In most photos of the Rolling Stones, Charlie Watts, who died this week at 80, looked like the band's accountant. Unlike Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Brian Jones and Bill Wyman, Watts didn't seem to fit in nor did it appear he wanted to. And in many ways he didn't. Watts, at the tail end of the 1950s, was on his way to a jazz drumming career, or so he hoped. But that sort of life was clearly going to be a big gamble, since it didn't take long to realize that jazz was drying up around him. The 1950s were ending fast.
In all fairness to Watts, most of us start out heading someplace because we want to and wind up someplace else because we had to. That was Watts. Like many young serious British jazz drummers of this period, Watts fell under the spell of English players like Phil Seaman, Tony Crombie, Lennie Hastings, Kenny Clare and Jackie Dougan. They lived hard lives touring and playing smoke-filled clubs for less money than they should have received. But they loved the fraternity and camaraderie of jazz, the taut intensity of polyrhythmic playing, and the mandatory risks that made jazz drumming special and rewarding. If you managed to break into that scene, you were indeed exceptional and cool.
In the late 1950s, while in art school, Watts played in jazz combos in Middlesex, England, with an eye on London. But in 1961, Alexis Korner approached him to join his Blues Incorporated band. Watts was heading to Denmark for a graphic design gig and took a rain check. When he returned to England at the start of 1962, he joined the band but kept his advertising agency day job. He still wasn't sure what he wanted to do.
Operating in an R&B orbit and playing in blues clubs, it was only time before Watts would meet Brian Jones, Ian Stewart, Mick Jagger and Keith Richards in mid-1962. Blues fanatics, they wanted Watts in their new group, the Rollin' Stones. According to Keith, they turned to shoplifting to help pay Watts what he wanted to sit in at the start of '63. A month later, Watts became the band's official drummer, recommending Ginger Baker to Korner as his replacement.
Watts likely imagined at the time that his bit with the Stones was a pit stop, a way to make some money before moving on to a jazz group. Blues wasn't jazz, but it was a lucrative cousin. Before Watts could reconsider, the Stones' fame and fortune took off following the success of the Beatles and the Dave Clark 5 in the U.S. in 1964. That's when Watts probably heard the heavy metal trap door slam shut. He was stuck.
For more than 50 years, Watts made a fortune touring with the Stones but found himself playing many of the same hits over and over again in concert. It was a Faustian bargain for the drummer who loved Charlie Parker. While Watts would be photographed smiling from time to time, his face was typically as still and emotionless as an Alpine lake, the regret in his eyes impossible to hide. The Stones was a job for Watts, something he settled for artistically, and he made the most of it, giving the band a sassy feel.
In exchange, Watts never became a true jazz player, he never became a significant graphic artist and he seemed to have no idea how he wound up drumming for the world's greatest rock band. But once you're in and the rocket takes off, your entire life grows accustomed to the checks, the luxury and the attention. It's a different kind of cool measured in things like suits and homes rather than self-satisfaction and admiration of peers.
Watts in public seemed to live an internal, what-if life. He always appeared to be wondering what might have been had he been determined to give jazz a go, if he had been accepted in jazz circles and made the financial sacrifice. He might have starved, but at least he'd be in his element. Perhaps then he might have been pleased with himself.
Over the years, Watts bankrolled a string of jazz groups to briefly re-live the chills of playing brushes or bop. And for a short time in between Stones tours, while his jazz combos and big band played, Watts was transported back to that crossroads in 1963. But deep down, he had to have known that the jazz groups he assembled were rides in his own amusement park. As good as the experience was, he quietly must have yearned for the improvisational challenges of playing with the heavy cats he respected. After all, what could possibly be more rewarding than one or more of these guys looking over at him after a set with a smile that said job well done.
For Watts, that was the dream that got away. Images of Stan Levey, Max Roach, Buddy Rich, Louie Bellson, Art Blakey, Kenny Clarke, Don Lamond and Roy Haynes danced in his head. Rather than spring into Jordu or Along Came Betty, he'd continue to play Jumpin' Jack Flash and Brown Sugar night after night on tour, perched Sphinx-like at his jazz drum kit imagining he was keeping time behind his heroes at Ronnie Scott's or the Village Vanguard and rising to the occasion.
For me, Watts always looked the way a saloon song sounds: Sullen and riddled with regret. No different than the way many people feel when what they wanted to do becomes what they have to do. A terrific rock drummer with a jazz veneer, Watts just wasn't very good at hiding his disappointment. He had married the wrong career.
JazzWax clips: Here's Charlie Watts on The Dennis Miller Show in 1992 with his quintet. This clip more than any other illustrates Watts in his true element, experiencing the pleasure of a dream...
And here's a video documentary sent over by Fred Augerman on when Charlie Watts met jazz drummer Stan Levey...
