One of the rewards of being human is being able to form deep attachments with people we know for only a short time, or people we don’t get to know as well as we would like.  The trombonist and writer Jim Leigh died this afternoon (June 18, 2012) after a brief illness, and although my contact with him was scant and tardy — others knew him better and longer — I know we have lost someone remarkable.

I “met” Jim first in the pages of The Mississippi Rag, where he displayed an amused, observant intelligence — quick to praise but politely acerbic about those things that deserved a quick four-bar break.  I admired his candor and his affection for the music.  Much later, my dear friend Marc Caparone gave me a copy of Jim’s book and I was delighted, page after page.  When Jim read what I had written, he sent me a nearly astonished email and we corresponded intermittently, Jim showing his generosity by completing my Gremoli collection and also sending his copy of Herb Flemming’s memoir, wanting nothing in return.

Dick Karner had kindly sent me a copy of a TradJazz Productions CD, taken from tapes made at the Sail’N in 1958 — with a front line of Jim, Bob Helm, and Ev Farey.  I brought it with me this summer, intending to write about it — not only the joyous rough-hewn music but also Jim’s funny, sharp notes.  I will still do this, but it saddens me that Jim will not be reading it.

The only tribute I can pay Jim is to reprint what I wrote about his book, HEAVEN ON THE SIDE: A JAZZ LIFE, and to say that I will keep him alive in the only way I can, by missing him and feeling that another one of the Wise Elders — modest, incisive, swinging — has gone.

Knowing Jim Leigh, even as briefly as I did, was a privilege.

May your happiness increase.


I knew Jim Leigh as a writer covering the West Coast scene for THE MISSISSIPPI RAG — someone observant, witty, occasionally satiric. Later, I knew him as a solidly rough-hewn trombonist, with plenty of pep and lowdown spice, what Dicky Wells called “fuzz.”

But it’s only recently that I have had the opportunity to savor his prose at length, and his memoir, HEAVEN ON THE SIDE: A JAZZ LIFE, is a splendidly moving book. I apologize to Jim for coming to it so late — it was published in 2000 — but I bow to no one in my enthusiasm for it. When a friend gave me a copy in September, I found myself reading it while standing up in my hotel room, and I quickly was so entranced that I rationed myself to only a few pages at a time because I didn’t want it to end too quickly.

Readers familiar with the literature of jazz know that many jazz memoirs follow predictable patterns. Some musicians offer us the familiar path: early discovery of the music, early study, scuffling, the first breakthrough, then a listing of gigs and encounters. Other books are a series of vignettes — associations with famous people . . . “and then I told Louis,” and so on. Other chronicles depict battles with addiction and other unhappinesses — ideally they end in triumph and freedom. All of these books can be irresistible on their own terms, but they often become cheerfully formulaic once the subject has succeeded.

Jim’s book is not only a history of his own musical development (how he learned to play “Whispering” in its key, not Bb), or his brushes with the great and near-great . . . but, like A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN, it is a record, seen retrospectively, of the growth of a consciosness, the creation of a discerning self. The combination of his prose (modest, expert, not calling attention to itself) and the insights he has come to — makes for a book that’s not only readable but memorable.

I won’t summarize the insights — that would do Jim an injustice — but they have to do with his development not only as a trombonist and a listener, but as a full-fledged adult with a deep understanding of himself, of his relations with others, and of the music. In these pages, we observe someone grow, which restores us as we participate in it.

The temptation for me, as someone fascinated by HEAVEN ON THE SIDE: A JAZZ LIFE, is to retype great chunks of it. I will let readers take their pleasures and surprises on their own — and offer only one excerpt from the book, Jim’s encounter with the great and somewhat inscrutable Herb Flemming (world-traveler and Ellington alumnus) in Fuengirola, Spain, circa 1965:

. . . a man considerably older than I lived with a small white mixed-breed dog. I kept imagining that I heard the sound of a trombone from his second-floor apartment, often playing a part of “Sophisticated Lady” or “In My Solitude,” typically the bridge, repeating it, perfectly, perhaps a dozen times. Discreet inquiry in the large and heterogeneous foreign community provided only a rumor that the man, “some kind of an Arab,” had “played with Duke Ellington, a long time ago.” Whether because he was too self-sufficient to require conversation or too anti-social to permit it, he was said to be taciturn to the point of utter silence. Or, as Wacker, the retired Australian soap opera writer down the street, put it, “Bloke seems to be missing the old vocal chords.”

One day when I was walking along the Paseo Maritimo, next to the beach, I saw him coming, as always with his dog on a leash.  Thinking that it was perhaps now or never, I spoke to him.  He stopped and listened, impassive, his eyes focused on a patch of Mediterranean somewhere beyond my shoulder, but did not answer.  “I’ve  heard that you used to play with Duke,” I said. 

He echoed me tonelessly.  “Duke,” as if the word meant nothing to him.


 He let me wait a bit. “Yes, I did.”

 I told him my name, and that I lived across the street from him. “Next to the Casa Blanca,” I said. “You know, the Danish bar?”

“I don’t pass my time in bars,” he said. He let his eyes rest steadily on my face then. I saw his calm gaze, but decided not to mention that I, too, had played the trombone, and waited. He must have reached some sort of decision, because, without looking away, he stuck his free hand inside his jacket and brought forth a calling card, which he handed me. I thanked him.

“Mm,” he said, and resumed his stroll. The card read Nicolaiih El-Michelle (Formerly Herb Flemming),” and below that “Trombonist”. It bore a Paris address, pencilled out but not amended. He and his doggy were already on their way. We never spoke again.

There are writers who would make an exquisitely sad little vignette out of the former Herb Flemming. I might have been one of them 30 or 40 years ago, but no longer. If our brief experience taught me anything at that time it was that the former Herb Flemming did not require pity any more than he required conversation. He had his dog, he had his trombone: what more, his manner said, did a man need? Someone might call him for a gig, I thought. As Sister Rosetta Tharpe so memorably sang, strange things happen every day. If someone did call, I was sure the Former Herb Flemming would have his chops together.

The book is full of these brief moments of revelation, quietly persuasive but never self-congratulatory. Any of us might have encountered Herb Flemming, and perhaps with similar results, but only Jim Leigh would have come to understand that moment as he has . . . and only Leigh would have written of it in such a sweetly understated way. HEAVEN ON THE SIDE: A JAZZ LIFE is full of personalities and stories, from Turk Murphy to Louis to Frank “Big Boy” Goudie and Django Reinhardt, to Dan Barrett and Clint Baker . . . but what compels me is the steady, often amused, man and writer, experiencing his life and learning from it, every chorus, every day.

It’s an invaluable book. Visit to obtain a copy. An actual bookstore (they still exist!) could order it under its ISBN number, which is 0-7388-5602-9.


8 responses to “ANOTHER JAZZ FATHER GONE: JIM LEIGH (June 18, 2012)

  1. What a wonderful post, and such a heartfelt tribute to Jim Leigh,,So well done, Michael,,,as usual.

  2. So sorry to hear this. RIP, JIm.

  3. Michael Burgevin

    Amen, Ida!

  4. Jim was a good friend and generous contributer for Tradjazz Productions. I’m shocked and saddened he is gone. I shall miss him greatly!

  5. Joe Spencer

    Many of us have lost a wonderful friend in Jim. I first got to know Jim in the early 2000’s when he asked me, and I agreed, to do the transfers of the tapes that eventually became the SFTJF’s 2 CD set of Bob Helm with Jim’s El Dorado Jazz Band from1956. We became good friends, and when in Los Angeles on business, I tried never to miss a Sunday session of Gremoli at the Montrose farmers’ market. The band was always a treat, but even more I enjoyed the opportunity to chat with Jim over coffee (or a tamale) between sets.
    Jim was a real, old fashioned gent, a very nice guy, a fine musician, a trusted friend to many of us, and a great storyteller who was never boring. HIs book is strongly recommended.
    My deep condolences to Martha and all his friends and fellow musicians. We will all deeply miss this fine man.
    Joe Spencer

  6. Susie Collins

    I, too, enjoyed the tribute to Jim. I read his book, loved every page and loved the man. Every Tuesday afternoon, the highlight of the week for each of us, Jim and his horn were at my Dad’s jamming with my Dad, Harrison Stephens, on guitar, Lew Ellenhorn on clarinet and sax, Mike Fay on bass and me on vocals. Martini’s, snacks and wonderful conversation followed the jam session . Jim knew every word to every good song ever written, who wrote it and when and often the history behind the writing. His knowledge of all things jazzy, his wit, his encouragement and the wonderful notes he blew on his horn will all be terribly missed. We will raise a glass to him this afternoon.
    Susie Collins

  7. I had the pleasure of hearing Jim play with his group, Baldy Jazz, every other Thursday for the last five years at the Press where I tend bar. As a worker at a venue for live music, great music is much appreciated, and Thursdays have always been my favorite night. All of the guys are wonderful, friendly people, but I really looked forward to Jim’s witty banter. In the midst of a hectic shift at work, he would always crack me up with his report of how his week had gone. Mostly, these were reports on what his doctor allowed or didn’t allow him to drink from the bar. He was very displeased when his doctor said he could no longer have his favorite drink, Makers Mark on the rocks. He said the bad news about this was now he’d have to find a new doctor. But, they came to an understanding and a glass of red wine would have to do. I was so sad to hear about his passing, but feel fortunate to have the memories.

  8. I never knew James personally but we corresponded back in the early 70’s when I wrote him after reading “What Can You Do?”
    …and totally misunderstanding it. Sweetly,
    he took responsibility for that–the character was too engaging and in a time of the anti-hero, praiseworthy (or so I thought). James
    was kind enough to answer my later posts and even allowed that I might visit him when I started out on a back-packing expedition in
    ’72. Unfortunately, I only got as far as Barcelona and, when I couldn’t contact him, decided to head east to Florence with a couple of new-found friends.

    I am now very pleased to say that the reading of his memoir lies somewhere in my future.

    (And James, remember what I wrote you last? Was I right?)

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