Yesterday, the New York Times published this obituary:
Charlie Haden, Influential Jazz Bassist, Is Dead at 76
When I was a freshman in high school, circa 1969, I started taking guitar lessons from Bill, a lean guy in his twenties with a crew cut who was a returned Vietnam vet. On the side, he worked as a professional jazz guitarist. Without my asking, the intent of my guitar lessons was to teach me to become a jazz guitarist.
I was a kid who liked to read different things, and one day, circa 1970s, I picked up a copy of the Village Voice at the stationary store. (When my mother saw me reading it at home, she yelled at me, "You're reading that Communist newspaper!"). The issue had two full pages of a review of a double album recording that was led by the late John Coltrane called, Countdown: The Savoy Sessions. The recordings had been made in 1958. They were alternate takes from another record that was being made. These alternate takes sat in a vault until the 1970's when someone re-discovered and published them. I bought the album, and that was what started me as a jazz fan.
Scrolling ahead about twenty years--when I lived in Manhattan--this was when I was in my mid thirties, I had read an article in the Daily News about a young female jazz pianist from Cleveland named Geri Allen who was going to be performing at the Village Vanguard for three nights. The article said that she came from a gospel church music background but played hard bop and that her playing reflected much influence from Thelonius Monk.
I went to the Vanguard, and she was as advertised. But the thing was this: I was blown away by the bass player. When it came time for the bass solo, this short, meek looking guy was making sounds like spaceships landing from outer space, wild elephants rampaging through the jungle, and people running for their lives. I looked for electronic synthesizers on the bandstand but only saw an acoustic bass in front of a microphone. I came back the following two nights.
I learned that the bass player's name was Charlie Haden. On the second night, when the band was taking a break, I went to the bathroom, and Charlie Haden was in the bathroom. O.K.--this is a jazz club in Manhattan in the Village--that means the bathroom is very small--like a small closet. We were the only ones in the bathroom. As I was doing my business, Charlie was washing his hands. He looked exactly like Radar from the TV series M.A.S.H. I said, "Hi, how are you doing. I'm really enjoying the bass playing. I was here last night, and you're the reason I came back again tonight." He left the bathroom as quickly as possible, but as he was going out the door he turned to me and said in a mouse-like voice, "Hey that's great." He even talked like Radar.
I was inspired. I went to the musical instrument district in Manhattan to shop for a double bass. I saw a double bass in a store called, We Buy Guitar's, Incorporated. The moment I expressed an interest in it, the guy behind the counter wanted to sell it to me in bad way. He offered it to me for a price I could afford, and told me that it came with a bow and a bag as well. I lugged it home on the subway.
My next task was to find a teacher. I knew that the technically best jazz bassist in the world was a man named Ron Carter. A few weeks went buy, and I saw that Ron Carter was going to be playing with his Nonet at Fat Tuesdays. I went there, just to hear some live bass, but Ron was playing the piccolo bass, and somebody else was playing the double bass. During a break between sets, the guy who was playing bass came over to the bar area to unwind, and I struck up a conversation with him. He was very relaxed and matter of fact. He had absolutely no pretensions about being the bass player for the best bass player in the world. I told him that I had just bought a bass and that I was looking for a teacher. He scrunched up his face for a second or two, as if he was thinking to himself and said, "I'll teach you."
I was like, "What?" He borrowed a pen from me and wrote down his address and phone number on a napkin and said to call him. I'm like pretty floored, like I'm going to be taking bass lessons from Ron Carter's bass player? His name was Boots Maleson. It turned out, he lived withing within walking distance of where I lived, though a long walk. Every Saturday for several weeks, I wheeled my base across Manhattan to his apartment. The guy was a conservatory graduate but also had the utmost respect for the double bass and the jazz tradition. My lesson was supposed to be for an hour, but we often went beyond two hours. To show me what perfect technique looked like, he played a video tape of Paul Chambers playing with Miles Davis. I won't be coy--this was cool--rubbing elbows with and learning from people at the very top of the jazz world.
Boots put considerate thought into the best way to teach me. From playing guitar all those years, my hands had all the physical skills I needed. And I could read music like I could read the New York Times. I had a poor ear though, and Boots worked with me on it. He was very encouraging, and even suggested to me that it was not difficult to get gigs playing the bass.
It ended like this. Eventually, Boots signed on with a band that was going to be touring Italy. He told me to call him when he got back. But I never did. I realized that I was 36 years old. I felt like this was the sort of thing, that if you really wanted to be good at it, you really have to start when you are a child. Or perhaps I just didn't want to do the work.
Though I no longer play, I still love the double bass. I love the physical object itself as well as the sound. I always loved the vibrations when playing it, especially when playing pizzicato--you are holding it against yourself when you play. It is a sort of intimacy.
During this time, I was in psychotherapy. I talked freely and passionately to my therapist about my adventures with the double bass. It happens to be the largest and most deeply voiced musical instrument in an orchestra (but a piano or organ are larger). I once said to my therapist that I sensed that my learning to play the double bass had some sort of connection to my father. He said that he saw it as me taking control of my father.
In reflection upon that now, at age 59, I would say, alternatively, much more than taking control of my father, that I was taking all of my father's brooding, his aggression, hostility, anger, inarticulateness, drunkenness, authoritarianism, violence, and all-powerful physical strength--and transforming it into something beautiful.
Charlie Haden, Influential Jazz Bassist, Is Dead at 76
When I was a freshman in high school, circa 1969, I started taking guitar lessons from Bill, a lean guy in his twenties with a crew cut who was a returned Vietnam vet. On the side, he worked as a professional jazz guitarist. Without my asking, the intent of my guitar lessons was to teach me to become a jazz guitarist.
I was a kid who liked to read different things, and one day, circa 1970s, I picked up a copy of the Village Voice at the stationary store. (When my mother saw me reading it at home, she yelled at me, "You're reading that Communist newspaper!"). The issue had two full pages of a review of a double album recording that was led by the late John Coltrane called, Countdown: The Savoy Sessions. The recordings had been made in 1958. They were alternate takes from another record that was being made. These alternate takes sat in a vault until the 1970's when someone re-discovered and published them. I bought the album, and that was what started me as a jazz fan.
Scrolling ahead about twenty years--when I lived in Manhattan--this was when I was in my mid thirties, I had read an article in the Daily News about a young female jazz pianist from Cleveland named Geri Allen who was going to be performing at the Village Vanguard for three nights. The article said that she came from a gospel church music background but played hard bop and that her playing reflected much influence from Thelonius Monk.
I went to the Vanguard, and she was as advertised. But the thing was this: I was blown away by the bass player. When it came time for the bass solo, this short, meek looking guy was making sounds like spaceships landing from outer space, wild elephants rampaging through the jungle, and people running for their lives. I looked for electronic synthesizers on the bandstand but only saw an acoustic bass in front of a microphone. I came back the following two nights.
I learned that the bass player's name was Charlie Haden. On the second night, when the band was taking a break, I went to the bathroom, and Charlie Haden was in the bathroom. O.K.--this is a jazz club in Manhattan in the Village--that means the bathroom is very small--like a small closet. We were the only ones in the bathroom. As I was doing my business, Charlie was washing his hands. He looked exactly like Radar from the TV series M.A.S.H. I said, "Hi, how are you doing. I'm really enjoying the bass playing. I was here last night, and you're the reason I came back again tonight." He left the bathroom as quickly as possible, but as he was going out the door he turned to me and said in a mouse-like voice, "Hey that's great." He even talked like Radar.
I was inspired. I went to the musical instrument district in Manhattan to shop for a double bass. I saw a double bass in a store called, We Buy Guitar's, Incorporated. The moment I expressed an interest in it, the guy behind the counter wanted to sell it to me in bad way. He offered it to me for a price I could afford, and told me that it came with a bow and a bag as well. I lugged it home on the subway.
My next task was to find a teacher. I knew that the technically best jazz bassist in the world was a man named Ron Carter. A few weeks went buy, and I saw that Ron Carter was going to be playing with his Nonet at Fat Tuesdays. I went there, just to hear some live bass, but Ron was playing the piccolo bass, and somebody else was playing the double bass. During a break between sets, the guy who was playing bass came over to the bar area to unwind, and I struck up a conversation with him. He was very relaxed and matter of fact. He had absolutely no pretensions about being the bass player for the best bass player in the world. I told him that I had just bought a bass and that I was looking for a teacher. He scrunched up his face for a second or two, as if he was thinking to himself and said, "I'll teach you."
I was like, "What?" He borrowed a pen from me and wrote down his address and phone number on a napkin and said to call him. I'm like pretty floored, like I'm going to be taking bass lessons from Ron Carter's bass player? His name was Boots Maleson. It turned out, he lived withing within walking distance of where I lived, though a long walk. Every Saturday for several weeks, I wheeled my base across Manhattan to his apartment. The guy was a conservatory graduate but also had the utmost respect for the double bass and the jazz tradition. My lesson was supposed to be for an hour, but we often went beyond two hours. To show me what perfect technique looked like, he played a video tape of Paul Chambers playing with Miles Davis. I won't be coy--this was cool--rubbing elbows with and learning from people at the very top of the jazz world.
Boots put considerate thought into the best way to teach me. From playing guitar all those years, my hands had all the physical skills I needed. And I could read music like I could read the New York Times. I had a poor ear though, and Boots worked with me on it. He was very encouraging, and even suggested to me that it was not difficult to get gigs playing the bass.
It ended like this. Eventually, Boots signed on with a band that was going to be touring Italy. He told me to call him when he got back. But I never did. I realized that I was 36 years old. I felt like this was the sort of thing, that if you really wanted to be good at it, you really have to start when you are a child. Or perhaps I just didn't want to do the work.
Though I no longer play, I still love the double bass. I love the physical object itself as well as the sound. I always loved the vibrations when playing it, especially when playing pizzicato--you are holding it against yourself when you play. It is a sort of intimacy.
During this time, I was in psychotherapy. I talked freely and passionately to my therapist about my adventures with the double bass. It happens to be the largest and most deeply voiced musical instrument in an orchestra (but a piano or organ are larger). I once said to my therapist that I sensed that my learning to play the double bass had some sort of connection to my father. He said that he saw it as me taking control of my father.
In reflection upon that now, at age 59, I would say, alternatively, much more than taking control of my father, that I was taking all of my father's brooding, his aggression, hostility, anger, inarticulateness, drunkenness, authoritarianism, violence, and all-powerful physical strength--and transforming it into something beautiful.
