Out of the blue and apropos of nothing I could figure, Chris asked me, “You like all kinds of different music, don’t you?”
“Uh, oh,” I thought. I could hear a recommendation coming
and that never works out well for me. My eccentric play list is to no one’s
taste but my own. We were making conversation at my wife’s office Christmas party;
I needed to be polite.
“Well, not really. But sure, what have you got in mind.”
Chris told me his discovery of Slim Gaillard.
“Never heard of him,” I said. “Here, write it down.”
I pulled from my pocket a wrinkled piece of paper and the ink
cartridge from a ballpoint pen that I’d scrounged from the bottom of Eva’s
glove box while she drove us to the party. Halfway there, I’d
realized I didn’t have a notepad and pen, which I never leave home without. I’m
a writer, and feel naked without something to write down curious quotes or
thoughts while out and about. All I’d managed to find after frantic rummaging,
as we sped down I-5, was an old car repair receipt and a broken pen. I’d torn
off a page, took out the pen’s cartridge, and stuffed them in my pocket,
feeling better.
(Yeah, I know, I know. Why not just use your phone to write down stuff?
Sorry, it’s not the same. And yes, I’m old.)
“Can you read my writing?” Chris asked.
A day later, headed out for my walk, I dug out his note, found
the name of his recommended artist, and cued him up on my iPhone and AirPods. And
from the Google, I learned:
“One of the most eccentric
vocalists ever to hit the jazz scene, Slim Gaillard became a legendary cult
figure thanks to his own privately invented jive dialect ‘vout,’ a variation on
hipster slang composed of imaginary nonsense words (‘oreenie’ and ‘oroonie’
being two other examples). Gaillard's comic performances, laid-back cool, and
supremely silly songs made him a popular entertainer from the late '30s to the
early '50s, especially on the West Coast, and several of his compositions
became genuine hits, including ‘Flat Foot Floogie’ and ‘Cement Mixer.’”
I immediately liked what I heard (including “Flat Foot
Floogie”). At the halfway point of my walk through the local nature park, I sat
on a make-shift bench in the woods, overlooking a marsh, and sent Chris an
email, while listening to Slim and toking a fat joint. I thanked him for the
recommendation and noted my surprise that he could have suspected I would enjoy
such an offbeat musical style. In fact, I can’t think of a single person I know
(or, perhaps, ever have known) who would dig Slim Gaillard.
As I pondered the mystery – Chris doesn’t know me well;
how could he have known? – I hadn’t noticed a guy with his dog walking past
on the trail. I checked the direction of the breeze; he didn’t seem to have picked
up on the cannabis aroma.
Now, I’m not a dog person. In all my years of walking this
trail, I’d consistently ignored the ubiquitous dogs. Long story… But the guy had
stopped, fifty feet or so away, because his dog kept looking back at me. “He
just wants to say hello.”
“Sure,” I thought. “Why not?”
Completely out of character for me, I motioned them back. His
old dog, with one bum leg, hobbled over. “Funny, she never likes to approach
strangers,” the guy said.
I held out the back of my hand for a sniff.
“Her name’s Carli.”
“Hello, Carli.”
“She’s deaf.”
I picked up my half-smoked joint and offered it.
“Sure!”
We shared a smoke and small talk, and Carli and her guy sauntered
on.
I bit later, I caught up with them, down by the trout pond. “Get
a little buzz?” I asked.
“I just realized,” he said, “I’m ripped.”
“That’s good.”
We chatted some more and I told him the weed’s provenance –
High Desert Sour Sage from a Eugene dispensary, Oregrown – and we parted ways
at a fork in the trail. Just before he was out of earshot, I turned and called
back, “I’m Wayne. What’s your name.”
“Chris.”
I wish I'd shared with him my new connection with Slim and the other Chris, but the moment passed.
###
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