Dick Haymes

(2013)

Dick Haymes came up today online. Some friends were discussing their favorite singers of the crooner age, Frank Sinatra and all that, but it was Dick Haymes that got the exchange going. How he replaced Sinatra in Tommy Dorsey’s band, and what a superb singer he was, and how those were different times. And they were. People don’t really sing like that anymore. The jazz singers are much more jazz, everyone else has a lot more blues and rock and soul in there, and it’s all much more syncopated than it was back then. Sometimes in those days a band could play so softly, and a crooner croon so mellow, that you could hear the dancers’ shoes slide on the floor. Then the band would belt it out on some hard swinging number. That we can appreciate now, the wailing swing…but it’s the pianissimo passages that are so alien now. Crooning doesn’t stir the kids today. Nor in my day. Blame it on Elvis. Blame it on Basie. Blame it in the thrill of driving a big powerful automobile really fast. Those were different times. The world was at war, hell bent on self-destruction, and people needed to be crooned to. Dick Haymes was one of those who crooned to them, one of the best.

But Dick Haymes always reminds me of a strange little jazz party in Beverly Hills. Right downtown, in fact, with Rodeo Drive a block away and city hall a few doors down. The apartment–yes, a jazz jam in a Beverly Hills apartment building–was packed with people and instruments, lots of food, too much liquor. Med Flory was there with his alto, and Barry Zweig showed up and played. There was a very dapper elderly gentleman there, a retired network executive right down to his grey suit and perfectly shined shoes, and I wound up sitting next to him. He requested the band play a Dick Haymes tune. Med laughed. Dick Haymes? Who? And he blew a frenzied chorus of Ornithology. The man requested Dick Haymes again. Med ignored him, and there were no singers, anyway, and even if there had been none of them could have sung a Dick Haymes song. So as the band argued over the next tune the old man stood up and sang “Laura”. Just a verse or two. His voice was surprisingly deep and full. But the words escaped him and he looked a little bewildered and sat back down. Then he turned to me and began telling me his Dick Haymes stories.  A few minutes later he told me the same stories. Then the same stories again. Alzheimer’s. But I listened each time like I’d never heard them before, because they were good stories–concerts he’d seen in the war days, or after the war, in posh Manhattan clubs, or the times he met him, though sometimes I wasn’t actually sure if he’d met him at all. This went on all night, between blasts of bebop, he’d come up and tell me about Dick Haymes, and each time with a genuine intensity, a youthful ardor that was stirred up after half a century. Dick Haymes is pretty well forgotten now except by swing buffs and music historians. But that day I got a glimpse into the connection he made with his young fans way back in the day. It was vivid, passionate and, like all teenaged fandom, maybe a tad ridiculous. It was unfiltered by mature, adult and slightly cynical wisdom. That’s the thing about Alzheimer’s, it loosens memories from the perspective of time, and that old man was right there at the Palladium again listening to Dick Haymes, seeing him, maybe he was even back there and not in a living room in Beverly Hills, and the orchestra played the arrangements flawlessly and the girls swooned. After a while his son came by to take him home. The old man gave me a firm handshake and looked me right in the eye, though I don’t know if he remembered me, and walked slowly out the door humming “Laura”.

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7 thoughts on “Dick Haymes

      • I have only read 3 of your posts so far, but that is enough for me to decide you are my favorite Jazz writer! You have the soul of a Jazz musician…your prose is Inspired Jazz music! Your aim is dead-on….You achieve your goal every time you write, I have no doubt. One could not play or write at that level even one time, unless that is where they live.
        I am following now, and do not intend to miss any of your Precious Posts! (I hope I don’t seem like I AM gushing, but I am blown away by the level of Truth, Honesty, and writing skill) And, there is no ego in your work, it is pure!

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  1. In 1975, I had just got off the road with singer Jo Carney and the Cal Bezemer Trio. Jo stayed with Dick and his pretty and charming wife, (I think it was ‘Wendy’. They lived in a waterfront apartment, a deck with a motor-boat moored to it, right off the Living Room sliding glass doors.
    I was invited to visit. He and his wife were warm, friendly, and gracious.
    I also, liked his voice and singing very much….warm, real, expressing the essence of the song!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. There’s a lot I’m capable of as a writer, but not this, and I won’t get there. What life-informed ex-punk hipster takes on Dick Haymes with this much grace and humanity? And daubs out such a complete little plein aire of the moment? Just the interpersonal stuff with the elderly Haymes fan is a bag of gold, but the setting, the vibe, (the apartment!), the presence of Haymes himself in the middle of the vortex. This little nugget shines like mad. Just unbelievable. I don’t know where else stuff like this can be found. Nicely done is an idiot version of what I want to say.

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