Fortunately, I was never blessed with any musical talent. At junior school I was classed as a “non-singer,” which thankfully meant I avoided having to regale parents with “The Skye Boat Song” and “Mairi’s Wedding” at end of term concerts. When it came to learning the recorder, I never progressed further than making weird whistling noises reminiscent of The Clangers. Undeterred, my parents, for some inexplicable reason, continued with their misguided belief I was a budding John Denver and bought me a guitar. I’ll admit I managed a chord or two, just enough to pen such songs as “I Don’t Wanna Go To School,” “I Don’t Wanna Go To Bed” and “I Don’t Wanna Stop Watching Cartoons,” all of which I blame on The Ramones. But I knew this idyll could not last, which I discovered soon enough when forced to tune my guitar. I was tone deaf and could not differentiate E from B or A from G# Minor. My musical career was over, any dreams of pop stardom were cast out along with my 28-inch flares. Deep down, I was grateful, now I could spend my time reading books and listening to people who really had musical talent.
Like Slim Gaillard who was thankfully blessed with an inordinate amount of musical talent, sophistication and charm. Gaillard was an American jazz singer, songwriter, guitarist, pianist, and vibraphonist, a tall handsome man, with these beautiful elongated fingers with which he played the piano—palms up.
Slim plays “Cement Mixer (Putti Putti)”
Slim wrote and performed such unforgettable songs as “Flat Foot Floogie (with a Floy Floy),” “Dunkin’ Bagels,” “Cement Mixer (Putti Putti),” “Opera In Vout (Groove Juice Special),” “Yep-Roc-Heresay” and “Matzo Balls.” The titles were exotic, comedic and inspired an imaginary world of smiling hepcats in flash suits, jiving on crowded smoky dance floors. The summer I started listening to Mr. Gaillard on crackly vinyl was synchronous as I read about him in Jack Kerouac-a-roon-ee, and saw him as part of Slim & Slam in the film Hellzapoppin’—only knowing of his appearance after the fact through Leonard Maltin’s Movie Guide.
Slim created his very own “slanguage” called “Vout” that spiced his songs and flavored Kerouac’s writing. For those who wanted to get hip-o-roon-ee, there was even a “Vout-O-Reenee Dictionary” published in the 1950s for all hepcats to learn.
It wasn’t just the language it was his infectious humor that made it impossible not smile when listening to one of Slim’s songs. When I first heard “Dunkin’ Bagels” I thought I’d located the comedy spark that fired Spike Milligan’s and the Bonzo Dog Band’s imaginations.
‘Dunkin’ Bagels’ splash in the coffee…’
Eventually, I saw Slim Gaillard in concert in Edinburgh, 1982, where he looked like a graar-sa Father Christmas with his white beard and hair. He had moved to London and was suddenly appearing on TV or making cameos in movies like Absolute Beginners. In 1989, Anthony Wall made a documentary (at very “great expense”) for BBC’s Arena called “Slim Gaillard’s Civilisation.” The filmmakers traveled the globe to tell Mr. Gaillard’s story, and the result was a beautifully crafted and freewheeling adventure.
Bonus: the legendary George Melly made a jukebox documentary on his favorite singers and performers, and near the top, next to Melly’s idol Bessie Smith was Slim Gaillard.