Heath, Sax Man

I made two mistakes regarding the great Jimmy Heath. One occurred at LaGuardia Airport when we boarded a flight to Atlanta and I failed to recognize him. When I entered the cabin, I spotted him seated near the front to my left in an aisle seat, maybe in first class. His red baseball cap emblazoned with white letters had immediately caught my eye: NEA Jazz Master. I told him I liked that cap, and he responded smoothly, “Gotta be one to get one.” This shook my confidence. How could a jazz fan like me not recognize this legend? Granted he was in his late eighties and didn’t look like any album cover I had, but I still felt that I should have possessed a clue. I told him that I was supposed to know who he was. He responded softly, seemingly with sympathy, “Heath, sax man.” This fired me up. I tried to reclaim as much cred as possible before I exhausted the patience of the folks in the line behind me. I blurted, “Jimmy Heath? Heath Brothers? Percy. Albert. Mtume’s father?” He nodded while I was being urged along even though there was more repair work I could do.

It so happens that I had with me the manuscript of the late Louis Reyes Rivera’s scintillating epic poem Jazz in Jail. Louis had completed the poem proper; left to me was the task of providing the notes that Louis wanted to append. He completed about 9 of a proposed 500. After we were airborne, I pulled the manuscript from my shoulder bag and located an entry I had written: “The MJQ and the brothers Heath (pg. 113). The Modern Jazz Quartet was a multi-style jazz combo, though mostly cool and be-bop, which performed intermittently from the 1950s to the 1990s. For most of its run, the band featured Milt Jackson on vibraphone, John Lewis on piano, Connie Kay on drums, and Percy Heath on bass. Heath also played with the Heath Brothers, originally a quartet with the three Heath brothers – bassist Percy, tenor saxophonist Jimmy, and drummer Albert – along with pianist Stanley Cowell.” Of course, with the aisle now pretty clear, I went back to the front of the plane and showed the page to Heath and his wife, Mona, who was seated next to him. As they read, Mona approved, “He really knows.” She mentioned Tootie, as Albert was familiarly known. The conversation was brief, nowhere near the length or depth of the plane conversation he had after a chance encounter with Amiri Baraka. But it was enough for me. We shook hands before I returned to my seat feeling redeemed.

However, I had already made another mistake. I was unaware that I Walked with Giants: The Autobiography of Jimmy Heath had been published a few years before. This knowledge gap was filled a couple of weeks ago when Bruce Gunther, the biggest jazz fan I know, told me about the book and insisted that I read it. Good call. Written with Joseph McLaren and including passages by the likes of Percy, Tootie, Stanley, Milt, Benny Golson, Roy Haynes, Curtis Fuller, Slide Hampton, Monty Alexander, Benny Carter, Ron Carter, Dave Brubeck, James Moody, Dizzy Gillespie, and, naturally, Mtume, the book affords us a wonderful portrait of an enormously talented performer, composer, arranger, and educator, in other words, a giant himself while standing 5’-3’’.

We can trace his formative playing years in Wilmington and Philadelphia, which culminated in his emergence as “Little Bird,” a reference to his prowess on alto saxophone and embrace of bebop. In fact, he was considered by consensus to be a stronger player than his age peer, dear friend, and practice mate John Coltrane (they were born a month apart in 1926). By the age of 22, he had performed in Paris and at the famous Three Deuces on Manhattan’s famed 52^nd Street.  

In 1949, Heath and Trane joined Dizzy Gillespie’s band as alto players, sharing the lead book before they eventually switched to tenor, although when Dizzy reduced the band to the Dizzy Gillespie Sextet, Trane handled tenor while Heath played alto. By that point, both careers were in jeopardy because of heroin usage. One of Heath’s great contributions is that he helped to save Trane from an overdose in the fall of 1950. At the outset of 1955, after being convicted of a drug sale, Heath began a 53-month sentence at Lewisburg. After finishing at the age of 32, he never looked back, dashing headlong into six decades of artistic, if not always commercial, success. As he says, it “was a rebirth.”

The subsequent successes are the heart of the tale. In addition to performing at numerous venues, including some when he was past 90, Heath played on more than 100 recordings and composed well over 100 pieces, including standards such as “C.T.A.,” “For Minors Only,” and “Gingerbread Boy.” He was central to the early success of Jazzmobile and to developing jazz studies at Queens College. He also offers tidbits, often humorous, about the discipline and ascension of Trane, the brilliance of trumpeter Fats Navarro, and playing with Bill Clinton. Some narrative force gets lost amid the plethora of details, but unmistakable dedication and triumph shine through.    

This is definitely one for your jazz library.

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