Lost History – The night Fats Waller played for Al Capone

During the prohibition era, when Chicago was ruled by the vicious bootlegger Al Capone, an African-American jazz star was on the rise. Thomas ‘Fats’ Waller had made a name for himself as an after-hours performer in Harlem. Aged twenty-one, he travelled to the Windy City to play regular sets at the famous Sherman Hotel.

Fats’ virtuosic skill and dizzyingly fast fingering set him apart from the bulk of his prodigious contemporaries. Not only could he play to an enviable level, but he also possessed extraordinary comic abilities and was able to punctuate renditions of popular standards with off-the-cuff quips and memorable witticisms. His sheer physical presence had an indelible impact on his audiences too. 

Standing over six feet, his rotund torso, chubby cheeks and huggable build exerted an endearing demeanour. These qualities made him one of the most entertaining performers and convivial characters of the era, bringing him to the attention of the murderous mob that ruled his new hometown. 

The story goes that one night, in 1926, Fats finished his usual set at the Sherman Hotel, when four fedora-wearing men in large dark overcoats began following him through the reception hall and out onto the street. A large limousine was parked outside, and when Fats turned round to look at the four men keenly following his every step, he was met by a raised revolver and a gesture to get into the waiting car. 

As he was bundled into the limousine, one of the men put a hood over his large head and told him that if he resisted, he’d be shot. Fearing the worst, Fats prepared himself for the most likely outcome. Chicago was a gangster battleground in those bloody days, and the murder of random civilians was far from rare.

 He must have studied his recent memories, searching for an instance where he might have offended a member of the mob during one of his sellout performances. Still, being such a gentle and popular person, I doubt he understood the reason for his abduction as the car sped towards the suburb of East Cisero – a noted hub for Capone and his cronies. 

The car pulled up to an exclusive club in the district where a riotous party was audibly in full swing. Waller’s hood was removed, and his captors with their guns pushed him through the lavish doors and into the fray of the festivities. 

As he was led to a piano in the centre of the room by his criminal chaperons, the enormous crowd of scantily clad dancers and cigar-toking hardmen greeted the discombobulated twenty-one-year-old enthusiastically. Fats’ eyes acclimatised to the garish scene, and he started to surmise the reason for his kidnapping. This was a birthday party, not an execution, and he was the special guest. 

One of the four men pointed at his host, who was surrounded by armed lackeys and fawning girls. The prominent scar across his fat face was unmistakable. It was Al Capone. The uncrowned king of Chicago had requested the attendance of Fats to his birthday jamboree, but this didn’t mean the young jazz maestro was safe. “Welcome. Please play!” bellowed the birthday boy. Waller pulled out the stool under the piano, sat down and started playing his usual numbers.

After the first song was done, Capone appeared impressed and sent one of his goons over to slip a hundred dollar bill into Waller’s pocket. That generous tip was kept up after every song. The party reportedly went on for three days, and Waller slept during occasional lulls over the most profitable piano he had ever played. When he finally left Capone’s club, his pockets are said to have been stuffed with hundred dollar bills. It was impossible for musicians back then to avoid some association with the criminal underworld. 

They owned many of the best venues and showed unusual kindness and compassion to many socially marginalised performers. Thankfully for Fats, and for the proliferation of jazz, Capone loved his music and made his love known munificently.