Jaco
Late August, 1987. Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Land of plenty. From the holy to the lowly, it was exactly what it was supposed to be.
I was sitting at the hotel bar with my mate Ricky and a handful of others, drinking beer, joking and repeatedly warning everyone present that if they threw me into the swimming pool and I survived, I would return more powerful than any of them could possibly imagine. Obi-Wan Kenobi style. Thankfully nobody lost an ear or a nose, so I suppose my Jedi powers remained mercifully dormant.
Ever since “Pup Harris” grabbed me from behind and dragged me into the deep end of the Kingfisher pool on Oak Hill back in 1965, I had developed a firm preference for my water dry. Pup quickly discovered that my violently flailing arms and legs were impossible to contain and let me go, whereupon I proceeded to sink with remarkable efficiency. Swimming was never really my thing. Sinking? I was your man.
So there we all were with Club 18–30, supposedly searching for deep and meaningful conversation, though in truth it was probably a mixture of beer, girls and the promise of an inevitable hangover the following morning.
The beach boulevard was crammed. Every “Pimp My Ride” enthusiast in Florida seemed to be cruising the strip in polished chrome and outrageous paintwork. Looking back now, it’s astonishing how casually we abuse the world around us for little more than entertainment, alcohol and the opportunity to showboat our fading tattoos, oversized alloy wheels and flaming-dragon door panels. Still, I cannot deny that some of those cars looked magnificent.
It was early evening when Ricky, myself and a couple of lads from Bristol decided to wander from bar to bar along the strip, stopping wherever took our fancy. One small beer, then on to the next. Repeat indefinitely.
With so many bars competing for customers, it was common to find staff mingling freely with the clientele between serving drinks. Which is why, when we walked into one large open bar with booths lining the walls and barely anybody standing near the counter, I naturally assumed the man talking animatedly to a small group of customers was working there.
Background music drifted through the room as I approached him. I was still several yards away when I heard his voice rise above the noise.
“You know me?” he said to the people he was speaking with.
I think he noticed their eyes shift toward me because he suddenly turned and saw me walking over. Before I could even gather my thoughts, he crossed the distance between us in seconds and was suddenly standing directly in front of me.
“You know me?”
What could I possibly say to that?
“I do?” I answered, questioningly uncertain.
“Yes, you know me. You know me?”
The whole exchange felt surreal, like an argument between Batman and the Joker. The more insistent he became, the more convincing he sounded. It reminded me of police dramas where suspects are slowly worn down into submission through repetition alone.
“You know me?”
He was extremely close now. Eye to eye. Nose to nose. Far too close for comfort. I stepped back and stared at him properly. He was smiling at me as though we were old friends.
My confusion deepened. Then he said something else, and before I could respond my mind suddenly completed the connection.
My jaw dropped open.
I raised my hand slowly and pointed at him.
“You’re…”
“Jaco Pastorius!”
Instantly he wrapped his arms around me, lifted me clean off the floor and carried me around the bar shouting at the top of his voice:
“This man knows me! This man knows me! This man knows me!”
And just like that, the evening belonged to Jaco.
We spent hours together talking about music, life and whatever else drifted into conversation. The following day he apparently came looking for me at the place we were staying, but I had gone out somewhere and missed him completely.
Two weeks later, after I had returned home to England, Jaco went to the Midnight Bottle Club in Wilton Manors. After being refused entry, he was violently beaten by a doorman trained in martial arts.
He was admitted to Broward General Medical Centre in Fort Lauderdale with severe facial injuries and multiple fractures. He later suffered a brain haemorrhage and fell into a coma. On the 21st September, 1987, life support was withdrawn.
Jaco Pastorius was thirty-five years old. Just six years older than me.
I began writing this with laughter and warm memories still hanging in the air around me. Even now, recalling those few strange and wonderful hours we spent together fills me with the same disbelief and exhilaration I felt at the time.
But beneath all of that remains the sadness of a terrible and unnecessary loss.
Jaco was, to me, the most innovative and influential bass player of his generation, and I will always remain grateful that, however briefly, our paths crossed.
Peace, JP. Rest easy.