On the Road
The last time I saw Stéphane was in Australia early 1996, when he was touring. He was very frail, but he still had a great sense of humor. It struck me how amazing he was—he was determined to play to the end, and he more or less did that. Music was his whole life. He loved to be on the road, staying in hotels. He used to get fed up when he was home in Paris; he would want to get out again.

On the road we sometimes practiced together. He didn’t like practicing, so he would ring me and say, “Come to the hotel room and we’ll play a few tunes.” We’d have some whiskey—he liked to have a little drink—but he’d always keep the TV on. He liked to watch gangster movies. It was bizarre: we’d sit on the edge of the bed and play and watch gangster movies!

But the tremendous way he communicated his music is what influenced me the most. The audience could tell that he was playing for them. He was also determined to enjoy himself; we used to play pretty much the same program—we toured for 11 years—but I never got tired of it. Every night was like a lesson, and it was fun. He was so grateful to be able to play music, and to be able to travel around the world and make a good living and bring happiness to people. That was the magic of Grappelli.

I went to his funeral in Paris, and it wasn’t really a sad occasion. Here was somebody who’d had a marvelous life playing music and making others happy with it. I think sometimes musicians can be guilty of undervaluing the gift they have, but he knew what he had was special, and he didn’t squander it at all.
—Martin Taylor


Following Stéphane, Finding Myself
When I compare the stories I’ve heard about Grappelli with my own experiences playing with him, the picture emerges of a character like Chauncey Gardener, as played by Peter Sellers in the movie Being There. He would look at you a certain way, maybe make a strange gesture or some enigmatic remark, and we would all spend our lives trying to figure out what he meant. Inevitably, that meaning would get spun to fit with our own needs and worldviews.

I first met Grappelli in the late ’70s, when he came to San Francisco to play with the David Grisman Quintet at the Great American Music Hall. I was a big fan of the DGQ and often played double-fiddle arrangements with them when they were in the area. At this particular show I made sure to get to the hall early, hoping to see the great man up close. I went downstairs to the back room where they rehearsed, and there he was, right in front of me, playing with the quartet. Awestruck, I just sat there staring at him—for quite a long time, evidently, because all of a sudden, he looked right at me and stuck his tongue out as far as it would go. Of course, I was completely mortified, and I immediately turned and slunk away.

Fortunately for me, later on that day he heard me warming up, and he asked Grisman to invite me to play onstage with the band. As exciting as that was, now I had another problem—how the heck was I going to survive playing onstage with the greatest jazz violinist of all time? I had spent much of my career trying to play just like him, transcribing his solos, playing in “Django bands,” dressing like him, even trying to ape his facial expressions (and that’s pretty hard for a half Hindu to accomplish). So I started off just trying to match his style. But right away, it was obvious that this was a ridiculous thing to do. There was, is, and will always be only one Stéphane, and no matter how hard I would try to play like him, it could never be more than a pale imitation. Besides, I could see that he was not at all interested in me “doing him.” He wanted to hear me play like myself.

As the years went by, I was lucky enough to get a few more chances to play and talk with him, first with the DGQ and later with the Turtle Island Quartet. Those times were precious. Every moment was a lesson, even the tongue incident. Like everyone else, I have my own interpretation of what he was trying to communicate. He was trying to tell me not to idolize him, that he was as human as the rest of us. He seemed to be saying, “It’s not what I play, it’s how I play, which reflects how I live. If you’re going to emulate me, follow that, not the notes. Find your own way.”

Of course, there are other possible interpretations, but don’t tell me, I’m not interested. I know what he really meant. . . .
—David Balakrishnan