Remembering James Booker

Posted: July 27th, 2026 | Filed under: JazzFest, Music, New Orleans | No Comments »

The exact connection is murky though I have a sense of it.

On Sunday evening I meandered over to Peterson Dumesnil to hear a duo perform from the porch to a smattering of wine drinking folks.

As I told some good friends I ran into, “When I read ‘New Orleans inspired,’ I was like a moth to a flame.”

The opening tune was a showcase for the fellow’s soprano saxophone chops.

My immediate thought, “This guy’s listened to more than a little Sidney Bechet.”

I forget my immediate pathway from there to piano genius James Booker from there.

Other than my ever present obsession with the Crescent City and its abundant musical tradition.

Back home I pulled out the lone James Booker collection on my shelf,  “King of the New Orleans Keyboard.”

As it has vexingly whenever I’ve listened, it didn’t really grab me.

Something about the base lines with his left hand. Similar to Fats Domino’s but different.

Plus I’d always missed the brilliance of the grace notes he tosses off with his right. And the classically inspired fills.

I heard Booker once. Solo. On a platform by himself at the ’76 JazzFest.

With his ever present eye patch, looking worn out beyond his years.

Like many artists experienced that weekend, I was not aware of him beforehand.

It didn’t take many bars of his playing for me to figure out he was a master.

My memory is that in the middle of some funky cover, he morphed into a classical piece, that he stopped after oh 90 seconds of that, looked at the assembled, laughed, continued on.

I now believe that’s not what happened.

Because I ventured farther down the rabbit hole when discovering the 2013 documentary Bayou Maharajah, and that for a few bucks I could view it on Prime.

The rest of my night was set.

Booker was infamously troubled, whacked, a pain in the ass and an addict. Which eventually did him in when he was in his early forties.

But, oh my, could he play.

The doc educated. He was inclined to slip into that classical mode in the middle of any song.

When he covered “Tipitina,” it could be equal parts Longhair and Rachmaninoff.

The film addresses the oft told story how DA Harry Connick had Booker give his pre-teen son piano lessons in lieu of a jail sentence.

What was truly illuminating about the documentary was how it doesn’t suffer from a flaw attendant in most of these affairs. Which rarely if ever examine how the music is crafted.

In this one there are extended interviews with Connick Jr. and Dr. John, when they explain how Booker played, what made him unique, what made him special at the keyboard.

It includes long interludes from his concerts, many filmed in Europe. Including:

There are a few still photos smattered in of him on that platform at Fest, when I was in attendance.

When my head hit the pillow, it was filled with gratitude.

That just by chance and luck, I’d heard one of the all time greats.

— c d kaplan

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