It had been a long road for Claude “Fiddler” Williams when I met him at Austin’s Indigo’s Restaurant and Bar in 1983. In those days, I made my bread and butter as a session musician and music reviewer, plying my trade for the Austin Chronicle, Images Magazine and other local fare. Fiddler was an old friend of a mentor of mine, Gene Ramey.
Bear with me – a little history lesson is in order. Ramey was a pioneer bassist of the Swing Era. His teacher was the legendary Walter Page, an original “Blue Devil,” and the backbone of the Count Basie Orchestra for decades. Gene’s resume? How about the first Tonight Show Orchestra, Count Basie, Dizzy Gillespie, Miles Davis, Stan Getz, Thelonius Monk, Grant Green, Buck Clayton and Buddy Tate, Horace Silver, Lennie Tristano, Fats Navarro, in a J.J. Johnson Quartet with Sonny Rollins, Lester Young, Charlie “Bird” Parker and even Bob Dylan.
Fiddler’s was much the same, and includes Andy Kirk’s Twelve Clouds of Joy, Don Byas, Buddy Tate, Lloyd Glen, Nat King Cole’s trio and the Basie Band. Contrary to popular misconception, he, and not Freddie Green, was the guitarist on the Basie’s first, and now legendary, Decca recordings.
Originally hailing from Muskogee, Oklahoma, Fiddler first played the guitar, mandolin, banjo and cello. Then one day a violinist during the mid-1920s, Joe Venuti came through town to play at an outdoor pavilion. The sound of the violin soaring over the top of everything else made such an impression on young Fiddler that the next day the cello was traded in for a violin. At 15, he went on the road, but as was often the case on this circuit, he was never paid. When he was 17, he joined Andy Kirk’s band, and relocated in Kansas City.
By this time, things were jumping in Kansas City. Fiddler was playing an engagement in Chicago with Eddie Cole (Nat King Cole’s brother), and Count Basie, also in Chicago, invited Fiddler to jam. Fiddler was hired on the spot to play guitar and violin, and the band returned to Kansas City to play the Reno Club. Ironically, for man who is among the most famous jazz fiddlers, Fiddler was voted “number one guitarist” in Down Beat magazine in 1936.
Go figure.
By 1983, almost no one knew who either Gene Ramey or Claude Fiddler Williams were – that was obvious by the crowd – or lack thereof – assembled at Indigo’s that night.
Gene manned “Betsy,” his beloved bass, and Fiddler played some extremely uninspired sets. And why not? There were only about five people in the audience. Legends deserve better.
However, during the breaks, the stories I was hearing were priceless. I guess both were in their late 70s at the time, and like all great musicians, they were always looking to top each other. Let me tell you, these stories were outlandish – and all probably true.
One story was about young Charlie “Bird” Parker. Now Gene was known as Bird’s “Guardian Angel” for many years. During the 1950s, he was forever getting him out of jail, bailing his horn out of hock, paying off his bar bills, or trying to keep the mob from killing him when not selling drugs. (During the 1950s, African-American jazz musicians were often forced to sell drugs in order to maintain recording contracts. It is a nasty little music history tidbit that has been swept under the rug for far too many years.)
But this was long before Bird came into his own, and unhinged – all at the same time. Bird was about 14, and he was playing at a Kansas City club. It came time for his solo, and Bird took over…and over…and over.
The truth is, he just wouldn’t shut up. He kept playing until the other band members had all they were going to take.
Finally, the drummer threw a cymbal, which crashed onto the floor. The band quit playing. The crowd drew hush. Bird got the message and shut up.
Both Fiddler and Gene were there that night, and the story is even chronicled in Clint Eastwood’s movie “Bird.”
The problem was, by 1983, the particulars were cloudy in both men’s heads.
They’d laugh, and say, “Oh no, it happened this way…” They were clearly having a ball, and playing the role of apprentice, I was in Nirvana.
Then Gene excused himself to tend to business in the Men’s Room. As quick as he was out of ear’s shot, Fiddler leaned over the table and said: “Now, you gotta forgive Gene. He’s an old man, and his memory ain’t what it used to be. Here is the way it really happened…”
And Fiddler told me his recollection of the famed tale.
When Gene returned, it was back to small talk and fun. Finally, Fiddler made his exit when Nature Called. Gene leaned over the table and said: “Fiddler’s an old man, he don’t remember that cymbal story the way it happened…”
Gene then told his version.
I never bothered with the bathroom. I laughed so hard, I peed right there in my pants.
There was one man who showed up that night who knew full well who Fiddler was. It was Dripping Springs resident Johnny Gimble, who showed up unannounced. You may remember Gimble from Hee Haw, and more notably Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys. Gimble is a legend in his own right, and was a fair piece younger than Fiddler. His chops were hot as a south Dallas sidewalk in August.
Although I never spoke with Gimble that night – I have no doubt what he was up to.
As I said, Fiddler was playing some very uninspired sets. So when Gimble whipped out his fiddle, blazed out some vicious licks, the old man had been put on notice.
Fiddler was being challenged. Such is the way of musicians. Gimble was calling him out like Gary Cooper called out Frank Miller in High Noon.
My hunch is that Gimble knew exactly what that old man was capable of, and he also understood just how to get him out of his hole.
Gimble was furiously ripping out notes, when Fiddler set his instrument aside. Word’s cannot do justice what happened next.
Fiddler just glared at Gimble for about five minutes.
Well, that was all the old man was going to take. “I’m gonna cut you,” he said. With that, he picked up his fiddle, and it was the Shootout at the Okay Corral from there on out. Gimble never let up, but he simply couldn’t keep up with the old man, who set about the task of teaching the younger legend a lesson or two.
For the five of us in the audience, astounded wouldn’t even begin to describe the scene. I spent seven years as a music reviewer, 23 as a player, and simply put, it was the most incredible night of music I ever witnessed.
Gimble left the place with the biggest smile I ever saw on any one man’s face. I only heard him utter these words as he shook his head: “That old man is just pure magic.”
Last I heard, and that was in 1997, Fiddler was still teaching any and all comers. (He was 90 at the time, so if he has left for the Happy Hunting Grounds, forgive me. I hope not.)
Except to tour, Fiddler never left Kansas City. Like Gene, Page and Basie, he was an original “Blue Devil,” arguably the group that laid the foundations of the swing era.
For much of his career, Fiddler was largely forgotten about, except for musicians, who all knew of his phenomenal ability. That was pretty obvious on that August night in 1983 at Indigo’s.
But if you live long enough, the world tends to “rediscover” a great musician, particularly when his chops are still hot well into his 90s.
How good is Fiddler? No less than the Smithsonian documented him for its’ Jazz Oral History Project. He has often been invited to play the White House. He ain’t no slouch.
“Life’s about as good as it could be,” he once told me. “I mean, you could always have more money, but I love to play, and that’s my life.”
Well said by a good man.
As for my dear, wonderful friend, teacher and mentor Gene Ramey, he died of a heart attack on December 8, 1984. I can’t even begin to explain what he meant to my career (he helped get me my first journalism jobs), but more importantly I loved him, and I miss him to this day. His memory, smile and wisdom will always live in my heart.