Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Thirty-three

When I wasn't able to make a lot of cash by playing the piano, I bartended at the Jazz Showcase. With its modest decor and rich history in jazz, Joe Seigel, the proprietor, had continued to make the Jazz Showcase the place to play in Chicago. Everyone from Charlie Parker to Jo Jones to Ray Brown has played there.

Working at the Jazz Showcase was more like getting a jazz education than bartending. Sort of like Jazz U. I was in the fortunate position of being able to witness the jazz greats every night I worked—to observe and listen, and when the opportunity arose, to ask questions. Jazz musicians are nothing like rock stars. These guys are extremely humble and gracious, and they appreciate people who are truly interested in music and what it's all about.

Now Ben was a different story. I had actually never really heard of Ben. Of course I've heard of Ben Webster the sax player, but never Ben Webster the pianist. So when I was asked to bring a drink to the dressing room, and had to ask which one of the five musicians Ben was, it wasn't looked upon with the greatest of appreciation. Although the other Cats got a kick out of it, Ben certainly didn't.

When I listened to Ben that night, there was something about the way he played the piano that touched my heart. There was something that inspired me. He played a lot like the way I wished I could play: simple and dripping with emotion.

After the show, I apologized to Ben about the drink and struck up a conversation with him. He was pretty cool. He called me kid and asked me what my story was. I told him I wanted to be a jazz musician and considered the Jazz Showcase a school.

He laughed, tried to discourage me, and then sat me down at the piano with him. He said the only way I was going to be a jazz musician was to play jazz music. "So, play," he said.

Jokingly, I asked if he had any requests, but he took me seriously, and asked me to play "Pennies From Heaven." Although, to me, he was a mere stranger, I was still plenty nervous to play for him. But once I put the fingers to the ivory, I was in familiar territory.

Ben joined in, and it was as though we were dancing on the keyboard. I would lead and he would follow. And then he'd take the lead, and I'd follow. He took me to some amazing places, mixing up diminished 7th's with augmented 5th's—chord progressions that wouldn't make sense unless you heard them played (apparently he was hearing them in his head as he played).

The other thing that felt strange, but in a good way, was playing with someone. It was fun, adventurous, challenging. But that, as it turns out, was all Ben and the way he liked to play. I could see where he was an innovator and a leader.

Although he wouldn't come right out and say it, I got the sense he was impressed with me. His words started slowly with, "Not bad kid. But for you to get where I think you want to go, it'd take a couple years of that kind of playing."

"Fine," I said. "When can we play again?"

"You think you're hot shit ... What makes you think, even if I had the time, I'd want to spend it playing with your sorry ass?"

"Because I remind you of you."

"Yeah, some short white guy who needs to work on his left hand."

I'm not really that short. it's just that Ben, at six three and about 250 pounds, was a very imposing figure.

"All right, you win. I'm an asshole, and you're King of the Western World." I got up and walked away.

"You're a tough mother fucker. I like that ... Give me your number, and we'll work something out. I've just recently moved back to Chicago, so give me a couple weeks or so."

Thinking I'd never hear from him, I let the whole thing go, but he called later that week wondering if I'd like to meet him at Symphony Hall. His buddy, Hamilton Weiss, was the artistic director, and would let Ben come in and play on the stage whenever the symphony wasn't rehearsing.

For any musician, Symphony Hall was spectacular. I suppose any stage feels great, but there is something about an auditorium designed specifically for music that makes a musician feel a little weepy and awestruck.

I brought a tape recorder, which turned out to be a big mistake, one that almost cost me being able to ever play with Ben again. He objected to making recordings, mainly because of all the contractual bullshit and the commercialization of music.

Ben released very few recordings in his time—which is sort of the J. D. Salinger approach, where you create this insatiable audience that only wants more. He made most of his money traveling and playing live, which was where he felt most comfortable when it came down to accepting people's money.

He told me playing live "was more about the art of music, and the spiritual interaction with the participants," which was what he called the audience.

I asked him if it got boring or became less of a challenge when he played the same songs over and over again for each show.

"It's never the same song, fool. I'm in a new town, on a different piano, playing with a different vibe for people who are experiencing this for the first time at that particular moment in their lives."

So, I got that each time he played the same song, it was different, which made it more understandable as to how he was able to get up for each gig.

So, needless to say, the tape recorder was a bad mistake that, unfortunately for me, never happened again. At least with Ben's knowledge. I did tape once. It was at my place, so I felt I had home-field advantage. And it was only once, but I've listened to that tape more times than anything else I've ever listened to in my life.

That Cat could play.