This commentary is by Bob Stannard of Manchester. He is an author, musician and former state legislator and lobbyist.
As I sat on a high chair at Tippy’s Restaurant in Eleuthera waiting to be called up to play with a local band, my phone rang. It rang at the exact moment that I heard my name called. I got up from the chair, opened the flap that secures my phone in its holder and looked to see who was calling.
It was Kenny B., the bassist in my former band. I had not talked with him in a few months and wanted to catch up with him, but it would have to wait. About a half-hour later I returned to my seat, removed my phone, went to voicemail and read the message that Kenny B. had left.
Sometime around the 1990s my wife, Alison, and I were invited to attend a party put on by the late Jake Burton Carpenter, of Burton Snowboards. He and his wife, Donna Carpenter, were living at the former Erdman home in East Dorset. I had spent a great deal of time at this place as I was friends with the oldest son, Cully Erdman. I had fond childhood memories of this place from the ‘60s, and now I was back there once again.
It was a terrific party with a lot of people enjoying the music of The X-Rays, a Burlington-based band whose bassist, the late Mark Ransom, used to live in Dorset. The band was smokin’, primarily because they had one of the best saxophone players I had ever heard. I had no idea who this guy was, but he really stole the show.
It would be well over a decade before I heard this sax player again. On Dec. 12, 2016, I had been asked to perform at the funeral service for the late Steve Audsley, formerly of England but a notable Rutland musician. Some years earlier I was in Steve’s band for a while. Anyone who had played with him had been asked to do a song at his tribute service.
As I waited in the wings of the Paramount Theater to go out on stage I watched and listened as this incredible saxophone player was out on stage blowing the roof off the place. It was the same guy I had seen at Jake’s party: Joe Moore. I stood riveted as I watched him work. This guy was a monster player.
I greeted him as he walked off the stage and introduced myself. After compliments on his playing I asked, “Are you in a band?”
“Not at the moment,” he replied.
I said, “You are now …”
That magical, random moment in time changed my life forever. For the next five years I would do many shows with Joe Moore on my right. From the first show we did together to our final show in October at the Weston Theater at Walker Farm, we entertained a lot of people and raised a lot of money for various charities.
After we had played together for a while, maybe a year or so, one night on stage he leaned over to me and asked, “Hey Bob, you mind if I sing one?”
He never told me that he sang. Of course I said, “sure.” Joe went into a rendition of Little Richard’s “Lucille” that left me shocked and stunned. Here’s this guy I had known and played with for quite some time belting out this song on a level I could only dream of. I had always felt that I was standing next to greatness when on stage with him, but this was something else. There are no words to describe what I was feeling.
When that show was over and we were back in the green room I approached Joe and said, “How come you never told me you sing?”
With that notorious half-grin that all of his friends know well, he responded, “You never asked.”
From that day forward I would save Joe’s vocal prowess for the end of the show. As the years passed I would tell people: “Joe Moore steals my show and I let him!” Joe made every other player on a stage rise to their highest level because Joe never played any gig one note shy of his A game. He was a consummate professional. And although he was a monster horn player, he never blew his own horn.
I found out from our drummer, Jeff Salisbury, that Joe had once played with the great Slim Harpo. Kenny B. told me that Joe had played with the Isley Brothers and Wilson Picket. Joe never once spoke about this. Not once. When I approached Joe about these icons that he performed with he simply and humbly said, “Yeah, I played with them.” He was the most understated man I think I’ve ever known. But put him on a stage and watch out.
I looked down at my phone and read the voicemail that Kenny B. had left. He called to inform me that Joe had just passed away from complications from back surgery. I had to read this four times before it sank in. On my left Peter Northcott was playing a beautiful saxophone solo in the Barry and the Coodas band. I closed my eyes and listened as I absorbed every note. I felt Joe on my right and in my mind’s eye I could see him grinning at me as he was about to take another amazing solo.
There’s a hole in the heart of the Vermont music world that will never be filled. Joseph Moore was the king of the saxophone and one amazing human. Safe travels my friend, my bandmate, my brother.
Watch this video by Pat Blair.
Toot Toot.
