Rhythm in the Rain by Lynn Darroch

Author:Lynn Darroch
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Jazz, Pacific Northwest, non-fiction, oregon, history, music, jazz musicians, washington
Publisher: Ooligan Press
Published: 2016-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

Leroy’s Shoes

When Leroy Vinnegar died in 1999, his partner gave his suits to fellow musicians; only the tall ones, though, because Leroy was a big man. One night, years later, saxophonist Rob Scheps pointed to his leg. “These are Leroy’s pants,” he said. “This is where he spilled candle wax; I’m never washing it out.”

They’re playing his tunes, even wearing his suits, but nobody’ll ever fill Leroy’s shoes.

Revered and honored in Portland, his adopted home, “Father of the Walking Bass,” they called him. His accomplishments were huge: on more than six hundred albums, he always worked for the top people, and was right at the heart of jazz on the West Coast until the LA smog choked him out and Leroy headed north. But it wasn’t just his music that made him a Portland hero.

Big smile, rumbling voice, generous with his time; Leroy showed folks how to play right with stories and gentle chiding.

“You’re not swinging,” he’d say, but always nice, though he’d never suffer a bad musician.

Because Leroy knew time, had nothing left to prove. In fact he’d almost died, but the doctors brought him back. “Saved my life,” Leroy laughed.

He wore a beautiful topcoat, wheeled oxygen on a cart fifteen hours a day for his failing heart.

“At least I can come out and play,” said Leroy, who never complained. “With this condition, you never know, man,” he’d say.

Leroy knew time.

“I know you’re good, Leroy,” I said, “but with so many great bassists, why’d all the leaders choose you?”

“Because I’m a nice guy, I disciplined myself,” said Leroy. “Didn’t talk back, did what I was asked—gave ’em what they wanted.”

And when it came time to solo, Leroy just stayed right with a steady four-to-the-bar, just kept on with the walk, developed it into his own voice, made the walk his talk.

Because Leroy knew time.

“All musicians love a strong bass player,” he said. “You’re not going to be up there if you’re not strong. Like ’Trane said, ‘You would beat a person right into the ground with that time you got, Leroy!’ Right into the ground!’

“Well, that’s how I was raised,” said Leroy. “Raised with Art Tatum, you can’t escape the time.”

So guys would ask, “What was it like playing with Bird, with ‘Trane, with Tatum?” And often he told them, but not always direct.

“I wanted this classic Mercedes, see,” he said. “But my credit wasn’t strong enough—fifteen hundred dollars it cost then. But I wanted that car.

“Then I signed with Michel Legrand. So I go back to the car lot, and I say, ‘I just signed a contract with Michel Legrand.’ So they knew the money was good, and the man says, ‘Mister Vinnegar, come get your car.’”

And Leroy laughed, but with the sadness of a man whose wife had died in a car crash, the sadness of a man who knew time.

One night we shook hands. Mine disappeared between his smooth palms; Leroy held on.

“I’m not seventy-six,” he said.

“No,” I answered.

“But you said I was seventy-six in that story you wrote.

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