Looking for Chet Baker by Bill Moody Read Free Book Online

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 the 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