[Harp-L] Remembering Douglas Tate



I was saddened to hear the not-unexpected news of Douglas Tate's
passing. It put me in mind of my earliest meetings with him, at Buckeye
in 1996 and 1997. Below are excerpts from the reports I posted at the
time.

I still have some of that fifteen-year Bushmill's single malt that
Douglas liked so much. I think that this evening it will come out and
help me nurse reflection and memory of one of the most gifted,
brilliant, musical, audacious, and kind people I've ever known.

Winslow

>From 1996 Buckeye:

As you may have noticed, my one deciding reason (aside from affordable
plane fare) for coming to BHF was Douglas Tate. Much as I love and
enjoy Buzz, Joe Filisko, Howard Levy, Pete Pedersen, Ron Kalina, Danny
Wilson and the many other performers and harmonica folks I knew would
be there, I've met them all many times, and will again at SPAH or the
NAMM show or some other event on the beaten path.

But Doug Tate was someone not normally found on this side of the pond,
and had expressed some very interesting ideas, so it was he that
spurred me to action. Am I glad I acted.

I arrived mid-afternoon on Wednesday after an all-nighter of packing
and doing taxes (mailed from Chicago during a plane change; the first
opportunity) and was shuttled to a pair of utterly unprepossessing
hotels in an area of semi-suburban commercial sprawl. This kind of
setting used to suck the wind out of my upper lungs and replace it with
terror before I learned that the surroundings absolutely don't matter -
the hotel is just a container for many wonderful things that go on
inside. As long as there are no corrosive fumes or artillery fire, it's
OK. Stumping over to the Comfort Inn from the Holiday (I was feeling
lopsided from dragging heavy luggage) I almost immediately ran into a
tall fellow with a woman in tow. I immediately knew that they were Doug
Tate and Cathi Norton. Neither one looked exactly as I had pictured
them but both were close enough somehow that I immediately addressed
Doug by name, and was met with a quizzical glance until I identified
myself. Bobbie Giordano soon appeared, whom I would not have identified
until she opened her mouth and the rapid-fire questions came pouring
out. As I was to learn, rapid-fire seems to be Bobbie's operating mode.
In person, the added dimensions of raucous peals of laughter and
pedal-to-the-metal driving come into play. (I think Bobbie's still
poking her way back down the coast and will be plowing through too many
accumulated messages to take exception to this description).

It's a rule at harmonica conventions that there's always a
semi-terrible and darkish restaurant to the immediate right of the
hotel, so we joined Jack Ely and his two sons running the sound (better
than at SPAH) and repaired to Max and Erma's (better than most in its
category) to get acquainted. Wrapped up in animated conversation, we
managed to overshoot it in the dark (on foot, no less), but once inside
had a great time getting acquainted on the visible, audible level, with
vibes unfiltered by ASCII or netiquette. Thus began the little core
group that one always forms at large gatherings. Doug pulled a big rag
out of his pocket and unwrapped it to reveal a pre-war Super Chromonica
box that looked like it had been skinned for its fur and left for dead
years ago. Inside was - the legendary instrument. Silver-plated covers,
stainless steel comb, mouthpiece sealed with beeswax, slide action
smooth as a baby's bottom (Doug used a diaper pin for the slide
return).

This was a day before the real beginning, so there was no blues jam,
and I had to sit down and plan my seminar for the next morning, right
after Doug's (Doug did three, while Filisko and I did two apiece and
Simpson-Smith did, I think, one). Doug shamed me a little by showing
the outline he'd done on the plane with pen and paper - I'd used a much
more expensive laptop and special "idea processing" software for mine,
and I can't say that the results were any better for it. So off to the
room and my $2000 scratch pad.

Doug impressed us all the next morning by demonstrating what so many of
us had heard or read about - his ability to play softly loudly by
shaping the cup of his hands to bring a whisper-level note up to a very
strong audibility. He also talked about the importance of starting the
notes in a way that wouldn't fatigue reeds, along with many related
things, which you'll find in his book "Play the Harmonica Well."

* * *

Another day, another seminar, this time with me in the opening spot at
9AM, vaguely surprised to actually be awake, and muttering obscure
formulas about action patterns which seemed to make more sense than I'd
expected - even to the people listening. Then it was Doug, telling us
about all kinds of cool mods you could make to a chromatic to make it
play better (and found in his book "Make the Harmonica Play Well"). He
made the interesting point that some of these modifications might
actually make the instrument harder to play - but would open up the
potential to get more sound out of it. Then Howard Levy showed up.
After greetings, he told me - stay there, I'll be right back - and
walked off to deposit his bags in his room. After an hour or two of
relaxed conversation with Bobbie and Chris Michalek, we began to wonder
what had befallen him, and went off to find he'd been here, been there,
been waylaid by this person and that, eaten lunch and given an
impromptu mini-seminar. But with a guy as popular and as enthusiastic
as Howard is, it seems to come with the territory.

* * *

Douglas Tate did his main concert, with a pianist using an electronic
keyboard to get harpsichord as well as piano sounds. Doug stuck
resolutely off-mike while playing. After some Elizabethan tunes, he
turned to a largely post-impressionist 20th century repertoire,
(Gabriel Fauré, James Moody, Bartok), much of it quite beautiful.
During the Bartok Dances, though, I retreated to the mens' room.
Standing at the urinal, I could clearly hear Doug, unamplified through
the tile wall. I couldn't hear the amplified keyboard.

Ron Kalina and the New World Trio (Danny Wilson, bass, Mike Burton,
chord) started their set, nattily attired in black suits and
turtlenecks with red handkerchiefs. A few numbers into it, Dick Zapf
keeled over and everything came to a halt. After plenty of chest
pumping, injections by the paramedical team, and more chest pumping, he
was wheeled out. It was decided to continue the concert, rather than
just let everything end in such a fashion. Kalina, whose wife had taken
a fatal stroke while the trio as rehearsing at his apartment, and had
recently come back to Ohio to inter her ashes, felt it was better to
carry things to completion, so they bravely ferried through the
remainder of their set, offering consolation to the audience, and a
tribute to a harmonica lover who'd gone in the best way possible -
quickly, while basking in something he loved.

Meanwhile, I was hanging with Howard in the front lobby. He was visibly
affected by what had happened, and was waiting for the airport shuttle.
He'd delayed his flight home to spend more time at the festival and to
hear Doug Tate's set - despite their enormous musical differences, they
seemed intrigued with one another's approach and accomplishments.

Dinner that evening was Douglas Tate Appreciation Night, and off we
went to an Italian restaurant, where our party was too large for a
single table - and we endeared ourselves to the waitress by asking for
sixteen separate checks. On top of this I kindly twitted her on her
mispronunciation of an Italian word, and she managed to drop and break
a large plate of dishes - huge applause, but also a handsome tip. The
subject of comb materials came up, and whether it was possible to tell
them by listening. I'd been having the recent experience of hearing
harp in a TV commercial and feeling with great certainty - "he's
playing wood," or "that's definitely a plastic comb." Of course I had
no way to verify it, but the sensation was very strong. Doug related
that he'd played differently-combed harmonicas at various harmonica
society performances over a period of time, and there was one lady
who'd always come to him and say "I heard silver in your sound tonight"
or damson wood (not the usual pear wood), or steel. She was always
right, and had no prior knowledge or any awareness of the comb-material
question. Evidently she was some sort of psychic. (Do I hear Vern
snorting and pawing the ground?)

We still had one blues jam left, but this was Saturday night, and a
comedy night was using the clubhouse theatre, while the Junior College
prom was taking up the ballroom. So the jam spontaneously started
happening in the hallway off the main lobby, and the two events started
to mix. Tipsy girls from the College started running their fingers
through Richard Sleigh's hair as he cooly strummed his guitar and
played rack harp. Stu Norton lit up and started blazing away as I'd
hoped he would.

But I missed all this, as I was at a prayer meeting with Doug Tate.
We'd repaired to his room for a quiet tête-à-tête to continue the comb
discussion. He told me that he'd tried silver, various types of
aluminum, and even gold (back when gold was $35/oz) and found that
stainless gave the best sound - silver was too dense. He also laid on
me his theory that players' body and head types affected their approach
to tone. For instance, certain tallish types with sinus trouble and a
certain pleasing cast of semi-longish face and reasonably prominent
nose got good volume and tone without much mouth pressure. Tommy Reilly
being one case in point. He mentioned two more, but I blush to divulge
any names. I wonder what Larry Adler would have to say about such
ideas. Perhaps an idea about the efficiency of a smaller body that
didn't wasting energy vibrating a note through all that extra body mass
and nose cartilage. Bobbie joined us, and then Jack came in with the
news about Dick Zapf. Finally the pounding from the ballroom waned and
we decided to join the world again.

We took over the Clubhouse, and pulled out all the stops for the final
jam. Some of the chord and bass players from trios were chugging along,
and Ron Kalina pitched in in "All of Me" and a couple of other
standards. Even Doug was quietly tooting along behind me, and, despite
his protestations of being unable to improvise, coming up with some
nice licks. Buzz got up and growled out Hoochie Koochie Man, with 7 or
8 harps all rasping out "that lick," and Cathi started pulling out some
ballad material for the chromatic players, including the title tune to
her new CD, "Various Stages of Undress" (highly recommended, with Gary
Primich on two tunes). Buzz, ever the emcee, kept making mention of
Cathi and where the material was coming from, and managed to sell
several copies to jam attendees. It took until about 3AM for everyone
to finally come down from the high and drift off to bed.

Sunday morning was the final brunch and many warm goodbyes with friends
old and new. Ron Kalina and I were among the last to go, and spent the
airport shuttle ride talking about harmonica trio arrangements, a new
activity for him. On the plane home I finally got to listen to the
tapes and CD's I'd acquired, the last possible way to extend the fun,
excitement and warmth of Buckeye '96.

 From 1997 Buckeye:

Douglas Tate gave seminars on playing the harmonica well, and with his
partner-in-design, Bobbie Giordano, on the Renaissance (that's
re-NAY-sance to you, and that'll be $3500, thank you very much). They
had a second working prototype, but it wasn't yet sounding as loud as
the first one. In his Saturday night concert (played without
accompaniment - they couldn't find a classical pianist to accompany
him), Doug played the second Renaissance solo, then had Dennis
Gruenling, a bright young mostly blues player from New Jersey who wowed
everyone by doing something amazing last year at the SPAH blues jam
(what it was I wish I knew - I missed it, being too tired to stay up (I
know - wimp!)) come up and duet with him playing the first Renaissance
prototype on Harlem Nocturne. At one point he took the Renaissance and
dunked it sidelong in a big pitcher of ice water, swished it around,
tapped it out and played it - sounded fine. Meanwhile I ran a tiny
amount of water into my 64x to loosen the slide and spent the rest of
the evening before my performance prying up the stuck valves with a
toothpick. Doug played beautifully, as always, but I can't help
thinking that some subtle stage management and packaging could set off
the jewel to stunning effect.

* * *

Doug Tate and I had been sharing a bottle of very fine whiskey, sipping
late in the evening while sharing the sort of stories and speculations
that the breath of life seems to encourage. On Sunday morning, nearly
half the bottle was still full, and as I was re-assembling harmonicas
and packing up little fiddly bits I kept ringing Doug's room, as I
thought he wanted to take it back to England. No answer, then from the
desk "He's checked out." I came up to lobby and asked after him, and
was pointed to Bobbie's van pulling away.

Now anyone who's ever ridden in the infamous Giordano van knows that
Bobbie - known to some as the Tallahassee Twister - is a
pedal-to-the-metal kind of gal. I chased them twisting through the
parking lot, waving my arms and trying to get in mirror range, but no
response, so I cut across to the road and nabbed them. As Doug rolled
down the window I could see a glare of impatience emanating from the
driver's seat - I had interrupted the blastoff, and they had to make
Atlanta to get Doug on a plane.

"I thought you were taking the whiskey." "No, you're taking the
whiskey." "No, *you're* taking the whiskey." Doug won - he thought he'd
find some in duty free at Gatwick, but I walked away, ruefully thinking
about the bird in the hand - my hand. Oh well, I can keep it till
SPAH97. 

Winslow


	
		
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