CHARLES M. YOUNG
At the door of his mansion in the gated community of Barkley
Estates, across the Mississippi River from New Orleans, Fats Domino is dressed
in black slacks, black patent-leather shoes, a purple dress shirt, a captain's
hat and a gold chain that dangles a small gold airplane. At 79, with little
hunch in his 5-foot-5 frame, he could more accurately be nicknamed Slightly
Plumps Domino.
Inside, he points out his dining-room wall, on which he has
hung two gold records — "Blue Monday" and "Rosemary" —
that he managed to rescue from his old house in the Ninth Ward. His other
twenty gold records got looted or washed away during Hurricane Katrina two
years ago. He lives with Rosemary, his wife of sixty years, and two of his
eight adult children, who help take care of Mom and Dad. The kitchen is
spotless, like a catalog tor high-end plumbing fixtures. His bedroom, across
from the dining room on the ground floor, smells overwhelmingly and
intoxicatingly of beans. He is cooking red beans in a big pot on a two-burner
grill in his bathroom, which is next to his bedroom. In the middle of the
bathroom floor stands a treadmill with bath towels and dish towels hanging
from the rails. The counter around the sink is covered with toiletries, kitchen
utensils and onions.
On the ride to lunch at the Napoleon House in the French
Quarter, Fats sits in the back seat and makes up a song. "I've got a good
relation with the Tipitina's Foundation," he sings. "That's what I'm
telling you, and you should too." This is a reference to the two other
guys in the car, Roland von Kurnatowski, who started the foundation and owns
the Tipitina's nightclub, and Bill Taylor, who is the executive director. The
foundation is on a mission to preserve New Orleans culture and has recently
released a rousing two-CD album called Goin' Home: A Tribute to Fats
Domino, which features everyone from Robert Plant to Norah Jones doing
Fats Domino songs, with the profits going to buy instruments for
schoolchildren and aid local musicians. "I've got a good relation with the
Heineken Foundation," Fats sings, sucking on his beer. "That's what
I'm telling you, and you should too."
At the restaurant, Fats gets another beer and, according to
his habit, doesn't eat anything. Also according to his habit, he doesn't say
anything. Eatingtoodhe hasn't cooked and talking to people he doesn't know rank
near the top of his list of least-favorite activities. Most stressful of all is
probably talking to strange people with notebooks. So I keep mine in my pocket
until just before the end of the meal, when I figure I've got nothing to lose,
and ask him the secret of writing great songs.
"Bein' lucky," he says.
Where had he picked up the triplets that are such a hallmark
of his piano style? "I don't know," he says. "I think it might
have been Amos Milburn."
Someone asks what a triplet is.
"Duh-duh-duh, duh-duh-duh," he says.
I ask if he has any theories why his concerts sometimes
sparked riots in the 1950s.
"I don't know," he says. "It wasn't anything
in the music, so it must have been something in the audience."
After lunch, we take a ride to his previous home in the
Lower Ninth Ward, where Fats lived for his entire life and had to leave in a
boat after Katrina. The interior of the house is completely gutted and smells
of baked mildew in the 1oo-degreeheat. Next door stands "Fats Domino
Publishing," which served as his clubhouse. Beyond the compound fence
stretches a vast tangle of" weeds. The only evidence that it used to be
the Lower Ninth Ward, a community of poor and working-class blacks, is a
handful of homesteaders and dozens of fire hydrants that poke out of the
undergrowth. And he plans to move back here? "At my age," he says,
"you can't count on nothin'."
Shy and quiet from earliest childhood, Antoine Domino was
ten when he got his first piano, and he has been inseparable from the keyboard
ever since. Delivering ice to homes and business establishments of varying
repute, washing cars, listening to jukeboxes and the marching jazz bands of
New Orleans'unique culture, he learned from and was soon jamming with some of
the most innovative musicians in American history. When he was twenty-one, in
1949, he recorded a song called "The Fat Man," which he and his
producer/writing partner, Dave Bartholomew, reworked from a tune called
"Junker's Blues" on the theory that singing about being fat was more
commercial than singing about being a junkie. Antoine changed his name to
"Fats," and the song became a huge hit. It was also, strangely, not
jazz. With its rollicking beat and thunderously repetitive pop sensibility, it
was something else. It was, in hindsight, rock & roll, or at least one of
the first and biggest steps toward it.
Fats went on to sell an estimated 110 million records,
second only to Elvis in sales among rock's pioneers, and second to none in
talent. With a string of astoundingly catchy and danceable hits like
"Ain't That a Shame," "I'm in Love Again," "Blueberry
Hill" and "Whole Lotta Loving," Fats influenced Little Richard
(who was a speeded-up and straightened-out Fats), Phil Spector, the Beatles,
early reggae artists like Bob Marley and Toots Hibbert, Led Zeppelin, Fleetwood
Mac and every garage band south of the Mason-Dixon Line that was pretty much
obligated to play Fats Domino songs at every senior prom for decades to come.
"When Fats was having all those hits in a row, he kept
it very simple," says Allen Toussaint, also one of the great New Orleans
pianists. "He would start a pattern right from the beginning and it would
last throughout the song, so if you liked the first two bars, you would like
everything. He never fixed what wasn't broken. Another thing he discovered was
moving his triplets below middle C. Before Fats, people played triplets in the
upper register, and it was a timid kind of sound. When Fats played triplets in
the lower register, there was nothing timid about it. No way."
Least legendary in rock's first generation, Fats didn't do
much to mythologize other than write and play immortal songs. Onstage he was a
radiant bowling ball of love, beatific and a bit anomalous with the relentless
backbeat and raucous saxophones. Offstage he gambled a bit, had a thing for
fancy cars and jewelry, and was known to cook beans in his hotel room, annoying
the other guests with the smell. He was also prone to homesickness and blowing
off gigs so he could go back to New Orleans. Completely apolitical, he was
nonetheless a major force for civil rights because of his irresistible hooks,
which attracted black and white teenagers to the same dance floors during
segregation.
During the dangerous and divisive Sixties, the safe and
inclusive Fats had fewer and smaller hits until they petered out entirely. He's
never failed to sell tickets, however, and remained a top attraction in
nightclubs and on the nostalgia circuit throughout the Seventies and Eighties.
Having no desire to be anywhere but New Orleans, he gave up touring in the Nineties,
doing mostly local appearances. He remains the patriarch of all celebrities in
his hometown and cannot walk around the French Quarter without being mobbed.
"Fats played a concert for us on New Year's Eve
1999," says Kurnatowski, who is a real estate developer when he's not
preserving New Orleans culture. "It was a sit-down dinner for a thousand
people, and they all crushed up against the stage when Fats came out. They all
wanted to touch Fats Domino. At one point, Fats accidentally knocked over the
microphone stand. He kept playing, sang a little louder and calmly reached down
to pick it up. He didn't miss a beat, just a few words, and the crowd went
nuts. The next morning, he called me up at eight o'clock and wanted to refund
some of his fee, because he'd knocked over the microphone stand. I said, 'Are
you kidding? We should pay you extra money for that. It was a real
crowd-pleaser.' Fats said, 'Well, OK, but I want you to know I don't work like
that. When I play, I want it to be right.'"
Leaving his hot plate back home in the bathroom, Fats comes
to perform in New York for the first time in more than twenty years. After
staying up all night practicing on an electronic keyboard in his hotel room, he
orders breakfast and goes into total-meltdown mode when he discovers that the
cook removed the fat from his steak. At soundcheck, he is still so bummed about
the steak that he plays two listless verses of "Blueberry Hill" and
wanders off. At the show (a benefit for the Tipitina's Foundation), he accepts
the key to the city from Mayor Bloomberg. Then he plays the same two listless
verses, wanders off again and has to be coaxed back onstage for a ripping
rendition of "Lawdy Miss Clawdy" with Lloyd Price, who recorded the
song with Fats on piano in 1952. Fats waves, Fats signs a few autographs, Fats
goes back to his hotel.
"It's hard for me to get him to eat like he should
eat," says Walter Miles, 75, backstage. Miles has been Fats' favorite cab
driver, runner of errands and traveling companion since Katrina.
"Yesterday, he ate a few shrimp outta his salad. This morning, he didn't
eat but half his steak. He said, 'They cut the best part off. The fat is where
the flavor is.' He always want as much tat as he can get. And he only want his
own food. Except for Subway sandwiches. He like a good Subway sandwich."
Why does he cook in his bathroom? "
'Cause he don't wanna leave a big mess for his wife and
daughter in the kitchen."
What's his technique for beans?
"He gotta have fresh beans. And it's hard to find fresh
dried beans. It's funny. He always cook too much. He always cook beans for an
army, even if he the only one gonna eat it. He used to feed all his friends
back in the old neighborhood. Now he don't know his neighbors. I say, 'You
ain't livin' in the Ninth Ward no more. The army's gone.' But he still want to
cook for em, wherever they at."
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De ROLLING STONE, 13/12/2007
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