Albert Aloysius Casey, RIP
‘Al Casey, who died on Sunday aged 89, had claims to be considered the finest of all acoustic jazz guitarist …‘ opened the obituary in the Telegraph (Telegraph, 2005).
He died a few days before his ninetieth birthday. They turned his planned party into a celebration of his contribution to music. And what a contribution that was. This was a musician who had played with everyone from Louis Armstrong to Billie Holiday, in fact if you named an American Jazz Legend you could probably find the name Al Casey on a record sleeve or concert program alongside the more luminary star.
The first time I met Al he was sitting on the edge of his bed in his hotel room. A slim old African American man without his teeth in and sporting a hair net that he said was necessary to keep his hair neat overnight. There was something vulnerable about Al, something special. I didn’t know him then – I had been asked to host him at The Edinburgh Jazz Festival – but he quickly took me into his confidence and I started to learn what a remarkable role he had played in American Jazz music.
The New York Times said his work was, ‘ … a defining feature of Fats Waller’s band in the 1930’s and 1940’s.‘ (New York Times, 2005).
Once I had arranged him comfortably in the front seat of my old Vauxhall Coupe we set out to find the venue for his first gig (a lunch time session supporting a band containing such jazz greats as Harry ‘Sweets’ Edison) we started to get to know each other. It wasn’t difficult. He was a warm and gentle old man who relied on the kindness of strangers as a matter of instinct.
‘You’ll be hungry, Al’, I said.
‘Fried chicken, I’d love some fried chicken,’ he replied. ‘Oh, and a bottle of vodka.’
Three gigs a day starting at lunchtime and often a late night jam session with fellow jazzers (most of them twice my age) and all he seemed to live on was fried chicken and a steady supply of booze. I never saw him drunk and he was always up and ready to go at eleven o’clock the next day even after playing well into the early hours.
‘Mr Casey played and recorded with Louis Armstrong in 1944 when both were recognised as leading jazz musicians in the Esquire magazine readers’ poll,’ Albert Vollmer (leader of the Harlem Blues and Jazz Band) told the New York Times (New York Times, 2005).
I loved that old man. He was very modest about his own talent but you could tell by the way his peers treated him that he had played a central role in the world of jazz. Players like Edison had been part of the great Count Basie Band and had recorded with the likes of Sinatra, but Al was one of them. He laughed easily and played in a deceptively relaxed style. Everyone wanted Al on stage beside them or sitting, late at night reminiscing in hotel lobbies and back stage areas. They all loved him.
I remember we were sitting in big overstuffed sofas in the lobby of the Hilton, relaxing before an evening show in the hotel ballroom, when one of the band dropped his cigarette between his legs. I helped haul him out of his seat and they all laughed saying we had saved his ass. Al just looked on in quiet amusement, these were his friends, they may have been big stars once upon a time, but he was one of them.
‘Fats Waller’s mixture of virtuoso piano jazz and camp humour brought him enduring fame. It also ensured appreciation for his sidemen, chief among them Al Casey …’ wrote Peter Vacher, in an obituary in the British press (Guardian, 2005).
Al was always anxious to know how the set had gone and seemed to appreciate an honest assessment. Remember this was a man who had defined a style of playing and had played Carnegie Hall, sharing the stage with Armstrong, Colman Hawkins and Jack Teagarden among others. Usually I was able to reassure him that the sound had been okay, that his own spot (usually Honeysuckle Rose or Buck Jumpin’) had been well received. One afternoon – we were in a tent that had been set up in the Meadows public park – Al had been on stage with Martin Taylor, a young guitarist who played in the Joe Pass style. Taylor is famous in his own right, he was an integral part of a famous big band and achieved early success with Stephane Grappelli. When he rejoined us at our table he didn’t think he was good enough to sit in with these technically note perfect young players and I tried to reassure him,
‘You’re better than them Al,’ I said.
He looked at me with big rheumy brown eyes and said, ‘I wish you hadn’t said that Graham’.
It was the only time I felt I had let him down. We both knew he wasn’t as agile as the technically perfect Taylor, but I meant he had more feeling in his playing. Silly really because they were quite different players. Martin Taylor was fond of Al and would never have invited him on stage if he didn’t hold him in huge respect. But Al was generous enough to let the moment pass and we set off for the evening session in a bigger venue full of admiring fans and famous jazz stars.
‘Waller’s sudden death in 1942 brought the good times to a halt and cast Casey adrift … by then [he] had adopted the electric guitar … His trio soon became a popular fixture in New York’s 52nd Street clubs, often appearing opposite be-boppers like Dizzy Gillespie and Don Byas,’ continues the Guardian obit (Guardian, 2005).
Al was interested in seeing a bit more of the city that had him squirreled away in dark bars and late night jam sessions. So we took a short drive round Arthur’s Seat (a prominent geographical feature of Edinburgh). It was a bright sunny July afternoon but it suddenly started to rain.
‘Devil’s beating his wife,’ he said, chuckling.
‘Do you like chilli, Al,’ I asked, knowing my partner was in our flat preparing a big pot of the stuff just in case he fancied something other than fried chicken. I was starting to get worried about him. He was quite old, he was a bit home sick and he would have every right to feel a bit lonely at times.
‘Oh, yes I do,’ he replied.
That afternoon, instead of his usual nap in his hotel room, he sat on our couch eating chilli and listening to records.
‘What do you want to hear?’ I asked.
‘Anything,’ he said, ‘but not guitar music.’ I found some recordings by Dizzy Gillespie and Gerry Mulligan and he seemed okay with that.
‘Highly regarded in Europe – he met jazz aficionados who had an encyclopaedic knowledge of his recording history’ (LA Times, 2005).
It was always interesting to watch the effect these jazz stars had on their many fans. I would be standing alongside some of the band as they were continually approached by autograph seekers and well-wishers. The musician would immediately stop what they were doing and go into, what I came to recognise as, business mode. The fans would be respectful, telling Al how much they had enjoyed the show or relating stories of having seen him in such and such a venue. Al was by nature quite shy but he always had time for his many fans. They all had this way of giving the fans what they wanted, whether it was a signature or a picture opportunity or even a joke and a smile. It had become second nature to them – they were themselves but with just a little bit more ‘show’.
On one very late night, hanging about on the stairs leading up to the makeshift jazz club in rooms that were University staff rooms during the rest of the year, one fan asked Al to sign a record he was about to purchase.
‘Just give me the money,’ he said, with a grin, ‘that will cut out all those middle men.’
Once we were alone again I asked Al if he listened to any modern bands.
‘I like Room Full of Blues,’ he said, after a bit of thought.
But he didn’t rate most rock music thinking it too simplistic.
‘We worked with the biggest bands in the country,’ he told the New York Times in 1997. ‘We don’t sound that bad. I can’t understand why we don’t get the recognition.’ (Washington Post, 2005).
Al wasn’t the biggest star in the All Star line ups that were brought together for the daily performances at the Jazz festival. The names changed each year but during my years the two biggest stars were Buddy Tate and Harry ‘Sweets’ Edison. These two had been stalwarts of the Count Basie Big Bands, star soloists. They arrived with heavy weight reputations. I was aware of their history. Each venue and each gig differed slightly, but there was always an All Star Gala concert in the Usher Hall during the week. Al was a common element in all the daily concerts and, of course, featured in the Gala concerts. I had managed to get him into the rear entrance of the famous old venue and into the dressing rooms below the stage. I put his amplifier near the piano player where he liked it (the piano player being the other player in the band that played chords).
I was in awe of these men as they sat about reminiscing about the high points and low moments of their illustrious careers. As they relaxed back stage Harry Edison turned to me,
‘Son, if you can get me a burger I’ll play at your wedding,’ he said.
‘Okay, Sweets,’ I replied. Not questioning for a minute the short timescale, or, for that matter, the likelihood of him appearing at my wedding.
The nearest place I could think of was on Princes Street and I parked my car right out front and jumped over the railings to place my order. It was a difficult manoeuvre then, on the busiest street in Scotland, but would be impossible nowadays. Anyway, I managed to fulfil the simple request and they all went on stage to a full house and I stood at the side of the stage mesmerised, keeping my eye on Al in case he needed anything.
‘During the 1950s he was a busy freelance, but spent some years working with the rhythm-and-blues band led by the tenor saxophonist King Curtis.’ (Telegraph, 2005).
Swing music went out of fashion but Al kept working in his chosen field. However, it was never like the old days.
‘What was it like in the early days,’ I asked him once.
‘Well, it was real different to how it is now,’ he replied. ‘In those days we weren’t allowed into most hotels and restaurants in the south. We would have to stay in segregated rooming houses and often eat in the kitchens of the hotels we played in. But Fats looked after us.’
‘What was he like,’ I asked.
‘Fats was like a father to me,’ Al said. ‘Once, he gave us the night off, in a brothel. Whooie! It was a long time ago, I was very young. But they was good times.’
‘Other jobs bought Casey dates with pianist Art Tatum and saxophonist Colman Hawkins as well as … Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie …[but he] … struggled through several decades as swing fell from favour, at one point working for the New York City Health Department as a Xerox operator.’ (Washington Post, 2005).
The last time I saw Al was a few years later – I had become his go-to-guy when he visited Edinburgh and we had become close. However, I couldn’t commit to the total immersion required that year. My own life was busy – earning a living, further education and voluntary work dominated my time – and I had agreed to host Louisiana Red for a few days instead of the full nine days. Susan and I went to a club on Princes Street to see the band that Al was sitting in with. During the interval we wandered up feeling a little self conscious but as soon as he saw us he greeted us joyfully like family. I was so touched. This was one of the jazz greats and he not only remembered me but hugged me like a long lost relative.
His contribution to American music is undeniable but his contribution to my life (and many others) is more difficult to quantify. I just know that I’ll never forget Albert Aloysius Casey, Rest In Peace.
Brief notes on this essay:
I have tried to build a short portrait of the late jazz musician Al Casey through the filter of my own brief time with him. The organizing principle of the piece is based on the facts of his life garnered from various online obituaries, interspersed with my own memories.
The research for details of the subject’s life were important to underpin the personal recollections. I have read a number of online biographical sketches and consulted my own notes and a memoir by Fats Waller’s son, Maurice Waller. I haven’t included much extra detail from this research but found it helpful to keep me focused on the period covered.
The piece is hybrid in form, part memoir and part essay. I wanted to present my memories of my time with the subject but within the framework of his contribution and with as much of his personality as I could paint with short illustrations. Much of the exposition is in the extracts from the obituaries but I also needed to add in some background detail to ground the piece in place and time (e.g. references to Edinburgh).
References
Bernstein, A (2005) ‘Al Casey Dies at 89, Guitarist for Fats Waller’, The Washington Post, 14 September [Online]. Available at http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/09/13/AR2005091301905.html (Accessed 9 January 2017).
Los Angeles Times (2005) ‘Al Casey, 89; Guitarist in Fats Waller Band’, 15 September [Online]. Available at http://articles.latimes.com/2005/sep/15/local/me-casey15 (Accessed 8 January 2017).
The New York Times (2005) ‘Al Casey dies at 89; Early Jazz Guitarist’, 13 September [Online]. Available at http://www.nytimes.com/2005/09/13/arts/music/al-casey-dies-at-89-early-jazz-guitarist.html?_r=0 (Accessed 28 January 2017).
Telegraph (2005) ‘Obituaries, Al Casey’, 14 September [Online]. Available at http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obituaries/1498337/Al-Casey.html (Accessed 8 January 2017)
Vacher, P (2005) ‘Al Casey’, The Guardian, 23 September [Online]. Available at https://www.theguardian.com/news/2005/sep/23/guardianobituaries.artsobituaries (Accessed 9 January 2017).