He didn’t like being represented as a guitar, not a person. I couldn’t resist.
A quick lesson for novelists: if you’re seeking a model for genius embodied in a character, don’t mess with Les Paul. He’ll never be believed.
In a fictional context, a man so relentlessly creative, so fabulously successful, so multitalented, and such player in so many areas, will will seem over-constructed. “Not a credible character. I don’t buy him,” the fiction reader will complain. Then the fiction coach: “Okay, let’s rough him up a bit. Peel off a few of those brilliant careers. Let him struggle. Let him fail a little.”
Happily, reality is its own argument for credibility, so we needn’t touch Les Paul as a character. We couldn’t if we wanted to, of course: as incredible and improbably as he was, he was real. He was.
Five years ago I got a dream assignment from Attache, the old US Airways inflight magazine: go to New York, hang out with Les Paul for an afternoon and evening, and write a profile on him. Here’s what made it special: I had been fascinated by Les Paul ever since I was 10. I don’t tend to idolize, but Les was as close to a personal hero as I ever had.
Les was nearly 90, yet he still played two shows every Monday night at the premier Iridium jazz club in Manhattan. He had a little band called “The Les Paul Trio” but there were always at least four or five players on stage, all young, all imaginative instrumentalists doing very cool things with the universal jazz canon, the standards.
Les didn’t like to play his old hits, though he would throw in a few to please the fans. He wasn’t one to dwell in his past. When he spoke of far off times, he sounded more like a guy describing a baseball game he saw last week.
His reality was pure present tense, and I experienced that vividly throughout an afternoon and early dinner with him. Though it was an ordinary Monday night, friends kept dropping by–mostly musicians, and I realized they weren’t just groupies playing court to the old lion, they were real friends: he’d ask about their divorce, or their kids, or their new guitar.
Some in fact were young players on the way up–and Les was generous with the sit-ins. The night I was there the jazz violinist Christian Howes showed up and got some playing time. A pretty young vocalist just in from Hungary introduced herself in broken English and Les immediately promised her a slot in the second set. Two star-struck teenage girls from California somehow got in (Les didn’t encourage pure fans) and begged for autographs. Les had quit signing his name due to the extreme arthritis in his hands, but for these young charmers, he did the best he could.
Through it all, my recorder was running, and Les, staying on subject remarkably well, given the constant social interruptions, kept up a herky-jerky commentary that covered just about everything I had come to ask him. I hardly had to ask a question.
My piece, as published, was a cartoon-montage of the life Les Paul, a talented, likable guy who had astonishing success in 3 careers–jazz guitarist, pop recording artist, guitar inventor and designer, and the presiding geek of modern recording technology. But Les Paul was too big a subject for a short profile. With inevitable cuts, it became even shorter due to space considerations. I came away convinced he deserved a book–a big one–and now, I imagine there will be a plethora of them. I certainly hope so, and I’ll read them all.
My editor, Lance Elko, did a good job of cutting, but some nice details were lost, so I decided to post the original version of my 2004 profile online here.
First, a final word about heroes: they almost always disappoint in the flesh. Not so this one. I went away from my encounter with the real Les Paul with more, not less admiration.
More than that, I had developed a real affection for him. It was no accident Les had so many friends–and all the more intriguing, since a sunny personality like his rarely accompanies a life of such monumental achievement. He was–as the Irish say–a lovely man.
Legend of Note: Les Paul, Chri
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