Home » Jazz Articles » Django's Cosmic Echo » Chapter Twelve: Toots is in Town
Chapter Twelve: Toots is in Town
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1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18The roar of the KLM jet engines faded as the plane taxied towards a private section of Schiphol. At the behest of EMI, a sleek black Mercedes limousine waited discreetly on the tarmac. As the VIP stairway was positioned, a familiar figure descended: Jean-Baptiste "Toots" Thielemans, instantly recognizable with his iconic dark-rimmed glasses and impeccably clad in a dark gray sharkskin suit. Dirk Bakker, unable to contain his elation, stepped forward, his smile wide, hand extended.
"Welkom, meneer Thielemans. Hoe was uw vlucht?" (Welcome, Mr. Thielemans. How was your flight?) Toots, a warm smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, patted Dirk's upper arm as he shook his hand. "Meneer Thielemans? Alsjeblieft, noem me Toots. Het is nog steeds Toots voor jou, hè?" (Mr. Thielemans? Please, call me Toots. It's still Toots for you, eh?) He chuckled, a gravelly, inviting sound. "Anyway, I'm on LA time and thinking in English."
Dirk's grin widened. "We only played together once, a lifetime ago in some smoky club in Antwerp. I can't believe you remember that!" "Ah, the memory plays tricks, but the music... the music stays," Toots said, a twinkle in his eye. "I can't wait for you to meet Django," Dirk pressed on, ushering him towards the waiting car. "I bet he didn't sleep a wink last night, he's so excited." Toots smiled and gave a subtle wink. "Well, at least I managed to knock off for five hours over the Atlantic. But a sixteen-hour flight—just get me to the hotel!"
"You got it," Dirk chuckled. "Your bags will be delivered directly." As the Mercedes glided smoothly away from the airport and towards the city, Toots, clearly tired but with an undercurrent of curiosity, leaned back. "Ronnie Scott is singing your boy's praises," he said. "Told me I'd regret it if I didn't accept this invitation." Dirk's expression was earnest. "All I'll say for now is, he wasn't exaggerating. You'll see. Django's been on a binge this week, listening to all your records. You know, he got it written into his EMI contract that he could record with you. That's how much he's looking forward to this." A flicker of surprise, then pleasure, crossed Toots's face. "Is that so? Well, the young man has taste." He paused. "So, tell me about this Paradiso. Ronnie mentioned it. Said we're going to be recording in a church?!" Dirk laughed audibly. "Oh yes, you haven't seen the Paradiso—you're in for a surprise. In fact," he added, a playful note in his voice, "you're in for a lot of surprises with this whole venture. But in a good way." They agreed to meet for a late breakfast the next day at eleven, at the Café Américain, adjacent to Toots's hotel, the legendary American Hotel on Leidseplein. Django would join them.
The next morning, the Café Américain buzzed with its usual art nouveau elegance. Django, dressed neatly but with an undercurrent of nervous energy, sat with Dirk. When Toots arrived, looking refreshed, Django rose respectfully. The handshake was firm, Django's eyes filled with an almost reverent admiration. Dirk's French was limited, but he could follow the animated conversation that quickly flowed between the two Belgians. For Django, it was an eerie, deeply moving experience. Young Django was thrilled beyond words to be sitting across from this jazz giant, a man whose music he had come to adore. Yet in a cosmic sense,
Toots Thielemans
harmonica1922 - 2016
When Toots, with gentle curiosity, asked about his background, Django chose his words carefully. "I lost my mother when I was an infant, Toots. I never knew my father." He gestured towards Dirk. "Only recently did I discover I had an uncle." Dirk beamed with a paternal pride that was palpable. Django continued, "My father, he was Romani. So, I was accepted into the community, but... I bounced around a lot. Basically on my own, in a way. Music," he said, his gaze direct and sincere, "music is my mother tongue, if you know what I mean. It was my escape, my refuge. It is my raison d'être."
He then explained, somewhat shyly, how much he hoped to learn from Toots, not just about music, but about navigating this new, overwhelming world. "Should I stay in Europe? How do I manage a career? What should I do, what should I avoid?" Toots listened patiently, his expression warm and understanding. He took a sip of his coffee. "Ah, the big questions, eh?" he said with a soft chuckle. "Before all else, the music always comes first. That's the answer to the biggest question. Here is what I generally tell young musicians..."
"You must steal with your ears, not your fingers," Toots continued, leaning forward. "Listen to everyone—
Charlie Parker
saxophone, alto1920 - 1955
Billie Holiday
vocals1915 - 1959
The Beatles
band / ensemble / orchestraDjango absorbed every word. "And... improvisation?" "Ah, jazz is like life," Toots mused, a smile playing on his lips. "You don't know what's coming next. You have to listen, adapt, but stay true to your voice. Even in chaos, find the melody. It's a conversation, you see? Listening to the other musicians is as important as playing." He looked at Django kindly. "Carry your roots, but travel light. You're European? Good. Bring your folk tunes, your rain, your cobblestone soul to the stage. But don't let it cage you. Music has no borders—play with anyone who speaks the language, a Brazilian, a Nigerian, a Turk. Let the mix make you bigger."
Django, gushed, "Toots, your harmonica... it's like a human voice." Toots nodded. "This little instrument," he said, almost reverently, though he didn't have it with him, "it is my voice. It breathes with me. When I play, I'm singing without words. You understand? Life is your best teacher. When my wife passed, I played her memory. When I was homesick in New York, I whistled the canals of Brussels in my melodies. Don't hide from pain or joy—put it in the music. That's how you touch people."
Django then leaned in a little, his voice softer. "Toots, tell me about Brazil. The music seems... magical." Toots's eyes lit up, a familiar spark igniting. "Ah, Brazil! Man, what a place. The rhythm, you know? It just gets you. And the harmony, so rich, so... unexpected sometimes. And that saudade thing they talk about," he said, searching for the right way to put it into words for the young guitarist. "It's like... happy-sad, you know? Like smiling through tears, or crying with a full heart. It's deep, man. It's in the air, in the people. You can't just play samba or bossa nova; you gotta feel it. It's a whole vibe, a way of life expressed through every note. Gets under your skin, that music. You gotta go, Django. You gotta breathe it in for yourself. Trust your instincts, Django. Sometimes the smallest, simplest ideas are the ones that last."
Throughout the conversation, Toots's advice was delivered with that warm, gravelly chuckle, peppered with self-deprecating humour. "I'm just a Belgian with a harmonica—what do I know?" he'd say, before dropping another pearl of wisdom. He'd tap out rhythms on the table, hum a phrase to illustrate a point, dissolving the line between talking and music-making. Dirk watched, a quiet satisfaction on his face. Django was not just meeting an idol; he was receiving a masterclass in life and art, from a man who saw music not as a career, but as a way of breathing. The connection between the two musicians, one a legend, the other a legend in the making, was palpable. The air in the Café Américain seemed to shimmer with it.
Story by Alan Bryson, edited and assisted by AI.
Disclaimer: This is a fictional account exploring what might have happened if a temporal quantum event had occurred. While real musicians and historical figures appear within these pages, they exist here in an alternate timeline—a reality that quantum theory suggests was possible, but that never came to pass. All interactions, conversations, and events involving these individuals are entirely fictional, products of a world that exists only in the space between what was and what might have been.
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