In Memoriam

I haven't often been asked to attend a funeral, and the last one was, fortunately, some six or so years ago: a colleague's wife, who had died of breast cancer after trying everything--the broccoli, surgery, etc. She was only in her forties. Before that, I attended the funeral of a colleague, not that old, who died of generally miserable health--he weighed in the vicinity of 400 pounds, and the last time I saw him before his death, he could barely walk up the slight incline in the campus auditorium without wheezing loudly.

The funeral I attended last Saturday was for a drummer, Steve Sykes, who died at 51 of colon cancer. The news of his death was sudden, though he had been ill for some time. I had only heard about the illness a month or so previous. I hadn't seen him for over a year, but I thought of him fondly, and I loved being in a group with him.

Others stood up at the funeral and offered comments about their experiences with Steve, which were all positive, though he had a reputation in some circles as curmudgeonly.

If I hadn't been too shy to say my piece at the time, here's what I would have talked about.

I first met Steve when he subbed on a gig for another drummer. I was playing vibes. Within four bars of the first tune, I knew we were going to have some exciting times that night. Steve was a really fine, swinging, drummer. When I wasn't playing, I watched him (I'm also a drummer) and began to understand things about playing drums I had never understood before. Steve played easily, naturally, musically. When it came time to do some recording, I wanted him on the gig, and he was great. I suggested doing "Well You Needn't" (Monk) as a funk tune, and Steve was into it instantly--he laid down a cooler funk than I had imagined, and we all fell into the groove. That version is on the cd "Live at the Balzac."

Another time, I got a combo gig near Cal Tech in Pasadena, playing for someone's garden party. I kicked off "Just Friends" at a medium tempo--warm-up tune, you know--and Steve pushed the tempo up to something really swinging. I didn't mind, though I was grimacing inwardly--I was used to playing it down. But Steve swung, and made us swing. I had this inner sense of excitement when he was at the drums, like being in a new reality.

We did a gig with the pianist Dave Mackay. I paid extra money to get Dave for the gig and had Steve on drums and Mike Flick on bass. We played a couple of tunes, and Dave Mackay was smiling and swaying, and turned around at one point and said, "Hey, you guys are great! How come I've never heard of you?" Both Steve and Mike were too modest (I guess) to explain that that's often the situation in LA--there are literally thousands of great players who don't get heard on the radio or are buried on CDs that don't get too much play, or who just job around, playing professionally as sidemen. What can you do? A career in music is pretty tough.

One night at the Balzac, the bass player didn't show up. We called him at the hour the gig was supposed to be starting and he had just woken up from a nap and was getting on the freeway an hour away. I told him to stay home. But Steve had his little black book out, and we combed through it for other bass players. He told me never to call that guy again. Steve would show up plenty early for any gig, wheeling his equipment in on a cart--"It goes with the territory," he always told me placidly. I wished I had more gigs so I could hire him more.

I'm really sorry that Steve died. I loved making music with him and hanging out during breaks or before or after the gig. Every other speaker testified to his always being positive about life, and one said Steve would take his own time and come up to talk to his college Jazz History class without any compensation. He just liked doing it.

That's the kind of guy you really miss--he seemed to make life better for people, and he certainly made playing a joy for me.

'Bye, Steve. You were cool. I wish we had had more gigs, and I wish there could be more in the future.