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Elvin & Me
The
Doors' drummer, John Densmore, remembers his hero, Elvin Jones
(1927-2004)
By John Densmore, Utne
magazine
November / December 2004
Issue
My mentor, my main man, has finally
broken on through to the other side. Elvin Jones, the
polyrhythmic "jazz machine" and the motor behind John
Coltrane, has crossed the tracks. He died on May 18, 2004.
Elvin blazed a new path for all the rest of us timekeepers. He
was the first to free up the job of clockwork, improvising
continually, but never sacrificing a strong sense of pulse. He
churned rhythms like an eggbeater and served up multi-meals
within every four bars. With his beats perpetually on the
edge, Elvin sounded like he was going to fall into his drum
set, but never did.
His constant "conversation" with
Coltrane inspired me to try to have a musical dialogue with
Jim Morrison. Elvin played so loose, it gave me the courage to
stop the steady rhythm on "When the Music's Over," during Jim
Morrison's rap about the earth, and just jab at my kit in
quick expressive grunts.
I remember a show at UCLA's
Royce Hall where people were allowed to wander up on stage, so
yours truly sheepishly played the role of groupie. This wasn't
a rock show, so the line between artist and fan didn't involve
climbing the Berlin Wall. I still lacked the nerve to actually
say anything to my teacher, so I just watched as Elvin used a
hammer to remove the nails he'd pounded right into the floor,
to keep his bass drum from sliding. The man played hard! He
was my teenage idol, and he became a friend. And he remains
the most emulated musical thread I've got going.
The
first time I met Jones it was 1963, and I nervously flashed a
fake ID to get into Shelley's [Manne-Hole] in Hollywood. The
jazz club bouncer looked at it, gave me a glance that said he
knew it was fake, and let me in to see my hero. Elvin Jones
sat behind one of the greatest jazz quartets in the history of
the art form, and he did it with a huge grin. The Beatles
hadn't hit yet, and he was my muse.
Between sets at
the Manne-Hole, I went back to the bathroom just to get close
to the dressing room. I heard voices and laughter from behind
the wall. I occupied myself washing my hands until I heard the
voices drifting out into the hallway. I spun around and,
wiping my hands on my pants, turned the knob. Coltrane was
standing right in front of me, looking at who was coming out
of the bathroom. My reverence immediately told me to chill,
and I quickly shunned eye contact. Trane walked by, destined
for the stage. I noticed that everyone sort of quieted down
when he passed. I looked then at Elvin's face, and he smiled
at me! When the last set was over, I lingered again in the
back, hearing Elvin say to Trane, "Hotel, hotel." I repeated
the phrase over and over to my friends the next few days. They
thought I was nuts.
In 1995 I caught Jones at Vine St.
Bar & Grill, a jazz club just a couple blocks from the old
Manne-Hole. I was especially nervous this time. After
witnessing a performance that had as much power on drums as
I'd seen 30 years earlier, I headed backstage to actually talk
to Elvin, toting my autobiography, Riders on the Storm, under
my arm. By this time I had received many accolades about my
drumming, but this was jazz. This wasn't rock 'n' roll; this
was the roots of all my learning about the craft of drumming.
With trepidation, I introduced myself. My name didn't ring any
bells for Elvin, so I quickly held up Riders on the Storm and
said, "This is for you . . . it's my autobiography about
playing in a rock band . . . in here I wrote that you gave me
my hands." I was prepared for condescension, jazz being the
higher art, but that wasn't a quality in Mr. Jones'
repertoire. He was so incredibly kind and gracious; I was once
again humbled to be in his presence. I felt complete. I had
honored the man who had taught me much.
Several years
later, the "Machine" was playing the Jazz Bakery in Culver
City, and I made another pilgrimage to Mecca. His playing
hadn't deteriorated in the least. After the last set, I
befriended another drummer, Len Curiel, who was obviously
Elvin's number-one fan. "You gotta come back and rap with him,
he's very open. He'll give you his home phone number in New
York. Maybe we'll all go out to eat later. I've done that with
him many times."
Wow, hangin' with my mentor? "I wanna
help tear down his set," I said to Len, while watching Elvin's
wife unscrew a cymbal stand. "Oh, Keiko will never let you do
that," Len chuckled. "She's his manager and his roadie." I
spotted Dave Weckl from Chick Corea fame and Blood, Sweat,
& Tears drummer Bobby Columby, both looking up at the
stage with apparently the same idea, but Keiko was very
protective. She had lived with her man in a two-bedroom
apartment on New York's Upper West Side for forty-some years.
The neighborhood had changed, but their dedication to each
other was the same.
At the risk of looking like a
50-year-old groupie, I asked Elvin to autograph some of my old
Coltrane LPs. "Don't be embarrassed by that," Elvin beamed, as
he John Henry'd my collector's items. Keiko tried to move the
party along and get the living legend home -- there would be
no late-night meals with the godfather of the skins tonight --
but as we walked toward their car, my guru let me take the
cymbal bag from under his arm and carry it the rest of the
way. It only lasted a few yards, but I'd waited 35 years to
have the honor.
John Densmore's autobiography,
Riders on the Storm (Delacorte Press), was a New York Times
best-seller. He has written for The Nation, The Guardian, and
Rolling Stone.
FROM
UTNE MAGAZINE | |
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