The Special Magic of Jimmy Rowles

"The aeloian landscape of his inner world"

I recently acquired this 1974 LP by the pianist Jimmy Rowles from my favorite $5 record source, which, of course, I cannot identify, but the record is not particularly rare and can currently be had on Discogs for a mere $3 plus shipping.

Rowles was one of the great accompanists to Billie Holiday and Sarah Vaughan, and occasionally accompanied himself in a charmingly plain, baritone, close-miked singing style reminiscent of Bob Dorough or Dave Frishberg (artists whom I love dearly). But his piano is the thing—a deft, swingerly, soft-shoe approach that feels lived-in, intimate, and full of casual poetry.

This album is on the independent Halcyon Records label, which was cofounded by British pianist Marian McPartland (the most grossly underrated pianist of her generation, a crime I intend to rectify at a later date and in great detail). The album is made especially magical by how and where it was recorded—in a private apartment in Manhattan: “Live at The Fuersts’ New York Apartment,” according to the cover notes, “April 7th 1974.”

McPartland’s label was cofounded with inventor and business tycoon Sherman Fairchild, who turned his own living room in New York into a recording studio, featuring two Steinway pianos forged together to allow two pianists to duet—which became the origin of McPartland’s Piano Jazz program on NPR. (Who exactly the Fuersts were and where in Manhattan they recorded Rowles is the kind of micro-investigation I live for, so stay tuned.)

Present at the recording was Alec Wilder, the wonderfully eccentric songwriter and friend to the Halcyon label, who is listed as the album’s artistic supervisor. Here then is an intimate and private-sounding session with one of the most intimate and private-sounding pianists to ever play.

Among my favorite tracks is “Mah Cindy Lou,” composed by early-20th-century songwriter Lily Strickland, which Rowles sings like he’s whispering at midnight in a old southern parlor. You can hear the exhalations between lyrics, lending an airy dreaminess to the atmosphere. You won’t find this track anywhere on the internet; all the more reason to get yourself a nice vinyl copy.

It’s worth quoting at length from the liner notes by James T. Maher, who edited Wilder’s book, American Popular Song: The Great Innovators, 1900-1950. Were Maher on Substack, he would be a no-brainer subscription, such is his masterful encapsulation of what we hear on this record.

His music resonates with the pride and bitterness buried in old scars, and one’s rag-tag memories of love in all its unexpected variety. It coaxes one into ambiguities of sentiment. It listens to a remote control dance band broadcast (on a summer night with the top down), and it looks with fear of death into the bottom of an empty shot glass. It is romantic, almost tactile; but, it is transparent, mocking French rather than German, say, in the way it allows light and laughter to filter through. It is droll in the peculiar way that only tenderness would dare to be.

Any good musician listens carefully to what he is playing. But, Rowles goes deeper than that. He sits at the piano bemused, searching the private music behind every note he plays—the sounds that crowd the aeolian landscape of his inner world. And it is his mercurial gift to be able to evoke in the listener a music, equally private, equally vulnerable, that vibrates with the same reflexes and memories that shape each phrase he plays (much as sympathetic strings resonate with the music they reinforce).

The connection he makes with his listeners is deeply personal. They take away from an evening of his music more of themselves than they brought. And that, of course, is the paradox that leads men to turn to art for survival.

What more is there to say?

Only this: Jimmy Rowles also drew the self-portrait on the cover, which captures the deceptively easy style of the music and the man.

Here’s a sample from the record to bring it all home.