to real jazz in the fleshand lots of ittook place in
Copenhagen in the early fall of 1938. Fats Waller was touring Scandinavia
and my mother, bless her, got us tickets to one of his concerts.
I hardly knew any English; at not quite nine years old, I had only
recently switched from German, having left Vienna in the wake of
the Nazi takeover of Austria, to Danish. But that was no problem.
I had never even seen anyone remotely
resembling this mountain of a man in constant motion, or heard anything
like the music he produced with his hands, his voice and his whole
body. Fats, as he might have put it, was mesmerizing, and treated
me to a matchless sendoff to the land of jazz. I haven't left yet.