it the way he had played it on the record; he just had to improvise
on his own improvisation, until they just said “Fuck it,” and had someone just transcribe the record. Play it too slow and
it’s a dirge. Play it too fast and you lose all the subtlety. Dense, packed chords, little runs, a rhythm that skips around.
Classical and jazz, jazz and classical melded into something else. And I try to shut these thoughts out of my head, and let
the lyricism of it flow through me, and start to get there about the time I get to the bridge, which is almost a funky bebop
kind of thing, fifty years too early. Then it just sings out, real stride piano, the left hand dancing up and down the octaves,
the right hand belting out on top, before it cycles back to the chorus, this shy little rhythmic thing, subtly building, the
chords all sly and thick. Until the very end, when it slows, and somehow darkens and brightens all at once, reaching up into
the stratosphere, almost as if he couldn’t bear to end it.
And I’m doing it justice, I think, and the crowd starts to applaud, until someone who just can’t wait for it to unfold its
curious logic starts clapping very loudly, yelling “Bravo, Bravo,” which is really inappropriate for this particular piece
of music and my own stumbling homage to it, and at the last second I realize it’s Jeff, striding up to the stand.
CHAPTER 14
The Cleaner
Airport Marriott—The Gig—Second Set
Saturday, January 11
10:02 A . M. : Something is fouled up. You can tell. Trumpet is dying to start, you can see it. But no sax. Trumpet introduces the band.
Buying time. Takes a little dig at the sax guy. Jeff Fahey, file this away. F-A-H-E-Y, F-A-H-Y, whatever.
Then the piano plays a solo. Strangest thing I have heard in a
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