The Improvisor

Excerpt from LP liner notes:

The liner notes on the album were written by Per Husby, a pianist and recorder from Norway:

THE OCCASION:

I guess I was the one responsible for bringing Chet to Norway for these club dates in the first place. The arrangers of the Vadso Jazz Festival in northern Norway had asked me to come up with some suggestions for an American ‘name’ artist to top their bill in the 1983 Festival. Since the festival is a rather small, three-day event, with very limited economic resources, the artist in question had to come up as a single working with local Norwegian rhythm section.

I had heard Chet in concert with Stan Getz in Oslo the same spring and had been greatly impressed by the radiant personality Chet represented on stage – shy, open, friendly, withdrawn – all together in a very fascinating mixture. Even in the company of the musical charisma of Getz I think most people in the audience felt Baker’s presence as the focal point on stage that night. Commenting on this effect a girl friend of mine came up with a comment that stuck in my head: “He looks so vulnerable.”

Chet has a background all too well known. It’s grist for the rumor makers – people that excel in the dramatic part of any story without giving you the rest of the pictures, suiting their own needs without too much regard to factual relevance or social/personal con-siderations. So Chet has a reputation, parts of which made me a shade reluctant having never met him before. Calling Chan Parker in Paris and presenting her with some of the more negative things I had heard, brought forth, “No, no, no, no, no – Chet isn’t mean.”

(She always opens up a non-affirmative sentence with at least five ‘no’s – maybe in order to find time to turn down the persistent Bill Evans tapes going in the background – and she’s a great judge of persons.)

So, Chet came to Vadso in early August, wearing beach sandals, a newly-acquired Stetson type hat, corduroy jeans and a thin sweater. All very well for most places, but not for a play situated at the same latitude as Point Barrow, Alaska and having Murmansk, Russia, as the nearest major city where snow in mid-July wouldn’t cause too many raised eyebrows. (Chet was visibly hurt when some stupid lady approached him and claimed that he was just wearing the hat “to look special.” “I don’t think I need a hat to be special,” he remarked with a slightly tired smile indicating a self-ironic reference to his own past.) He wouldn’t admit to being bothered by the rather unmediterrenean climate.

“N, no, that’s no problem. The only problem is I’ve got no horn!” And the nearest instrument store is 300 miles away. His horn had been stolen in Paris and he only had an extra mouthpiece with him. Thoughts of Russian helicopters in from Murmansk flew through my head but I could see some practical obstacles arising. While he had dinner a madcap race through the 4,000 inhabitants’ dwellings was staged in order to dig up an instrument. Chet ate very little. “I’ve got to stop losing weight like this but I have no appetite at all.” Aided by a glutton pianist, the two dinners were sufficiently downed to avoid any retaliation from a rather quick-tempered New Zealand cook.

The horn arrive 25 minutes before the concert which gave us exactly 15 minutes for a combined sound check and rehearsal for a 1 ½ hour concert! Opening up the concert, Chet wanders on stage, turns to the trio and says: “Let’s play Ding,” then stomps off the tempo and goes right into “Mr. B.” Total confusion quickly develops and the whole thing comes to an early halt. “What’s the matter – did I start in the wrong key?” he says, turning around. “No, wrong tune.” “Oh-“ he turns back and addresses the audience way off mike. “As you’ll gather we’ve got this concert timed down to the nearest split second!” From then on there were nothing but good vibes between musicians and audience. Later that evening Chet borrows my tapes from the concert, the music was pretty good, but Chet isn’t at all satisfied. “I can play better than that,” he mutters.

Proof came two days later. Chet still has no horn so I had borrowed a horn from my next-door neighbor who is a spare-time big band trumpeter and who had spent most of the afternoon polishing and washing his horn to put it in the best possible condition. The scene is the Hot House in Oslo, a club with a part-time jazz policy, nicely laid out for a good rapport between the musicians and the audience, but on many nights characterized by the sound level created by the audience being rather more prominent than the sounds produced from the stage.

Not on this night, however. The club is nicely filled up and it’s obvious that these people came to listen. I see many of the die-hard jazz fans of my own youth and a good many musicians. Chet is there chatting jovially with a bunch of loyal fans over some discographical details three decades back. A new drummer is on and after he’s finished setting up there’s just time for a friendly handshake before we go on. “How’s the horn?”

I ask. “Don’t know, haven’t tried it yet,” is the answer. Opening the trumpet case, he mutters, “It looks good enough,” then puts the mouthpiece on, blows some air through it and we’re on.