Eric could
sing like an
angel with any of the
reeds in his mouth. The
flutes, the
clarinets, the
saxes. But oh, the
bass clarinet. He's as big as
Leonidas (do you know the story of his three hundred?) or
Ali, to me. Every time I think of Eric, the beauty and the sadness overwhelm me.
He grew up in
LA, a poor kid, and never really made it in the States, despite now-legendary gigs with
Mingus,
Booker Little and
Coltrane. He was quiet, offstage, and they only loved him afterward.
He died in Germany, alone, of an untreated illness related to
diabetes, I've seen the grave. They say everyone around him knew he was sick, that after performances,
exhausted, he would either collapse or just plow through bowl after bowl of
ice cream.
There's a
story I heard once, about a visit by the Mingus group to a famous writer's home in somewhere in Europe where he
wandered off.. they found him sitting on the grass in the gardens, cooing at the
peacocks. They couldn't get him away from those birds...
Anyway, take a minute today, you can spare the
time. Look up a
photograph of him on
the web. Look in those eyes. Find a Dolphy record and wait 'til you're alone to put it on - maybe one of the
Five Spot gigs, or a stompin tune with
Charlie screaming at him, "Yeah, Yeah!!", or a quiet flute solo like
Hi Fly. And just listen...