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.