By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
Lea was two months old the first time we took her to a concert Jaki Byard's 1989 recital at Weill Hall. He sat at the piano and played a 10-note discord. She whimpered, looked distressed. But he followed instantly with a lambent stride passage. She raised her head and smiled, then fell into an hour's sleep. I knew the feeling. Jaki never put me to sleep, but he always made me smile and frequently knocked me out. Listening to him was like turning on a tap in which all the strains of modern piano, from James P. Johnson to Cecil Taylor, flowed in one luscious rush. Yet having described the most obvious aspect of his playing, I feel obliged to backpedal from the old saw that his music stood for no more than a promethean eclecticism. The result was his own and unmistakable, by turns hard, percussive, witty, sentimental, sardonic, whimsical, subversive, ebullient, anguished. Like Sonny Rollins, he could fake you out making you think, for example, that those corny arpeggios were a joke, so that you didn't know whether to feel embarrassed or grateful at the emotions he extracted from them.
Jaki died February 11, at 76, of a gunshot wound, in his home in Hollis, Queens, and rumors abound an intruder, someone personally close, suicide. I can't believe the last, though he was hit hard by the death a few years back of his wife, Louise, his devoted and amusingly acerbic companion of some four decades. He left two daughters, Denise and Diane, whose names and occasional singing are known to admirers of his compositions and recordings; a son, Gerald; and a passel of grandsons and great-grandsons. He also left an enormous number of students past and present, both institutional eight years at the New England Conservatory of Music, four at the Hart School of Music, three a lecturer at Harvard, among other affiliations and private, including Marty Ehrlich, D.D. Jackson, and a young musical therapist named Vanessa Kaster, who came to learn improvisation and said last week, "Every particle of him was music. Sometimes the lessons would last three hours. His clock wasn't set to real time, only to music."
I studied with him in 1974, when he was part of the faculty at Martin Williams's critics colloquium at the Smithsonian; but I'd been studying his music long before that. In the mid '60s, he was one of the pianists who regularly played the Village Gate mezzanine. If you were short on cash, you could sit at the bar and nurse a beer through several sets and no one bothered you. I loved trying to follow his stream-of- consciousness forays, medleys of songs and techniques never dull, never indifferent. He was a master of stride, r&b, ballads, and free improvisation, a great Garner, Tatum, and Hines player; these were not affectations, but integral to what he knew and believed about piano. When Vanessa asked him about stride, he said it was no big deal, that you could find it in classical music, that it was all part of the piano repertoire. Still, what I liked best was what I came to think of as Jaki's core style, a driven bebop linearity that ranged over the whole keyboard with a fierce purposefulness, every note struck like a hammer. He could make a piano roar. But as soon as you thought you knew the song, he turned the corner and you were in another country.
One night at the Gate, a little juiced-up Billy Eckstine wannabe who sang as "Junior Parker" and had no fixed address, just an oversized overcoat, walked in and asked to sing. Jaki shrugged, and soon Junior was there every night, arriving in the middle of the set to wail "Getting To Know You" in an impossibly slow, cellolike arrangement. Jaki included him and it on his next album, the irresistible Freedom Together!, after which Junior disappeared. On a college break, I went to the Gate to find Jaki no longer in residence, and asked if he was playing anywhere. "Oh, Jaki's at the 82 Club," someone said, giving me directions to the East Village. When I finally found the joint I was greeted by a midget transvestite who said he'd never heard of Jaki Byard but I was certainly welcome; I stomped out, annoyed at the joke played on me. Years later, I told Jaki. He said, "Man, you should've come in. Those were nice people. Actually, that was one of my better gigs."
Which was probably true. He was briefly in the rotation at the Village Vanguard, but after 1970 I mostly heard him in restaurants or one-shot concerts among them, encounters with David Murray, Greg Osby, and Archie Shepp. In later years, he was inconsistent, sometimes noodling in introspective meditation, waiting Rollins-like for the muse to jump-start him. He looked increasingly like a bemused bear, his hair a straightened thatch sprouting around his head, his face round and line-free, his expression quizzical. He loved big bands more than anything he had come up with Herb Pomeroy in Boston (despite more than three decades in Queens, he never lost a scintilla of his accent), toured the country as pianist and arranger with Maynard Ferguson, worked closely with Charles Mingus (he arranged much of the 1964 Monterey concert), and occasionally subbed for an ailing Duke Ellington. Incredibly for a guy who struggled to get trio work, he organized a big band, the Apollo Stompers named, he was quick to point out, for the Greek god, not the theater. His final recording, made last spring and as yet unreleased, was his third with the orchestra.