Imagine this scenario, if you will. It's 1969.
Okay, setting the scene. Yeah, and the world
is just shifting on its axis, you know? Yeah.
You've got Woodstock, the moon landing, the absolute
height of the counterculture. A pretty wild time
to be alive. Exactly. And you are a young 20
-something musician. Living in London, you've
been grinding in the local scene, playing pubs,
making a little noise, but nothing global yet.
Right. So you decide to take a quick two -week
vacation to visit New York City. Just a vacation.
Just a fortnight. You know, see the sights, sketch
a vibe, maybe hear some heavyweights play at
the Village Vanguard. Sure, why not? You pack
a light bag and you buy a return ticket. I feel
like I know exactly where this is going. And
I have a strong feeling that return ticket was
a really bad investment. Oh, it was a terrible
investment. Yeah. Because this guy. He never
used it. Wow. He went for a two -week holiday
and ended up basically accidentally becoming
a legend of the American jazz scene. He literally
never moved back. You know, accidentally is a
strong word, but in this specific case, it really
fits. We are talking about David Williams. David
Happy Williams, exactly. Right. Born in 1946.
A Trinidadian double bassist. who, well, if you
look at the liner notes of some of the greatest
albums of the last 50 years, he is just everywhere.
He really is. But he's rarely the guy on the
front cover. Which is, honestly, the hallmark
of The Perfect Sideman. It's a fascinating story
of serendipity, but also, and we'll get into
this, immense preparation. Yes. We're pulling
from a bunch of biographical records today, his
extensive discography, and several interviews
to piece this whole journey together. And our
mission for this deep dive is pretty specific
for you guys listening. We want to trace how
a kid from Port of Spain moved from playing steel
pans in the schoolyard. To the upright bass.
Right, to becoming the absolute heartbeat of
the Cedar Walton Tria. A legendary group. And
somehow landing a song in a classic Eddie Murphy
movie along the way. It really is a masterclass
in the concept of the versatile sideman. You
know, that musician who can connect distinct
worlds. Like Calypso, soul, hard bop. Exactly.
But who often just flies totally under the radar
of the general public. So let's unpack this.
We have to start in Trinidad, right? We do. Because
you don't just wake up with that kind of innate
rhythm. That has to be baked in from the start.
Right. So David Larry Williams was born in Woodbrook,
Port of Spain, in September 1946. And when we
say music was in his blood, we aren't just throwing
around a cliche here. No, no. His father was
John Williams, known as Buddy Williams. And for
those listening who might not be deep into the
history of Trinidadian music, who exactly was
Buddy Williams? He was a massive deal. In the
1940s and 50s, Buddy Williams was a bass player
himself, and he was one of the best -known band
leaders in all of Trinidad. Oh, wow. So David
grew up watching his father literally command
the stage. He wasn't just hearing music around
the house. He was seeing the business. of it.
The actual profession. Exactly. He saw the discipline
required to lead a band and to hold down the
low end night after night. That has to set a
certain standard in the household. You're not
just banging on pots and pans. You're watching
a true professional operate. Well, actually,
he sort of was banging on pans at first. Oh,
really? Yeah. David started super young, around
five years old. He began on piano, moved to violin,
and being in Trinidad, he obviously gravitated
toward the steel pan. The steel pan connection
is so cool to me. The source material mentions
he played pan in a group called the Invader Steel
Band as a teenager. Yes. Which, by the way, is
just a fantastic name for a band. It's legendary
down there. But think about the musical training
that gives you early on. The steel pan is a percussive
instrument, sure, but it's highly melodic. And
very syncopated. Incredibly syncopated. You learn
to feel rhythm in a very forward, driving way.
It's so different from learning, say, classical
piano, where you might be counting strictly from
sheet music. Right. It's more visceral. Pan is
all about the feel, the groove. So he has this
rhythmic DNA just locked in. But when does the
upright bass actually come into the picture?
Because carrying a steel pan is one thing. Hauling
a double bass around an island is a major commitment
for a kid. It is. The pivot point, the moment
his career really begins to take its true shape,
is at age 12. Okay. He was attending the Tranquility
Boys School in Port of Spain, and that is where
he switched to the bass in earnest. So literally
following in his dad's footsteps. Precisely.
Picking up his father's instrument. But he didn't
stay in Trinidad for long. This is where the
story gets international very quickly. Right,
1962. Yeah, in 62, his sister got a scholarship
to study piano in London. So he just tags along.
Essentially, yeah. He moved to join her, and
he actually enrolled at the London College of
Music. Formal training. He studied there for
a year. But what is really fascinating is his
mindset during this whole London era. He wasn't
just a student sitting in a stuffy practice room
working on scales all day. All right, I found
this quote from him about that specific time
that's just really telling. He said, and I'm
paraphrasing a bit, he said, I started getting
offers and gigs. I was working in nightclubs,
you know, wherever I could play. Pubs, it didn't
matter. And I had this desire, this thing, to
just get out there and play. That is the hustle.
That hustle absolutely defines his early career.
Just playing anywhere. London in the 60s was
vibrant, but it was tough. You're playing in
these smoky pubs where the piano is probably
completely out of tune, the acoustics are terrible,
and the crowd might be, well, rowdy. Very rowdy.
You have to learn to project your sound organically.
You have to learn to be the anchor when everything
else around you is chaotic. It's basically boot
camp for a rhythm section player. Exactly. He
wasn't sitting around waiting for the perfect,
pristine venue. He was building the hours, earning
his stripes. And that work ethic is exactly why,
when he took that fateful trip to New York in
1960, He was ready for what happened next. Yeah.
Okay, so let's get back to that trip. The two
-week vacation that never ended. He lands in
NYC. He's just visiting. He's a tourist. How
does he go from tourist to working New York musician
so fast? It happened in a flash. It's one of
those stories that honestly sounds scripted for
a movie. Right. He went to a gig just to watch.
It was a group featuring Beaver Harris on drums
and Grashen Moncur on trombones. Serious players.
Very serious avant -garde players. Right. But
they had a major problem that night. Their bass
player wasn't there. Wait, they just didn't show
up. Or they were late, or they desperately needed
a cell at the last minute. The historical details
are a bit hazy on the exact reason, but the result
is jazz history. Wow. David Williams had his
bass, or he borrowed one, and he just stepped
up to sit in. And he wasn't just subbing for
some random local guy, right? Who was he filling
in for? This is the crazy part. He was subbing
for Jimmy Garrison. Jimmy Garrison? Yes. As in
the bassist for the classic John Coltrane quartet?
The very same. The man who played on A Love Supreme?
Okay, we need to pause on that for a second for
the listeners. Jimmy Garrison wasn't just a bass
player. He was a sheer force of nature. Absolutely.
He played with this massive drone -like intensity.
He held down the low end while Coltrane basically
went to outer space. That's a great way to put
it. So imagine the pressure. You are 23 years
old, fresh off the boat from London. On vacation.
On vacation. And you are stepping into the shoes
of the man holding down the low end for Coltrane's
drummer. If you choke there. You're done. You
are absolutely done. New York musicians can be
ruthless. If you can't swing, if you can't keep
up, you get walked off the stage. Period. But
Williams didn't choke. He didn't. He clearly
had the chops and, maybe more importantly, the
confidence. The fallout from that single night
was immediate. People noticed. Oh, they noticed.
He started getting offered work right away. He
realized pretty quickly, I can't go back to London.
The work is here. The energy is here. And he
had some heavy hitters in his corner right off
the bat, too. The sources mention Ron Carter
actually gave him leads. Yes, he did. And getting
the nod from Ron Carter is like. being knighted
in the bass world. Seriously. Carter is arguably
the most recorded bassist in jazz history. For
him to take an interest in a young Williams and
start passing him gigs, that is the ultimate
seal of approval. It's the keys to the city.
It really is. Through those connections, he started
working with people like Gap Mangione and Chuck
Mangione. Which is wild. One minute you're a
tourist, the next minute Ron Carter is handing
you gigs. But here is where it gets really interesting
to me. looking at his trajectory, he didn't just
get stuck in the traditional jazz box. No, not
at all. He moves to Washington, D .C., and takes
a hard left turn into soul and R &B. Which really
speaks to his versatility. He spent two years
as the bass player for Roberta Flack. Roberta
Flack. Killing me softly, that Roberta Flack.
Yeah, correct. And during that same period, he
was working with the soul legend Donny Hathaway,
too. Yeah. Now... Musically speaking, how different
is that? Going from subbing for Jimmy Garrison,
which is high intensity avant -garde jazz, to
playing for Roberta Flack. It requires a completely
different kind of discipline. How so? Well, in
avant -garde jazz, you are conversing, you are
reacting in real time, you can change the harmony,
you can stretch the time. It's very free. Exactly.
But in soul music, especially with a powerhouse
vocalist like Flack, your job is the pocket.
A pocket. Yes, you have to lock in, you have
to play the perfect note in the perfect spot.
Every single time. No overplaying? None. You
cannot step on the vocal. You have to be almost
invisible, but absolutely essential to the groove.
So he masters the pocket. And speaking of groove,
this leads to my absolute favorite fact about
David Abbey Williams from our deep dive. Oh,
I know what this is. It is the connection I never
saw coming. We have to talk about the movie Trading
Places. I had a feeling you would zero in on
this part. I mean, how could I not? It is an
80s classic. Eddie Murphy, Dan Aykroyd. The whole
stock market scene. So Williams releases an album
as a leader in 1979 called Soul is Free. Right.
This was his first album as a leader and it was
released on AVI Records. And there's a track
on there called Out of the Sheets Into the Streets.
Which is a great title. Fantastic title. And
somehow this track ends up in the soundtrack
for Trading Places in 1983. It just shows the
immense range of the man. He isn't just a jazz
purist who refuses to engage with pop culture
or other genres. He has a track in a blockbuster
Hollywood comedy. It's this funky disco adjacent
track that just undeniably works. I love the
mental image of a serious jazz musician sitting
in a crowded movie theater watching Eddie Murphy
be hilarious and hearing his own bass line. pumping
through the surround sound speakers. It's a great
resume, Dolder, to say the least. He's backing
Roberta Flack. He's on a Hollywood soundtrack.
But then, and this is the major pivot back me,
he returns to the hardcore jazz world to join
one of the most prestigious groups of the entire
era. The Cedar Walton Trio. Yes. This is really
the defining era of his career, starting right
around 1982. Set the stage for us here. Why was
the Cedar Walton Trio such a massive deal? Because
to a casual listener, it might just sound like
another jazz group. Cedar Walton was a pianist
of immense, immense influence, deeply rooted
in hard bop with very sophisticated harmonies.
Okay. He came out of Art Blakey's Jazz Messengers,
which, if you know jazz history, is basically
the University of Hard Bop. The proving ground.
Exactly. The trio Walton formed was considered
the absolute gold standard. Jazz Journal actually
called them one of the most regarded trios in
contemporary acoustic jazz. They were so locked
in, they were often called the Iron Triangle.
The Iron Triangle. That is a heavy nickname.
And Williams wasn't just a hired gun for a tour.
He was a full member. He was a core member. He
joined after the sad death of Sam Jones, who
was another legend that Williams had actually
subbed for previously. Subbing for legends seems
to be his specialty. It really was. And in this
trio, he was playing alongside the brilliant
drummer Billy Higgins. Now, the sources say he
actually met Billy Higgins way back in 73. They
had a long, established history. And that is
crucial. The relationship between the bass and
the drums is the engine of any band. Right. Williams
and Higgins had this almost telepathic connection.
Let's geek out on that for a second. What does
telepathic mean when you're talking about a rhythm
section? Well, Billy Higgins was famously known
as the smiling drummer. I love that. He played
with a lot of air in his sound. His ride cymbal
beat was dancing. It was almost light and effervescent.
Okay. David Williams, on the other hand, provided
the earth. His bass lines were big, thick, and
they sat right dead center in the beat. The anchor.
Exactly. So you had Higgins dancing up on top
and Williams holding down the floor. When you
have a rhythm section that locks in like that,
literally every soloist in the world wants to
play with you. And looking at his resume as a
sideman, it seems like everyone actually did
play with him. I'm looking at this list from
the sources. Woody Shaw, Stan Getz. Dexter Gordon.
The absolute giants of the saxophone. Freddie
Hubbard on trumpet. Elvin Jones. Art Pepper.
And then he's backing vocalists like Abby Lincoln
and even the opera singer Kathleen Battle. It
is staggering. The breadth of that list is staggering.
What is it about his specific playing? I mean,
Stan Getz is very cool. Lyrical jazz. Heavy bossa
nova influence. Right. But then Elvin Jones is
just intense. polyrhythmic fire. How does one
single guy fit both of those extremes perfectly?
It comes back to that nickname he earned, Happy.
He is known throughout the industry for being
incredibly supportive. As a bassist, you really
have two main jobs. You define the harmony and
you define the time. Yeah. Williams did both
of those things with such incredible solidity
that the soloist always felt safe to go anywhere
they wanted. He adapted to them. He didn't force
his style on them? Never. If Elvin Jones wanted
to push the tempo and make it aggressive, Williams
was right there digging in deep. If Stan Getz
wanted to lay back and be super melodic, Williams
created the space for that. He wasn't trying
to be the star. He was trying to make the music
work. That is a rare skill in itself. Just completely
checking your ego at the door. Absolutely. The
bassist is the navigation system of the band.
If the bassist gets lost, the whole band crashes.
And David Williams never got lost. He never got
lost. But later in his career, he did step into
the spotlight a bit more as a leader and in a
way that brought his whole journey full circle,
which I find really beautiful. We're talking
about the pan jazz era. Yeah, the pan jazz stuff.
This feels like the moment where all the threads
we've been talking about finally come together.
Yes. Remember, he started on the steel pan as
a little kid in Trinidad. So after decades of
conquering the American jazz scene, playing in
the Iron Triangle, mastering hard bop and soul,
he began to actively synthesize those two worlds.
I love when artists reach that point in their
career. It's like they're saying, I've learned
all your rules, I've mastered them, and now I'm
going to break them with my own. That is exactly
what it is. He started writing and recording
music that explicitly fused Trinidadian calypso
and steel pan rhythms with the highly complex
jazz language he had mastered with Cedar Walton.
The key album we found here is called Read, Write,
and Be Happy Right. That's the one, released
in 2003. Recorded with Ron Reed and Orville Wright.
Yeah, the title is a fun play on their names,
obviously. Read, write, and be happy. But the
music itself is this gorgeous hybrid. And looking
at his discography as a leader during that time,
you see titles like Ping -pong Obsession from
2001 and Rhythm of the Street from 2000, he is
really leaning hard into that rhythmic heritage.
Ping -pong is actually an old local term for
a specific type of steel pan. Oh, I didn't know
that. Yeah, the tenor pan. So even in the album
titles, he's directly paying homage to the instrument
of his childhood. He proved that you don't have
to choose between being a serious, respected
American jazz musician and being a proud Trinidadian.
You can be both simultaneously. What does that
fusion actually sound like in practice? Is it
just traditional jazz with a steel drum playing
the melody? It's much deeper than that. It's
about the underlying pulse. Calypso has a very
specific bounce to it. Like a groove? Yeah, a
two -beat feel that is very joyous and forward
-moving. Jazz, on the other hand, often relies
on a four -beat swing. Williams found a way to
make his bass lines dance like a calypso but
walk like a traditional jazz line. It creates
this incredibly infectious, happy groove, hence
the nickname. So let's take a step back and look
at the whole picture here. We have a guy who
starts in Port of Spain, hustles in smoky London
pubs as a teenager, accidentally breaks into
the highest echelon of the New York scene by
subbing for a Coltrane legend. Jimmy Garrison.
Tours the country holding down the pocket for
Roberta Flack, anchors the Iron Triangle with
Cedar Walton, and ends up creating this beautiful
pan -jazz fusion. It is a remarkable unmatched
trajectory from Woodbrook to Westminster to the
village vanguard. It really is. So what is your
big takeaway from the life of David Appie Williams?
If you had to... distill his entire career into
one lesson for us today, what would it be? For
me, it is entirely about the power of the foundation.
In our culture, we tend to obsess over the front
man, the singer, the fiery saxophone soloist,
the person standing directly in the spotlight.
But David Williams teaches us that the music
actually lives in the foundation. Without the
foundation, the house falls down. Exactly. Without
him, those Cedar Walton albums simply do not
swing the way they do. Roberta Flack's grooves
don't sit as deep. He proved that being the Sideman
isn't about being secondary. It is actually about
being the solid ground upon which the stars are
able to stand. And he did all of it while fiercely
maintaining his own unique cultural identity.
He held it down, whether it was for a jazz giant,
a soul legend, or an Eddie Murphy comedy. Precisely.
He simply made everyone else sound better. So
here's a question for you listening right now.
The next time you were putting on your favorite
classic album. Whether it's a soul record, a
jazz masterpiece, or even watching an old movie.
Stop listening to the melody for just a second.
Ignore the lead singer. Ignore the blazing saxophone
solo. Ask yourself, who is holding down the rhythm?
Who is locking in that low end and making your
head nod? And what incredible, unlikely, impossible
journey brought them to that specific recording
studio on that specific day? Because usually
the story behind the bass player in the shadows
is just as fascinating as the person holding
the microphone. Thanks for taking this deep dive
with us. Catch you next time.