In my neighborhood in Los Angeles we had a
common expression. Maybe people said it or say it where you
come
from, too. Goes like this. Some thug or drunken frat boy
threatens one of your friends, your homies, and you say:
“I got yer back. Don’t worry about it.”
But you better mean it, cuz if anything goes
wrong—you’ve gotta step up, or if you’re overheard sayin: “I got yer
back” you might divert the assault directly to your own self first.
But that’s okay.
Important to back your friend’s play.
Max Roach was like that.
The percussionist is all too frequently ignored in
the background, unless you’re as bold as Desi Arnaz, or if you’re one
those insane rockers acting the fool to get attention, like a school
kid hollerin from the back row of class. Yet without the drummer
laying down the beat most bands would be lost.
Paul McCartney said the most important musical
element of the Beatles was Ringo’s drums.
Backbeat.
Make ya wanna holla, jump and shake.
But consider whose play Max Roach backed:
Abbey Lincoln.
Bud Powell.
Charles
Mingus.
Charlie Parker.
Clifford Brown.
Coleman Hawkins.
Dinah Washington.
Dizzy Gillespie.
Duke Ellington.
Miles Davis.
Sonny Rollins.
Thelonious Monk.
Yeah, and when he wasn’t too busy laying down the
beat for those cats he stepped up to the plate and made his own
records.
Cool.
Too cool.
A giant of jazz with a big hard bop sound that left
this world quietly.
You’re not likely to find any great jazz musician
the key topic of conversation at the average cocktail party, but
that’s okay. Now you can take that Roach record you’ve got and put it
on the turntable (or whatever you use to make with sound) and let Max
back your play. You can be that cool cat of the party that says,
“Yeah, so, Max Roach died …”
Then people, you know, the ones that are alive and
kickin, will start talking about all the great ones that have gone
fishin’ permanent-like and then of course they’ll all start
speculating on whether or not there’s a Heaven and whether or not
they’ve got “a Hell of a band,” never did like that song, and I’d say
if there’s such a place, I doubt it. I doubt they have any music at
all. Too busy with all that peace and quiet. Noise disturbs the fish,
you know. But down here on Earth, the Devil’s true domain—you’ve
gotta beat back the demons with the beat.
from, too. Goes like this. Some thug or drunken frat boy
threatens one of your friends, your homies, and you say:
Charles
Mingus. 