Biographical information elicited during our conversations:
• William H. Taylor was born in Indiana Township (Allegheny County), PA, on September 19, 1929. His family brought him to New York when he was 18 months old. He grew up in Harlem, and considers himself a New Yorker.
• As a youngster, he had been embarrassed about stuttering, and consequently didn't finish high school.
• He married a woman from Harlem named Sadie (nickname: "Peaches"); they had a son, William H. Taylor, Jr., born when Shooby was 17. He and Sadie were divorced, he didn't say when. They remained friends, but she passed away in the 1980s.
• He entered the military in 1953, and was training in Augusta GA for assignment to Korea when the war ended. He was discharged in 1955.
• He worked for the post office in New York, at several locations, and at several positions, but never as a letter carrier.
• Growing up and on into adulthood, he listened to and admired Ellington, Miles, Ella, Sarah, and countless other jazz icons. (Curiously, I don't think he mentioned any saxophonists.) He heard sounds in his head and felt destined to express them musically. He went to music school, practiced saxophone, and tried to master the instrument, but to little avail. Then, an epiphany: he was foolish to try and convey his musical soul through an instrument, because, he realized, "I am the horn!" He began developing his idiosyncratic scat style -- not to imitate a horn, but because voice was his instrumental "gift." He did admit to playing "air saxophone" when he performed and recorded.
• His idol was jive scatmaster Babs Gonzales, whom Shooby tried to emulate. He met Babs once, and claims to have gotten permission to use the name "Shooby" from Dizzy Gillespie. He asked Diz personally, and Diz approved of the moniker.
• He estimated paying about $30/hr studio time at Angel, and elsewhere. He mentioned a facility on 23rd Street, but couldn't recall the name.
• The fellow who played Farfisa organ on "Stout-Hearted Men" (heard on Songs in the Key of Z, Vol. 1) and a few of his other recordings was a session jazz keyboardist, Freddie Drew, of the Bronx, who has since passed away.
• Shooby'd been a boozer. BIG drinker, he stressed. Cleaned up through AA, and Jesus.
• I asked him how he'd been "with the ladies." Admitted he'd been a "fornicator" and a "whoremonger," but no longer. Since he didn't say when his marriage ended, we don't know if his carousing coincided with his marriage, led to his divorce, or happened after his divorce.
• He tried to perform at the Apollo, but was booed offstage. He attended countless jam sessions at NYC clubs, but was rarely given the chance to wail. He was not taken seriously, was scorned, and made to feel unwelcome. But he would not quit. He financed his recordings to prove his artistry. In addition to vocalizing over the Ink Spots, the Harmonicats, and country gospel singer Christy Lane, he dubbed his "Shoobology" over Johnny Cash, Miles Davis, Dexter Gordon, Shirley Caesar, Errol Garner, and Elvis -- among others. Mozart, for God's sake! Shooby Taylor, scatted over Mozart's Rondeau Allegretto.
• He last publicly performed in a bar on West 23rd Street in 1993. He can't recall the name.
• Around 1995, The David Letterman Show, who had obtained a cassette of Taylor's recordings from the WFMU catalogue, tracked down the scatman and invited him to appear on the show. However, Shooby was recovering from his stroke and told the show's coordinators that he could no longer sing. He politely declined the invitation.
• He radiated a sense of vindication that now, in his twilight years, two "youngsters" showed up on his doorstep to tell him that people all over the world were listening to his music, and that we were interested in preserving his artistic legacy.
• He claims to have the original open-reel tapes of his sessions, tucked away in a closet. He has no idea what condition they're in. All the more reason to preserve those cassettes.
• He goes to church regularly.
• He insists he will never perform again. "The gift" is gone.
Read two at-home Interviews
Monday, July 29, 2002
Sunday, July 28, 2002
Chapter 1: July 28, 2002
Rick and I took Rt. I-280 West to Newark, got off at Clifton St., and drove a few blocks south to the Newark Health & Extended Care center on Jay Street. Strange neighborhood, for a once-densely populated urban area -- each block contained large vacant lots overgrown with greenery. Where homes and shops had proliferated to fill every inch of street frontage over the past 200 years, wilderness was reclaiming real estate. These lots didn't even sport "For Sale" signs.
We'd brought along a video camera, a DAT deck, a digital camera, and a boombox (to play Shooby his own music). The reception staff at the front desk were cordial, but house policy forbid bringing such equipment upstairs while visiting patients. We surrendered our audio weaponry, and were issued a visitor's pass for the third floor.
Rode up the elevator, and were directed to Room 333, where we found William Taylor lying prone on a bed, awake but staring at the ceiling, the Yankee game buzzing at low volume on a corner TV. The black man wore white dungarees and a pink cotton shirt over a white T. He seemed a bit south of 6 feet, of moderate build. Not much hair up top, but wisps of gray curled around the sides and back. The exposed shins between his trouser hem and socks were scaly, with dark blotches that betrayed a reptilian sheen.
Taylor was happy we'd come to visit, and quickly sparked to life. He'd been expecting his son William, Jr. to visit two days before, but WT Jr. was a no-show, and didn't call. This had lowered the elder Taylor's spirits. But he welcomed his two guests, and sat up in bed to get acquainted. He was outgoing and colorful, a relic with a legendary past, brimming with folksy wisdom and hosannas to Jesus. It was like meeting Satchel Paige.
Taylor had suffered a stroke in 1994, and his speech is sometimes hesitant (and sometimes not). He's also had heart problems, which prompted the East Orange VA to admit him to the nursing facility two weeks before. He maintains an apartment on Broad Street, Newark, where he's lived for ten years. (He claims he doesn't particularly like New Jersey, it's just where he lives. He considers himself a New Yorker at heart.) Taylor is semi-ambulatory. He can walk and stand gamely with or without a cane, but he mostly relies on his wheelchair -- sometimes valiantly pushing it from behind -- to get around.
He talked readily, was easygoing, but clearly not operating at 100%. We spoke for a while, exploring his fascinating personal history, all the while lamenting that tape (audio or video) wasn't rolling. Shooby suggested getting a pass from the front desk so we could drive him to his apartment, where he had to attend some personal business. He could show us tapes of his recordings, we could take pictures, videotape, and conduct an impromptu interview. As we helped him into his wheelchair, he donned a wild pink-and-white tiger-striped sports cap and an incongruous "Tommy Girl" shoulder pouch. I asked if we could call him "Shooby," and without hesitation he urged us to do so.
Staff at the front desk were reluctant to give him a pass. His admission papers listed WT Jr. as authorized guardian, and thus the only person who could give permission for Shooby to leave the premises. Staff tried calling William Jr., but got his answering machine. There was no one else to ask. Shooby said that besides his son, his "only other next of kin is Jesus Christ."
After determining that Shooby himself had registered his son's name as authorized guardian, we contended persuasively that he could reassign guardianship to us on a temporary basis. After conferral between departments, this procedure was OK'ed, and Shooby signed himself out in our care. With his wheelchair bulging from the trunk held firm with bungee cords, we drove downtown.
Along the way, Rick filmed from the back seat, and we plied Shooby with questions. The information below was elicited at the nursing home, in the car, and at his apartment.
He lives in a sprawling senior complex across from Lincoln Park. After finding a visitor's space in the back lot, we engaged in a photo op at a circular garden near the building entrance. When we wheeled Shooby in the lobby, a number of residents extended hearty welcomes. He seems popular, and there is about him the undeniable warmth of the harmless, lovable, bemused old coot.
Taylor's 5th-floor efficiency unit is squalid and in disarray, a depressing bedsitter flat. A small kitchenette, sink piled with skanky dishes, was off the short foyer, which led into a combination living room/bedroom. There was a ubiquitous layer of grime; a Good Housekeeping Seal wouldn't have adhered to any fixture in the place. A bathroom was off in the corner. It was a hot day -- and hotter in his apartment. The windows were shut, stayed shut, and there was no A/C. It was very uncomfortable.
Dented, empty soda cans, mail, bills, encrusted cups, medical paperwork, and a torn bible were heaped on a small table -- the only table in the room. Also a few ashtrays, video boxes, and torn cellophane wrappers. Prescription drug bottles -- LOTS of them -- were clustered around the apartment: on the table, on a nightstand, on the window sill. Religious tracts, a Billy Graham booklet and gospel memorabilia were scattered about. Godliness abounded, but no cleanliness. The place was a soul-bleeding wreckage. He apologized, but we weren't there to marvel at his domestic skills.
Two modest boomboxes -- one that also played CDs -- sat adjacent to scores of scruffy tapes strewn willy-nilly amid empty cases. Dozens more sat in the window, exposed to sunlight. They were dirty, some water-damaged; the handwritten labels were sun-bleached, or peeling. Many were of gospel artists, with a smattering of Jimmy Smith, the Mills Brothers, the Ink Spots, Billie Holiday, various jazz and pop artists, and preachers. A dozen or so of his own cassettes were equally exposed, and in various conditions of decrepitude. Some of his personal tapes had songs and artists listed, others just a single performer (e.g., "Johnny Cash"). These cassettes had been professionally duplicated, some with Shooby's name emblazoned on the plastic, but they were clearly low-budget productions and he only seemed to have one copy of each tape.
Rick told him that some of his recordings are on the internet, but Taylor didn't seem to understand the concept of the world wide web.
I told him he had an entire chapter in my book, and he was right proud.
He agreed to loan us three or four cassettes of material we hadn't heard, and insisted on keeping one for himself, which he pocketed. Rick intends to transfer these to digital, and then return them to Shooby with copies on CDR. Taylor was at first reluctant to give us all the tapes -- there were 10 or so with unheard material -- stubbornly insisting that "three is enough." But Rick and I, on the same wavelength, realized we couldn't assume a second visit (though we intended an imminent return), or that Shooby's health would sustain, and had to seize our best opportunity to collect and preserve as much of Shooby's recorded legacy as possible. Finally, he seemed to grasp our sincere intent, and relented, allowing us to take all tapes except the one in his pocket.
He was friendly throughout our visit, though an obstinate streak surfaced periodically. At one point he bristled when I reached for the deck's "Play" button, and tried to shoo me away, asserting, "I'll handle that." He relaxed on the control issues after a while. He might have been feeling the heat, or exhaustion from such uncommonly stimulating activity.
Taylor betrayed bitterness about the way he'd been treated by musicians and music business people over the years. He had not been taken seriously, and had to struggle all the way. He called this "paying your dues." Yet he was undaunted, and proud of his work. The ridicule and rejection did not dissuade him from his destined form of creative expression, which he described often as "a gift." He emphasized that he "practiced" his art, and developed his style and original vocal language on his own (with inspiration from quirky bebop legend Babs Gonzales).
I brought along a copy of my book, Songs in the Key of Z , to give him. However, I reconsidered and instead asked him to autograph the copy. He consented, and painstakingly wrote "Shooy Taylor." He began to scrawl the date as "6-28-," when I reminded him that July was the seventh month. He crossed out "6" and wrote "7" before it. After he handed me back the book, I explained that he'd deprived me of a "b" in his first name, so he corrected his printing. The autograph is a mess, but it's authentic. I had to keep that copy and promised to mail him another later that week. He signed Rick's book, and having practiced on mine, did so flawlessly.
We spent over three hours with Shooby. At several points he stressed that our visit was the best thing that had happened to him in some time. We jolted a consciousness that had been dormant. He hadn't sung or performed in years, and patients and staff at the nursing home and residents in his apartment building had no clue about his past.
We'd brought along a video camera, a DAT deck, a digital camera, and a boombox (to play Shooby his own music). The reception staff at the front desk were cordial, but house policy forbid bringing such equipment upstairs while visiting patients. We surrendered our audio weaponry, and were issued a visitor's pass for the third floor.
Rode up the elevator, and were directed to Room 333, where we found William Taylor lying prone on a bed, awake but staring at the ceiling, the Yankee game buzzing at low volume on a corner TV. The black man wore white dungarees and a pink cotton shirt over a white T. He seemed a bit south of 6 feet, of moderate build. Not much hair up top, but wisps of gray curled around the sides and back. The exposed shins between his trouser hem and socks were scaly, with dark blotches that betrayed a reptilian sheen.
Taylor was happy we'd come to visit, and quickly sparked to life. He'd been expecting his son William, Jr. to visit two days before, but WT Jr. was a no-show, and didn't call. This had lowered the elder Taylor's spirits. But he welcomed his two guests, and sat up in bed to get acquainted. He was outgoing and colorful, a relic with a legendary past, brimming with folksy wisdom and hosannas to Jesus. It was like meeting Satchel Paige.
Taylor had suffered a stroke in 1994, and his speech is sometimes hesitant (and sometimes not). He's also had heart problems, which prompted the East Orange VA to admit him to the nursing facility two weeks before. He maintains an apartment on Broad Street, Newark, where he's lived for ten years. (He claims he doesn't particularly like New Jersey, it's just where he lives. He considers himself a New Yorker at heart.) Taylor is semi-ambulatory. He can walk and stand gamely with or without a cane, but he mostly relies on his wheelchair -- sometimes valiantly pushing it from behind -- to get around.
He talked readily, was easygoing, but clearly not operating at 100%. We spoke for a while, exploring his fascinating personal history, all the while lamenting that tape (audio or video) wasn't rolling. Shooby suggested getting a pass from the front desk so we could drive him to his apartment, where he had to attend some personal business. He could show us tapes of his recordings, we could take pictures, videotape, and conduct an impromptu interview. As we helped him into his wheelchair, he donned a wild pink-and-white tiger-striped sports cap and an incongruous "Tommy Girl" shoulder pouch. I asked if we could call him "Shooby," and without hesitation he urged us to do so.
Staff at the front desk were reluctant to give him a pass. His admission papers listed WT Jr. as authorized guardian, and thus the only person who could give permission for Shooby to leave the premises. Staff tried calling William Jr., but got his answering machine. There was no one else to ask. Shooby said that besides his son, his "only other next of kin is Jesus Christ."
After determining that Shooby himself had registered his son's name as authorized guardian, we contended persuasively that he could reassign guardianship to us on a temporary basis. After conferral between departments, this procedure was OK'ed, and Shooby signed himself out in our care. With his wheelchair bulging from the trunk held firm with bungee cords, we drove downtown.
Along the way, Rick filmed from the back seat, and we plied Shooby with questions. The information below was elicited at the nursing home, in the car, and at his apartment.
He lives in a sprawling senior complex across from Lincoln Park. After finding a visitor's space in the back lot, we engaged in a photo op at a circular garden near the building entrance. When we wheeled Shooby in the lobby, a number of residents extended hearty welcomes. He seems popular, and there is about him the undeniable warmth of the harmless, lovable, bemused old coot.
Taylor's 5th-floor efficiency unit is squalid and in disarray, a depressing bedsitter flat. A small kitchenette, sink piled with skanky dishes, was off the short foyer, which led into a combination living room/bedroom. There was a ubiquitous layer of grime; a Good Housekeeping Seal wouldn't have adhered to any fixture in the place. A bathroom was off in the corner. It was a hot day -- and hotter in his apartment. The windows were shut, stayed shut, and there was no A/C. It was very uncomfortable.
Dented, empty soda cans, mail, bills, encrusted cups, medical paperwork, and a torn bible were heaped on a small table -- the only table in the room. Also a few ashtrays, video boxes, and torn cellophane wrappers. Prescription drug bottles -- LOTS of them -- were clustered around the apartment: on the table, on a nightstand, on the window sill. Religious tracts, a Billy Graham booklet and gospel memorabilia were scattered about. Godliness abounded, but no cleanliness. The place was a soul-bleeding wreckage. He apologized, but we weren't there to marvel at his domestic skills.
Two modest boomboxes -- one that also played CDs -- sat adjacent to scores of scruffy tapes strewn willy-nilly amid empty cases. Dozens more sat in the window, exposed to sunlight. They were dirty, some water-damaged; the handwritten labels were sun-bleached, or peeling. Many were of gospel artists, with a smattering of Jimmy Smith, the Mills Brothers, the Ink Spots, Billie Holiday, various jazz and pop artists, and preachers. A dozen or so of his own cassettes were equally exposed, and in various conditions of decrepitude. Some of his personal tapes had songs and artists listed, others just a single performer (e.g., "Johnny Cash"). These cassettes had been professionally duplicated, some with Shooby's name emblazoned on the plastic, but they were clearly low-budget productions and he only seemed to have one copy of each tape.
Rick told him that some of his recordings are on the internet, but Taylor didn't seem to understand the concept of the world wide web.
I told him he had an entire chapter in my book, and he was right proud.
He agreed to loan us three or four cassettes of material we hadn't heard, and insisted on keeping one for himself, which he pocketed. Rick intends to transfer these to digital, and then return them to Shooby with copies on CDR. Taylor was at first reluctant to give us all the tapes -- there were 10 or so with unheard material -- stubbornly insisting that "three is enough." But Rick and I, on the same wavelength, realized we couldn't assume a second visit (though we intended an imminent return), or that Shooby's health would sustain, and had to seize our best opportunity to collect and preserve as much of Shooby's recorded legacy as possible. Finally, he seemed to grasp our sincere intent, and relented, allowing us to take all tapes except the one in his pocket.
He was friendly throughout our visit, though an obstinate streak surfaced periodically. At one point he bristled when I reached for the deck's "Play" button, and tried to shoo me away, asserting, "I'll handle that." He relaxed on the control issues after a while. He might have been feeling the heat, or exhaustion from such uncommonly stimulating activity.
Taylor betrayed bitterness about the way he'd been treated by musicians and music business people over the years. He had not been taken seriously, and had to struggle all the way. He called this "paying your dues." Yet he was undaunted, and proud of his work. The ridicule and rejection did not dissuade him from his destined form of creative expression, which he described often as "a gift." He emphasized that he "practiced" his art, and developed his style and original vocal language on his own (with inspiration from quirky bebop legend Babs Gonzales).
I brought along a copy of my book, Songs in the Key of Z , to give him. However, I reconsidered and instead asked him to autograph the copy. He consented, and painstakingly wrote "Shooy Taylor." He began to scrawl the date as "6-28-," when I reminded him that July was the seventh month. He crossed out "6" and wrote "7" before it. After he handed me back the book, I explained that he'd deprived me of a "b" in his first name, so he corrected his printing. The autograph is a mess, but it's authentic. I had to keep that copy and promised to mail him another later that week. He signed Rick's book, and having practiced on mine, did so flawlessly.
We spent over three hours with Shooby. At several points he stressed that our visit was the best thing that had happened to him in some time. We jolted a consciousness that had been dormant. He hadn't sung or performed in years, and patients and staff at the nursing home and residents in his apartment building had no clue about his past.
Tuesday, July 16, 2002
Intro
For years, the search for idiosyncratic scat legend ''Shooby'' Taylor led nowhere. He was reportedly from New York, but which borough? ''William Taylor'' is a very common name.
Rare leads were followed, sightings proved elusive, and his fans wondered whether Shooby was still alive. The chapter on Taylor in SONGS IN THE KEY OF Z opens with: ''If you know William 'Shooby' Taylor personally, please tell him he's in this book.'' That clarion call did not elicit a single additional clue.
But New Yorker RICK GOETZ, who had become enamored of Taylor's scat stylings from a widely circulated WFMU cassette, swore to me in late Spring 2002 that he would locate Shooby. He phoned countless metro denizens named ''William Taylor'' throughout the five boroughs. Then, on July 16, Rick sent me an email:
Rare leads were followed, sightings proved elusive, and his fans wondered whether Shooby was still alive. The chapter on Taylor in SONGS IN THE KEY OF Z opens with: ''If you know William 'Shooby' Taylor personally, please tell him he's in this book.'' That clarion call did not elicit a single additional clue.
But New Yorker RICK GOETZ, who had become enamored of Taylor's scat stylings from a widely circulated WFMU cassette, swore to me in late Spring 2002 that he would locate Shooby. He phoned countless metro denizens named ''William Taylor'' throughout the five boroughs. Then, on July 16, Rick sent me an email:
I spoke to William Taylor Jr. today. Shooby is alive, although he is in a hospital in NJ. Apparently he just suffered a slight heart attack. William Jr. said he would give my # to Shooby this Friday. He is 73 years old.
The Taylor offspring confirmed that his dad had pursued a quixotic career as a scat singer in New York City for decades, with no success. In 1992, Shooby moved to a senior complex in Newark (15 minutes from my home, and the city of my birth). Tragically, a 1994 stroke had silenced the scatman's musical prowess, and he no longer recorded or performed.
Goetz phoned Shooby, discovered that he was in a nursing home, not a hospital, and a date was arranged for a visit...
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