Lost History – the secret story behind Charlie Parker’s saddest song
In July 1946, the saxophonist sage and behemoth of be-bop, Charlie Parker, stumbled into a stuffy recording studio in Los Angeles late at night. He had recently substituted his usual diet of heroin for liquor and could barely stand straight. Relying on recording commissions to fund his wild and unpredictable lifestyle, the boy-wonder of post-war jazz was obliged to play his rendition of the hit song, “Lover Man”, to make ends meet. The session was inevitably a chaotic experience, with Parker finding it impossible to stay still or to heed the frantic instructions of his producers, but his inebriated performance that evening inspired hundreds of imitations and impressed many of the venerated high priests of his genre.
In many ways, Parker’s career proves the ten thousand hour rule. As a child, after he’d decided to adopt the saxophone, Parker practised incessantly, infuriating his family and neighbours with the noise. His dogged determination to master emerging techniques and to add his own style to the annals of jazz compelled Parker to push himself to the utmost limits of musical endurance.
By the time he was eighteen, he was performing professionally and receiving critical praise. Several years before, at the spritely age of sixteen, he suffered an injury in a car crash while touring in Kansas. The injury resulted in Parker’s dependency on morphine. His early temperament and values did not exhibit his addictive propensities and his reliance on opium surprised those closest to him. The combination of colossal talent and dangerous addiction engendered the enduring myth of Parker as the wayward artist – self-destructive, divinely-roused and always original. He achieved national fame when be-bop began to interest and excite a younger audience. Alongside the likes of Dizzy Gillespie and Miles Davis, Parker formalised the tenets of be-bop and pioneered the experimental exploration of the jazz subgenre he helped create.
Basing himself in New York, Parker set out for numerous peregrinations across the country. In California in 1945, however, he cashed in his return ticket to buy heroin. His squalid circumstances while staying out west, were physically and psychologically unsustainable and he was soon committed to a rehabilitative institution for six months where he tried to kick his unrewarding habit. Those months spent in hospital weaned him off the life-draining drug he’d enjoyed since his teenage accident, but as someone once said, “humankind cannot bear very much reality,” and so upon his release, the saxophonist replaced his heroin consumption with excessive ingestions of whiskey and wine. There was a noted scarcity of heroin in California at the time, and even if Parker wanted to relapse, he would have found it hard to acquire his chosen high. His drinking became heavier as a result.
On 29 July 1946, Parker was invited to record the new hit song, “Lover Man”, among others, at the Dial label studios. Before the scheduled session began, Parker allegedly downed a quart of whiskey. According to witnesses, he was already intoxicated but this last drink tipped him over the proverbial edge. By the time the studio technicians were ready to record “Lover Man”, Parker was flailing. Producer, Ross Russell, supported Parker as he swayed next to the microphone. The track is riddled with unintended mistakes and alluring oddities. It was released not long after the session. Parker was furious that his “sloppy” playing was published. Despite his unruly private life, he was curiously eager to advertise his professionalism. He was concerned that his “Lover Man” would damage his reputation and career but the opposite occurred. The uniqueness of that rendition, caused by his drunkenness as well as by his inherent adroitness, fascinated critics and fellow jazz musicians. Young saxophonists, keen to emulate their hero, attempted to imitate the stylistic peculiarities of the track and other champions of be-bop deemed it one of his best. Charlie Mingus, in particular, considered it to be among Parker’s best recordings, in spite of the mishaps.
We can become strangely sincere and vulnerable when we cease to be sober. A vulnerable sincerity is certainly audible in Parker’s 1946 recording of “Lover Man”. It evinces a haunting insight into a tragic genius’ wild yet wonderful nature. Another thing Mingus said of Parker might explain the importance of this accidental masterpiece, at least as an indicator of Parker’s true character; he said, “if Charlie was thinking of a woman in the audience while he played, you could tell what coloured dress she had on without even seeing her.” His music divulged so much, whether he wanted it to or not.