Rest in Power to Felix E. James Jr.

Would You Look at That! It’s Thursday Again

Tomorrow morning I’ll say goodbye to my dear teacher and mentor Felix E. James Jr. Felix James taught me at Walker-West and I wouldn’t understand jazz to the extent that I do without him. I wouldn’t understand music to the extent that I do without him. I wouldn’t understand collaborating with care to the extent that I do without him. I can’t believe how patient he was. I can’t believe how passionate he was. It didn’t feel like he was clocking in to teach jazz.

It felt like he was just born to teach jazz. I remember one day playing the maybe-Miles-Davis tune “Four”. There’s some thought that Eddie Cleanhead Vinson actually wrote it. We just played it for conservatively thirty minutes straight. Going through solos, trying double time, walking half notes. There was so much time to try everything. There was Saturdays at 2pm at the old old Walker-West which was in a two story building on Selby that is still there. Some weeks we did so much. Some weeks I thought we did so little, but actually it was the first time we all played bossa, or maybe Kevin played brushes for a long ass time for the first time. Or maybe Kevin played brushes on a bossa for the first time.

Felix would take us on professional gigs that got booked through the school. We played at the St. Paul Hotel to receive August Wilson who was back in town. We messed with an equipment cart in the loading dock and accidentally pulled the top handles off of the cart and slipped them into Felix’s van. When Felix figured it out he was furious. He told us it was just a boneheaded thing to do on a gig. You don’t act like that on a gig. This is serious business. Even if it’s fun.

I don’t know, four months later we are playing at the Mall of America. It’s a Real Book gig with a comparatively small band. Maybe Rob Coleman keys, deVon Gray alto, Martin Devaney tenor, Sean bass, Kevin Hunt drums. We’re in Felix’s white van. I am relentlessly asking about what songs we’ll play. What order we’ll play them. Who will take solos on them. When we will trade 4s? Have you ever traded 8s? Should try it. Felix leans over to Martin: “He asks too many damn questions.” Simply, playfully, but clearly he made his boundaries clear. You don’t act like that on a gig. This is fun. Even if it’s serious business.

If you are a jazz bassist you get to learn to walk twice. And every bassist I know can mainly credit one person with showing them how to walk on a bass. Maybe it’s a piano player. Maybe it’s a bass teacher. Maybe it’s Felix James: stubby alto sax fingers on the low end of the piano simply picking out the notes of a walking bass while showing the elegance, the dance, the tip toe and the hard hit. He looked at me. I didn’t get it yet. I kept on I III V VI b7 VI V III - but bit by bit I got it.

When I got a little better he’d quietly show me how little I actually knew. He’d peel back another layer of chromatics, or 6/8 or some other piece of the puzzle. But the thing was Felix never made it feel like a puzzle. He’d show us how we actually already knew how to do it, we just didn’t the name for it. He never asked us to believe him. He showed us how the new concept worked, how it really was the old concept flipped upside down and still landing.

He’d have the saxophone strap on almost all the time. He didn’t play the sax all that often but oh when he did it reminded you that he wasn’t just a gifted teacher. He’d immediately sound tens of time better than us, smooth, soulful. Like Cannonball, like Sonny Stitt. He’d push us to a different song that would teach us a different thing. He had to meet me where I was at. He had to meet Rob where he was at. DeVon the same. Martin the same. Kevin the same. Tasha the same. Giving us the material. Recommending the OMNIBOOK when it was time. Telling me to work with Laurie Lang. Telling me to try to write something sometime. Looking at it, pushing his fingers around the changes. Asking a question. Pointing out when I wrote it wrong. When it wasn’t a full measure, when it was way more than a full measure. He never asked us to believe him. He let us count it ourselves.

We’d walk in some Saturdays and he’d simply announce that we have a gig. Maybe somebody couldn’t do it, but enough people always could. Just immediately load up the van. The older kids some of them had cars. Yup, we’re going to the Hubert Humphrey School at the U to do something. He gave hundreds of people these experiences. Before Rob, Martin, DeVon, Kevin, Tasha there was other groups, other rhythm sections, in fact sometime they’d come back and say hello. And as college comes, or people move on to different things they might still stop by sometime. Sometime we’d play a “gig” just outside in the courtyard to maybe nobody, maybe a couple people from the neighborhood come. Just playing songs. A guy swinging by to play a little keyboard cause they knew him from church.

It was how we all learned. We’d play in downtown St. Paul for the fundraiser. Polishing off our best openings. All Blues in 4/4. I’m overplaying, there’s a tenth on every note, there’s fills that make no sense. Kevin’s snare is tuned so high with a FIBERSKIN stretched across the piccolo frame. It’s the pinnacle of funk that we knew at that time.

Sure, a lot of the same players would play at Central. But we didn’t sound like we did when it was Felix picking the tunes, calling the solos, setting up the mic if we needed it. Felix, you pushed the tradition along. You gave it to people. You taught it the right way. You raised us the right way. You helped us grow. You guided us. This is fun. Even if it’s serious business.