SQUASHED MEAT PIES AND OTHER OBJETS TROUVÉS

I didn’t meet Tubby Hayes until the autumn of 1968 when, to my amazement and utter delight, he asked me to join his quartet.

I was in total awe of his reputation as the most famous jazz musician in the country and, since (also amazingly) this was my first regular professional gig, I didn’t know what to expect.

I’d read of glamorous flights to New York, taking the American scene by storm, and a whirlwind of international engagements.

I was not sufficiently aware that Tubby had been seriously ill in late 1967 and early 1968 and that – having been out of touch with everybody for several months - he was now bravely taking on the uphill challenge of making a comeback.

My illusions about the “big time” were shattered on the very first gig. It was a concert at Norwich university and we were due on at 8pm or 8.30pm. Tubby didn’t have a car (or even drive as far as I knew) and he wanted us all to travel together so he hired a minicab.

We all squashed in with the bass and most of the drum kit on the roof rack and set off at the hopelessly unsuitable time of 5.30pm from his basement flat in Hans Road down the side of Harrod’s. The middle of Friday rush hour. By 7pm we were still gridlocked in Leytonstone. We got to the venue eventually and played one set starting about 10.30 much to the annoyance of the organisers. The driver had failed to fill up with petrol and we ground to a halt on the way back in the Essex countryside. I got home about 5am with a cheque from Tubby for £10 which bounced…………

[This whole episode is more eloquently described on page 241 of Simon Spillett’s Hayes biography “The long shadow of the little giant”]

So Tubby didn’t have a car, he rented his flat and didn’t have any money in the bank at the time!

In fact, in all the time I knew him (five years), he lived very much in the moment. He never seemed to have any things or stuff apart from his horn and his clothes.

So we should be eternally grateful to Mark Baxter who has lovingly put together a book called “THE LIFE BEHIND THE TENOR”. It is a priceless photographic memory of the day to day life of a jazz genius who never in my experience gave much thought for the morrow. It’s a limited edition hardback and I urge you to snap up a copy.

Proud owners, including actor MARTIN FREEMAN, showing off their copies of the book

As I started reading, I was not surprised to learn that Tubby’s personal scrapbook of his career (now miraculously recovered) fizzled out in 1956. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

What we have in these 140-odd pages are intimate snapshots, love letters, birthday cards, cufflinks and cartoons as well as diaries and posters for gigs.

It’s an amazing and affectionate tribute. The photographs are mostly of what one would call ephemera, and that seems touchingly appropriate. Because, despite his enormous fame and achievements, Tubby’s life (at least towards the end) was essentially ephemeral.

The book brings back memories for me of that scruffy basement flat at the back of Harrod’s from which we set off for Norwich. I was to come to know it well. The standout memory is of one night when we were having a takeaway there in dim lighting, in the middle of which when we were raided by a bent copper who was Tubby’s bête noire and was also infamous for arresting members of the Rolling Stones and Beatles. This Detective was later jailed for corruption. On the occasion in question, he and his sidekick pushed their way in clumsily and crashed around. Minutes later, Tubby spoke the immortal line “Excuse me, officer, you’re standing in my meat pie.”

After Hans Road, there was his last girlfriend and carer Liz Grönlund’s flat in Gloucester Place, north of Oxford Street. This was also a basement, as she was the building’s housekeeper.

I spent many hours there with them. Tubby and I would sit watching test cricket on her TV. After an hour or so of relative silence, Liz would jump out of her skin when we erupted with roars at the fall of an Aussie wicket.

It was from Gloucester Place that Tubby went into hospital for the final time in 1973 and did not emerge. I believe when he died he had about £800 in the bank. Otherwise, just his instruments, his memorabilia and his records. And of course his clothes. Gone were the smart black single-breasted suits with white shirt and tie which were the uniform of the British be-boppers of the early 60s.

In were the wide collars, the kaftans and the decorative “kipper” saxophone slings which Liz hand-made for him.

Liz later gave me a lot of his record collection – Blue Note albums by Joe Henderson etc – but of course she kept the records of Tubby himself playing and only some years later made everything available to Simon Spillet who has curated Tubby’s memory in every possible way.

One thing Tubby himself gave me I will always treasure: his boyhood copy of a book by his hero Denis Compton which he managed to get Compton to SIGN for him (presumably at the Oval).

+REST IN PEACE, BOTH YOU GENIUSES WHO HAVE ENRICHED OUR LIVES………………….