Copenhagen 1965, Bent Rej

Charlie Watts died on August 24th. It was my birthday, and it felt like that was the only way it could be. There are certain people who enter your life from the side door, but before long can seem to be the only person standing in the room. Looking back, what starts as almost an accident comes to be something so important it is obvious that it couldn't have been any other way. It is like fate raised its hand and made sure things worked out exactly like they were supposed to. That is when the world rises far above explanation and enters the realm of the magical. And magic, really, is what makes the whole thing go 'round.

Drumming for the Rolling Stones, Charlie Watts came into my life in 1964 on the night of June 13, when his band performed on ABC-TV's The Hollywood Palace show. The way the drummer played a Bo Diddleyized-assault on his Ludwig drums on "Not Fade Away" and "I Just Want to Make Love to You" felt like perfection. By then I'd been listening to the Stones' first album non-stop for several months. It had everything that rock had come to mean for me: a deeply soulful blues undergroove, slashing guitars, a singer who sounded like he really meant it and, most importantly, drums that conveyed exactly what it felt like to be alive. There was something in the way Charlie Watts played that made it seem as if there were hidden messages being shared. Like the beats, the rolls, the cymbal crashes, the bass drum throb, everything had collided together to open a new door to life. Added all together, it came across like rolling thunder welded to an inescapable feel of the human heart beating. All I knew is I had never heard anything in rock & roll quite like it. For years rhythm & blues drummers had perfected all those things and more, but not rock & roll. This was all brand new, and the quiet-faced drummer from London did it with such striking power and unequaled style it was like lightning had come down to earth and struck me in the head. It woke me up from the self-created daze I'd been living in and said, "The time has now come to start swinging." There was no other choice.

Host Dean Martin had introduced the Rolling Stones on the Hollywood Palace show for their first American television appearance with some lightly-veiled disparaging remarks, joking about the group's long hair and slightly savage lifestyle. The Rat Packer had probably seen the future of music and feared his days of being on top were clearly numbered. And fear, as we all know, is the great killer. So Martin struck out at the Rolling Stones and made a semi-fool of himself. No worries for the Stones, because from the first downbeat they grabbed their new American audience in a stranglehold and would not let go for the next six minutes. It was a majestic introduction for the country who had supplied the very soul of the Rolling Stones' music, and one I've never forgotten. In so many ways, it was like the band had taken America's rock & roll and rhythm & blues greatness and run it through a velocity enhancer to give it back to the very place which had created it. The Stones were playing songs by Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, Irma Thomas, Chuck Berry and so many other greats from the United States, and they put it on a platter for the American teenagers in a way that had never been done. A great switcheroo if you can pull it off. To say that they succeeded is the understatement of the century. By 1965 and their stratospheric smash single "Satisfaction," there has never been a doubt about exactly who the world's greatest rock & roll band is.

In November 1965 it was time to go see the Rolling Stones live, and find out if they could deliver in person. Living in Houston, the closest the band was going to get was Dallas, which for a 15-year-old teenager was no problem: a six-hour Greyhound bus ride was a snap. So on November 22, 1965 my brother and I left his car in downtown by the bus station and headed for a musical reckoning in Dallas. Of course, it was quickly clear this would be the second anniversary of President John F. Kennedy's assassination in the city, so the vibrations got a little jangly, but there was no way around it. It was that night or else. By the time we got to the Memorial Auditorium there the electrical charges in the air were almost visible, and it felt like history was coming alive all around us. After opening sets by the Rockin' Ramrods, the Vibrations and Patti & the Blue Belles, the big room looked like it was ready to explode. And when the Rolling Stones came out and tore into "Route 66," it appeared musical mayhem had torn the Auditorium off its foundation and the whole audience was taking off for another time zone. For the next 60 minutes, time didn't exist and a brand new physical plane had taken over. The Rolling Stones established an alternative reality for every single soul there, and showed exactly how rock & roll was erasing all that had come before and was now offering a golden road to a new way of living. It wasn't all the way there yet, but the Big Change was coming. The tingles were impossible to avoid And there was nothing the adults could do about it except sit frozen-eyed on their living room furniture and stare at their new color TVs as the parents' ultimate nightmare of the youth revolution came true. The Rolling Stones were on a city-by-city crusade signing up new recruits. Soon enough, West Coast rock outfits would take the baton from the British bands and the deal had been sealed. Jimi Hendrix was right: the world would never hear surf music again.

My 1965 became a personal quest to unlock the secrets Charlie Watts had shown me on the drums, with the Stones' albums and during their live show. For my 15th birthday, I was given a set of Ludwig drums, exactly the same color as Watts. He once said that when he needed a new kit after he first joined the Rolling Stones, he knew he wanted it to be an American brand. So he went to the biggest music store in London, and asked what they carried. Which was only Ludwigs for American drums. And the only two colors they had in stock were Black Oyster and Sky Blue. Watts said he had noticed that Ringo Starr was already using Black Oytster, so he got the Sky Blue. These things were important to drummers, which is why I ended up with the Sky Blue set in '65. Immediately, I felt like I'd received a key to a new kingdom. One of the beauties of drumming is that almost anyone can do it naturally, with no musical knowledge or training. Of course, to be good at it takes incredible dedication and practice, but hand almost anyone a pair of sticks and they will know what to do with them. I started playing along to Rolling Stones albums from the start, along with Jimmy Reed records with his jaw-dropping drummer Earl Phillips, and Little Richard singles featuring the mighty Earl Palmer on the kit. For me, that was everything I needed to hear to get started. I had locked into Charlie Watts as my North Star, and knew it would be for a lifetime.

I'd seen the band again in Houston in 1966, and while their sound had softened from the black music influences of previous recordings, Watts was still making sure the velocity of their attack did not fail. "Under My Thumb" carried such an irresistible groove it was impossible to ignore, and "Connection" became a rollicking ode to freedom. The way the man's snare drum had such a deep-centered sound, it felt like the beats were coming from somewhere in the center of the earth. And the tempo was never rushed; in fact, it was always a milli-second behind the rest of the band, like the drummer knew the key to life was to take your time and get there when it felt right. Hurrying was for squares, and without a doubt Charlie Watts was always the hippest person in the room.

So by the time their 1968 release BEGGAR'S BANQUET appeared, a laser-like focus on the greatness of the songs came back to rule the Rolling Stones' world, and Watts seemed like the person in charge of keeping them ontrack. I found a way for the next twenty years to find them in various cities, whether it was San Antonio, New York, Oakland, Los Angeles or whenever I was within striking distance of where they were playing. It was like a pilgrimage for me to buy tickets and go see Charlie Watts play. He carried something within himself that came out when he drummed, like an abundance of ability backed by an overwhelming extension of grace and strength. It really went beyond drumming. I could sit in the nose-bleed seats in some cities and feel an immediate jolt of inspiration just from the way Watts held his drumsticks. He used the military grip, which meant with his left hand he wrapped his first two fingers over the stick, instead of the matched grip, which with both hands held a stick like a meat cleaver. Jazz drummers always used a military grip, and no doubt that's where Charlie Watts had first learned not only how to play, but also how to look. Usually dressed to the nines, the man carried himself with the cool elan of drummers like Philly Joe Jones, Art Blakey, Elvin Jones and Art Taylor. It was everything to those who worshipped jazz: the look and feel of the drummer.

I never really got close to the band, but once when they were playing Shea Stadium in New York in the late 1980s, my friend photographer Paul Natkin who worked with the Rolling Stones arranged it so I could buy tickets from the group, since they didn't really have complimentary lists for anyone but their closest compadres. The procedure felt slightly like a glorified drug deal. I had to go to a swanky hotel lobby on Central Park South, and sitting on a large sofa in the lobby would be a woman who had a huge briefcase full of tickets for the show, and another briefcase full of cash. You gave her a specified amount--no checks or credit cards--and she handed you the tickets. And then you left. Of course, I kept my eyes out for Watts when I was there, and did see bassist Bill Wyman coming into the lobby through a revolving door, but knew personal etiquette was always the best way to behave and didn't ask him to introduce me to the drummer. I merely smiled and kept on moving. Meeting Charlie Watts would have to live for another day.

Fortunately, that day wasn't too far away. In 1991 Watts had published a reprint of his early illustrated children's book about jazz saxophone kingpin Charlie Parker called ODE TO A HIGHFLYING BIRD. The next year he set out on a short cross-country tour of the United States with a small jazzband to play songs from an album of Charlie Parker-inspired songs he'd released. And the group was coming to Los Angeles to play the Palace in Hollywood, the very room the Rolling Stones had made their American television debut in 1964. It felt like a circle was being completed and I knew I had to be part of it. So I got an assignment from L.A. Style magazine to do a feature about Watts, and set up an interview for the day after the club concert. Just for fun, I asked esteemed drummer Earl Palmer, who by then had left New Orleans decades ago and was the Secretary-Treasurer of the Musician's Union in Los Angeles, to go with me. Palmer loved jazz, and was excited about the night. When the band came on with Watts on the drum kit, Earl looked at me confused and said, "Where's Charlie Watts?" I told him he was the onstage drummer, and Earl replied, "That's not him. Watts is black." I explained that Watts was white, and was indeed onstage. Earl wouldn't hear of it. "No, Watts is the drummer with Brandford Marsalis' band on The Tonight Show, and he's black," Earl said. We'd somehow gotten our wires crossed, and Earl and thought The Tonight Show drummer, Jeff "Tain" Watts, was who we were there to see. I explained how Charlie Watts was in the Rolling Stones and, soon, all was well. Earl Palmer enjoyed the show, commenting that "that drummer can swing." We were both grooving throughout the evening

When the music was over, I saw drummer Jim Keltner walking towards the stage door, and told him hello. He looked at Earl, and Keltner's face lit up and he said, "Come with me." We got in the dressing room and stood around for a few minutes, and when Charlie Watts walked in, he saw Earl and made a beeline for him. He threw his arms around Earl and gave him a big hug, like he was meeting a long-lost father he hadn't seen for years. My mind was blowing apart, and I asked Keltner what was up. "This is Charlie's dream come true," Keltner said. "For years Watts had wanted to meet Earl Palmer, and all during the '70s when the Stones were recording in Los Angeles, I'd take Charlie to studios where Earl was supposed to be playing on a date, and whenever we'd get there it was always the same. 'Oh, Earl just left.' So Charlie had never gotten to meet the drummer he had loved all those years since hearing the early Little Richard and Fats Domino records that Earl had played on. And tonight he finally got to meet him. Charlie's in heaven." I felt so happy it all worked out, almost like a dream.

The next day I was scheduled to interview Charlie Watts for the magazine story I was writing. This was a day I'd been waiting almost 30 years for, and I was twanging heavily. When I got to the Mondrian Hotel to do the interview, though, no one was in the room I'd been told to call. So I was hanging around the lobby like a worried loiterer, wondering what my next move was. It was 1992, and life was still pre-cell phones, so there was no one to call. I could feel my dream day slipping away. That's when I saw a man walking across the lobby who looked like he was dressed like an Englishman: elegant but casual. Not sure why I thought that, but I noticed he was wearing loafers with no socks, which yelled British cool. So I asked him if he was working with Charlie Watts. Turns out he was looking for me so all was well. We went up to Watts' room, and when I gave the drummer one of Earl Palmer's gold-embossed Musicians Union business cards and described Earl's mix-up of drummers at the show the night before, we both had good laughs and got down to the interview. The next hour was a fabulous conversation about jazz, drumming and, yes, a bit of Rolling Stones history. I gave Watts a photo I'd taken of Minton's Playhouse in New York, where bebop had started in the 1940s, and a copy of jazz singer Jimmy Scott's new album ALL THE WAY, with distinguished players like Kenny Barron, Ron Carter, Grady Tate and David "Fathead" Newman on it. And right at the end of the afternoon, I pulled out a photo that one day had appeared on my desk at the L.A. Weekly in 1982. It was an image of a very young Charlie Watts in 1962 when the Rolling Stone made their first recordings. He was behind the kit, and as he studied the old image, Watts got a big smile and said, "We were recording 'You Better Move On' when this was taken." I was astounded. From an old photo how could he tell what song he was playing on? So I asked him. "Easy," Watts said. He pointed to a tambourine on top of his snare drum and said, "That's the only song where I ever put a tambourine there." Puzzle solved, and we both laughed. What an incredible day I thought as I headed for the hotel elevator. It was an electrifying moment when something I had wanted to experience since I was 14 years old but thought would never happen had happened. Life vibrations floated into me like a completion had been made. As if someone had heard about a dream I had wished for when I found a mentor in a person who seemed a million miles away, decided to make it real. Those are the moments when a golden dust settles over a room and there is a slight hum of musical notes which glide through the air. Really. Every doubt about why we are here disappears for awhile, and the totality of existence becomes one. Charlie Watts meant that much to me, and I knew in a flash I didn't need to ever apologize for it. We get to hold special whatever we want, and that really is one of the greatest gifts we can ever give ourselves.

The story I wrote was published in L.A. Style about a month later, and I sent one to Watts' manager in London. A few weeks had passed as I was sitting at my desk at Warner Bros. Records in Burbank and the day's mail came in. On top was a black and white postcard with a photo of guitarist Laurindo Alameida on the front. On the back was a handwritten note saying, "Dear Bill, Thank you for the Minton photos and CD. Very interesting both of them. Also thanks for the kind things you said about me. Thanks again." And then there was a signature that I couldn't begin to read, more like a squiggle with a big loop at the end. I was pretty confused, not sure who'd sent it. Then I noticed at the very bottom of the postcard, written small but in all capitol letters was C.R. Watts. For a moment I remained confused, but then it was like an out of focus picture had come into total clarity. And then I got it. This was a postcard sent by Charlie Watts. After a few moments of astonishment, a rush of joyous delight took over and I realized all was right in the world. The things that happen are part of a large chain which binds everything together, just like it should be, and we do not need to really worry about the clouded atmosphere which lurks at its edges like a warning that will not go away. Our time here is but a flash, and if we can find things that help us stay pointed in the right direction then the journey we are all on will keep us centered. Even if just's a postcard from someone I will always admire and whose own life had given me a reason to believe in myself, then that is all that is really needed. It's the belief we are given that matters. That will last forever if we let it.

On one of the Rolling Stones' early albums was the boogie woogie song "Down the Road Apiece," first recorded in 1940 by the Will Bradley Trio, and later by Amos Milburn, Chuck Berry and others. A lyric on the song jumped out at me in February 1965 when the band's album THE ROLLING STONES NOW was released. Mick Jagger sang, or at least this is what I heard: "The drummer man's a cat called Charlie my boy, you all remember that rubber-legged boy." When I first heard the song, with Charlie Watts swinging on drums and leading the band like he always did, I smiled and thought, "Ain't that the truth." Now I remember that rubber-legged boy every day, thinking of the world of wonder that he opened up for me, and the gift of life and the love of music that he gave to me. And I quickly realize why we are all really here: to share whatever gifts we have with others, whether they realize it or not, and hopefully bring something to their souls that they will someday pass on to those around them. That is it. Thank you Charlie Watts.

Bill Bentley