Herbie Hancock

by Herbie Hancock

  In late 1962 I got my first gig working with a Latin group. The leader was a Cuban conga player named Mongo Santamaria, and his piano player—who I found out many years later was actually Chick Corea—had just left the band. Mongo needed a pianist for the weekend, so I agreed to fill in. I had never played Latin music before, but Mongo told me he’d just teach me some simple montunos, or Latin patterns, and that I’d get through it just fine.

  We were playing at a supper club in the Bronx, not far from the apartment where Donald and I were living, and on the third night Donald came by to see how it was going. He was like a big brother to me by now, always checking in on me and making sure I was doing all right. That night the atmosphere in the supper club was pretty dead. People were sitting at their tables, talking and drinking, but the dance floor was empty. We made it through the first set, and Donald strolled over to the bandstand to say hello.

  During the intermission Donald and Mongo struck up a conversation. Donald was a real student of music, and he loved to talk about music history and theory with anyone who was interested. He and Mongo got into this deep conversation about Afro-Cuban music and African American jazz. Mongo told Donald he’d been searching for a link between the two, but he’d never quite found what he was looking for, though he was sure it was out there, that link from the African diaspora.

  I was only half listening, because this felt like a pretty heavy conversation to be having during the intermission of a supper club show. Then Donald said, “Hey, Herbie—play ‘Watermelon Man’ for Mongo.” I wasn’t sure how my funky little jazz tune was relevant to the conversation they were having, but I sat down at the piano and started to play.

  Mongo started nodding his head and then said, “Keep playing!” He went up to his congas and joined in with a Latin beat, something he called guajira—and it fit perfectly. The bass player stole a look at my left hand to see what I was playing, and he picked up the bass line, and pretty soon the whole band joined in, jamming to this new Latin-flavored version of “Watermelon Man.”

  Meanwhile, the people who’d been sitting in their chairs all night started getting up, two by two, and heading for the dance floor. Within minutes the whole place was jumping, people dancing and shrieking with joy. Mongo had a huge smile on his face, and all of us in the band were looking at each other like What just happened here? We all started laughing, because this song was so much fun to play. When we finished the tune, people were saying, “It’s a hit! It’s a hit!” and slapping me on the back. Mongo said, “Can I record it?”

  “Please do!” I told him. I couldn’t even believe what had just taken place. I had never imagined putting a Latin beat on “Watermelon Man,” but it brought the whole song to life in a new way.

  Mongo Santamaria released his version of “Watermelon Man” in early 1963, and it became a huge hit, eventually reaching number 10 in Cash Box and number 11 on the Billboard chart. I could walk down the street and hear it blasting out of people’s windows, hear it coming out of people’s cars as they drove by. I was twenty-two years old, almost twenty-three, and I had a big hit record! And, thanks to Donald’s advice about publishing, I would actually make some money from it.

  After the success of Mongo’s version of “Watermelon Man,” I hired the entertainment lawyer Paul Marshall, who told me I needed to register with BMI as a publisher, not just a writer, so they could track down any royalties I should be getting. I’d registered as a writer when I first came to New York, but what I didn’t know was that if you register as a publisher or writer with BMI when you have some degree of success, you can get an advance on future sales. So when Marshall called BMI on my behalf, he told them he wanted a $3,000 advance for me. And just like that, a courier delivered the check to me within an hour or so.

  In the entire previous year, I had made only about $4,000. When I pulled that BMI payment out of the envelope, it was the biggest check I’d ever seen, let alone held in my hand. What in the world would I do with all this money? I gave it some thought, then made a decision.

  I would buy a station wagon.

  “A station wagon?” Donald said, puckering. “Man, are you serious?”

  I’d just told Donald my plan. With the success of “Watermelon Man,” I’d started thinking that I might have to get a band together, to get out there and promote the song. If I had my own band, I’d need a car to take gear to and from gigs. The most efficient and sensible vehicle for doing that was a station wagon.

  Donald put his hand on my shoulder and peered into my face. “Herbie, have you ever thought about getting a sports car?”

  “No,” I said. And that was the truth—it had never occurred to me to spend money on a sports car, maybe in part because I’d never had anywhere near enough money to buy one. But Donald knew what it was like to tool around New York in a beautiful, expensive automobile—even if the one he was driving actually belonged to his girlfriend.

  “Listen,” he told me, “there’s this new car called an AC Cobra. It’s the street version of a racecar that’s been beating Ferraris.” He told me all about the Cobra, how it was made by Ford and was the hottest new thing that car enthusiasts were talking about. There was a showroom on Broadway where I could test-drive one. “Go have a look,” he told me, “and see if you still want a station wagon after that.” I agreed to check it out, even though a little super-fast sports car really didn’t make sense for my needs.

  I went down to Charles Kreisler Automotive and walked into the showroom. A few salespeople were sitting behind a big desk, but none of them even bothered to look up when I came in. One guy in particular seemed determined not to notice I was there, so I finally leaned over and said, “Excuse me. I understand you have a Cobra here.” He still didn’t look at me but just jabbed a finger in the direction of the car.

  I knew what he was thinking: This poor black dude, he’s in here poking around, but there’s no way he can buy anything. In fairness, I had just turned twenty-three, and I’d walked in wearing jeans and a shirt, with no jacket. I probably didn’t look like someone who could afford a slick, expensive convertible, but that was no reason for him to treat me contemptuously. As I walked over to look at the car I felt my blood heating up.

  Having never bought a car before, I had no idea what I was supposed to be looking for. So I just walked around the car, kicked a tire, and bent over to inspect the headlights. But instead of cooling down, I just kept getting angrier. I strode back over to the salesman’s desk and said, “I’m interested in the Cobra.”

  Finally, the man looked up. “Do you know how much that car costs?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I snapped. “It’s six thousand dollars, and I’m buying it. I’ll bring you the cash tomorrow.” I was so furious, I didn’t care what I was buying anymore—I just wanted to show that guy.

  The next day Donald drove me to the dealership in his girlfriend’s Jaguar, and I walked in wearing a nice sport coat and carrying $3,000 for my initial payment. Everybody at the dealership treated me completely differently now, of course, and as I was signing the paperwork I happened to see the great saxophonist Jimmy Heath walking along Broadway with a couple other musicians I knew. They all broke out into big smiles when they saw what was happening, and they came over to check out my new car. Jimmy actually got the first ride in it—one of the mechanics took him for a spin around the block while I finished signing the paperwork, a big smile on my face.

  It was just as well that the mechanic took Jimmy for that ride, though, because the truth was, I was scared to death to drive the Cobra. Earlier that day, when the salesman had taken me for a ride around the block, I couldn’t believe how fast the car went. And the clutch was really stiff because of engine torque, so I didn’t trust myself to drive it. When I finished signing the paperwork, Donald flipped me the keys to the Jaguar, and I gave him the keys to the Cobra so he could drive it back to the Bronx for me.

  I had rented a space in a ga
rage in the Bronx, and for the next two weeks I’d come see my Cobra every day, sit in it, and pretend I was driving. I’d practice pushing the clutch in, bracing myself against the seat, and eventually I felt brave enough to take it out.

  The irony is that, as worried as I was about scratching or denting that car, Donald wound up wrecking it about six weeks after I bought it. The accident wasn’t his fault, and I was glad he wasn’t hurt, but it cost a lot of money to repair it. But like Donald’s other advice to me—to publish my own songs and play “Watermelon Man” for Mongo Santamaria—his suggestion to buy the Cobra turned out to be financially sound. I found out later that I was the first person to buy a Cobra on the East Coast, and my car was just the sixth production model built. Because they’re so rare now, it’s worth many times the $5,825 I paid for it. And I still have that car.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was the spring of 1963 when I first heard that Miles Davis was looking for me.

  Miles had disbanded his most recent quintet, and a rumor was going around that he was forming a new one. By this time Miles was already a legend. He had been making records since the mid-1940s, recording with and leading some of the greatest jazz musicians of all time—Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Thelonious Monk, and the list goes on. In the mid-1950s he formed what is now known as the Great Quintet, which arguably set the bar for post-bebop jazz, with John Coltrane, pianist Red Garland, bassist Paul Chambers, and drummer Philly Joe Jones; and in 1959 he released one of the greatest jazz albums of all time, Kind of Blue. His musical artistry and razor-sharp cool had made him legendary even beyond the jazz world.

  I had met Miles once, about a year earlier. Because Donald saw me as his protégé, he wanted Miles to know who I was, so he arranged for us to meet one afternoon at his house. As we walked up to the front door all I could think was Shit! I’m about to meet Miles Davis! He was unquestionably my favorite musician—I had all his records and was always amazed at the daring and innovation he brought to his solos. Miles represented everything I wanted to be in jazz, though at age twenty-two I couldn’t imagine achieving it.

  Meeting Miles was a thrill for me, but he was interested in more than just social niceties. About five minutes into our visit, he looked at me and said, “Play something.” So I sat down at the little spinet piano in his living room and played the safest song I could think of, a ballad called “Stella by Starlight.” I was definitely nervous, but it must have sounded all right, because when I finished, Miles said, “Nice touch.” I was so happy, I thought I might burst. Donald and I were there for about a half hour, but the only thing I remember about that visit were those two words: “Nice touch.”

  Despite that compliment, when the rumors started going around the next year that he was looking for me, I still found it hard to believe. Everybody wanted to play with Miles, so it seemed unimaginable that of all the jazz pianists in the world, I was the one he wanted. I didn’t put any stock in the rumors, but they kept on buzzing.

  Donald must have believed them, because one afternoon in early May, as we were sitting in the apartment, he said, “Okay, Herbie. When Miles calls, you’ve got to tell him you’re not working with anybody.”

  “Come on, Donald,” I said. “I don’t know if he’s going to call, but even if he does, how could I do that to you?” Donald had brought me to New York, and I’d been in his band ever since. He was like a brother to me, and I told him so. “You’ve helped me so much, with the record contract and the publishing deal—”

  “Shut up, man!” he snapped. “If I stood in the way of you getting this job, I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror.” Donald loved to joke around, but he wasn’t joking now. “When Miles asks, you do what I told you.”

  The next afternoon, the phone rang in our apartment. I picked it up and heard the raspy, unmistakable voice of Miles Davis. “Hello, Herbie,” he said. “You workin’ with anybody right now?” Miles wasn’t one to waste words.

  “No, not right now,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “Come to my house tomorrow at one thirty.”

  I started to say, “Okay, Miles,” but—click!—he’d already hung up the phone. He didn’t give me the address! In my excitement and nervousness, it didn’t occur to me to ask Donald—all I could think was that Miles Davis had invited me to come play, and I didn’t remember where he lived. When the phone rang again, I snatched it off the hook, hoping it was Miles, but it was Tony Williams on the line.

  Tony had just turned seventeen, but even at that young age he was the hottest jazz drummer around. I had met him in late 1962, when he was living in Boston and I was gigging there with Eric Dolphy, but I didn’t get to hear him play at that time. Then, when he moved from Boston to New York in early 1963, he called me to let me know he lived in the city now. Well, what was I supposed to do with a teenage drummer? Hang out? I didn’t know what to do with him, so I just kind of put him off. About a week later I got a call from the saxophonist and bandleader Jackie McLean. Jackie was putting together a group for a gig in Brooklyn, at the Blue Coronet, and he asked me to play. “Who’s on the gig?” I asked. And he said, “Eddie Kahn on bass, Woody Shaw on trumpet, and Tony Williams on drums.”

  “Look, Jackie,” I asked, “can Tony really play? Or does he just sound good for a seventeen-year-old kid?”

  “I’ll tell you what, Herbie,” Jackie answered. “Just make the gig, and find out for yourself.”

  So I did. We didn’t have any kind of rehearsal, but we were doing standards, stuff we all knew. When Jackie counted off the first tune, I played the opening chord—and then Tony started playing some amazing rhythm I’d never heard before. I took my hands off the piano and turned around to look at him, my mouth just hanging open. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing from this little scrawny kid! I had no idea how he was conceiving such rhythms, and it took me a couple of choruses before I could actually collect myself and play anything.

  Tony had absolutely mind-blowing talent. He could play drums like no one else I’d ever seen, and even at that young age he had complete confidence in his abilities. Some musicians seem as if they were born playing their instrument, and Tony was one of those guys. He was magical to watch and listen to, because energy and creativity just flowed out of him. Just a week earlier I had put him off, but the day after the gig I called him and said, “Hey, man, what’s happening? You doing anything? Can I come over?” And that’s how I became friends with Tony Williams.

  So when I picked up the phone that day and Tony told me that Miles had invited him to come to play, too, I was really excited. I was also relieved that Tony actually had Miles’s address, so I’d know where I was going.

  The next afternoon I made my way to Miles’s place, on West Seventy-Seventh Street. He answered the door and then led me down a flight of steps to his basement recreation room, where I found Tony, bass player Ron Carter, and saxophonist George Coleman. We all chatted for a little bit until Miles called a tune, counted it off, and we started playing, just kind of feeling each other out. Miles played a few bars, and then he threw his horn down on the couch and disappeared up the staircase. Ron took over calling tunes from there.

  Ron, who was a couple of years older than I was, had been on the scene for a while, and he’d played with Eric Dolphy, too. Like me, he’d started out in classical music, studying cello as a boy in Michigan before switching to jazz and the double bass. I had met Ron but didn’t know him well. And I didn’t really know George Coleman, either, but we started to get to know each other the way jazz musicians do everywhere: by sitting down and running through some tunes together.

  We played that whole afternoon and into the evening, and every so often Miles would come downstairs, pick up his horn and play a few notes, and then he’d throw it down on the couch again and run back up. I didn’t know it until many years later, but Miles actually had an intercom system in his house, so he was up on the third floor, listening to everything
we did. He knew that a bunch of young players like us might feel intimidated by his presence, and he wanted to hear what we could do, so he put Ron in charge, leaving a few pieces on the piano for us to play. Ron played bass with a beautiful tone and impeccable timing, and he was also really organized and responsible, so he kept us focused.

  This went on for three days straight. We kept playing, exploring chord progressions and learning each other’s styles, while Miles popped in and out as the spirit moved him. Finally, on the third day, Miles came down and played a couple of songs with us all the way through. Then he said, “Okay, that’s it. Come to the 30th Street Studio on Tuesday.” And he started up the stairs again.

  “Miles,” I said, confused, “am I in the band?”

  Miles turned to look at me, a hint of a smile on his face. “You makin’ a record, muthafucka!” he said. And then he was gone.

  That Tuesday, May 14, I went down to the CBS 30th Street Studio with the rest of the guys. We still had never really played the tunes for the record together, but Miles wasn’t interested in rehearsing. He just wanted us to play, with the tape recorders rolling, to capture whatever was going to happen. I later found out that this was the way Miles always recorded: He wanted to capture the first, most honest version of a song, even if there were mistakes in it. Miles believed that if you rehearse a song too much, you stifle the creative moment. Music was about spontaneity and discovery, and that’s what he tried to capture on his records. The first time the horns made it through the entire melody, that was the take that would be on the record.

  Miles didn’t waste words, and he didn’t waste time. In 1956, with his first quintet, he recorded four full records in one day—Cookin’, Relaxin’, Workin’, and Steamin’—with just a few tracks added from an earlier session. He just went into the studio and played. When you record like that, it’s scary at first, but then it sharpens you up. You’re forced to go in with confidence, because you know you just have to do it.