Blues For Jaco

Within minutes of my encountering Jaco Pastorius for the first time, he was naked. Let me explain.

I no longer remember the exact date, but it was sometime in the mid to late eighties, just a few years before his ignominious death in 1987. My assignment was to review a performance by Pastorius at the short-lived jazz club Seventh Avenue South in the lower environs of the West Village, and to speak to him about his current music. Easier said than done.

By this time Pastorius, despite being recognized as the premier electric bassist of the era—an innovator whose startling virtuosity and inventiveness brought new life to the instrument through his revolutionary work with the fusion band Weather Report, his collaborations with Joni Mitchell and others, as well as his own imaginative projects, all of which had brought him international fame—was on a downward spiral. His mental health and substance abuse issues were resulting in increasingly erratic behavior that had begun to seriously affect his live performances. His reputation as a wild card unable to control his behavior was seriously impeding a solo career that once had all the makings of a guaranteed success but was now quickly unraveling.

Arriving at the club early, I was steered to the dressing room, where I was told I could find the illustrious instrumentalist. Upon opening the door, I immediately eyed the thin, hyperactive jumping jack of a bassist surrounded by members of his ad hoc band and various hangers-on. Was I even able to introduce myself before he decided that he needed to change his entire outfit, or did he immediately start to strip before we even exchanged any words? Again, I don’t remember. I do recall that I quickly registered that this was not going to be an ordinary interview.

The newly clothed Jaco and I must have then shared a few introductory words, but he had more important things to do than chat. He began ingesting substances while I cowered in some corner. Now, practically bouncing off the walls, Jaco was not to be contained, and before I knew it, he was out the dressing room door. As interviews went, this was a bit of a washout.

The ensuing band performance was basically a shambles, and I knew that getting a coherent exchange with the leader afterward was going to be an exercise in futility. I cut my losses and slipped out of the club. I was halfway down the block when I heard someone shouting to me from behind. Who should come tearing down the avenue but a still frenetic Jaco, now spouting a torrent of apologies and wishes to have a good old jaw with me. Sure, Jaco, it would be a pleasure, I might have blurted before beelining it for the subway.

Somehow, I later cobbled together a piece, but the profoundly disturbing evening had left me shaken. Although I was unaware at the time of the serious nature of Pastorius’s mental health situation, it was obvious that I had witnessed a supremely talented man slowly falling apart in public. It was all pretty tragic.

Pastorius’s awful death, the result of a severe beating from a nightclub employee after the bassist tried to force his way into a Florida venue, was, unfortunately, hardly a shock. But the calamity of his final years shouldn’t supersede the glory of his earlier achievements. Let’s celebrate Pastorius with a taste of his stellar musical union with Joni Mitchell on her 1976 album, Hejira. Lyrical, almost selflessly economical, and utterly attuned to another’s vision, Pastorius exhibits a bracing element of his outsize abilities that still profoundly affects electric bassists to this day. That Jaco is literally given the final notes on this landmark album is a fitting tribute from one artist of genius to another.