Charlie Parker’s Nickname
Charlie Parker was bestowed the nickname “Yardbird” (eventually shortened to “Bird”) while on a tour bus (full of fellow musicians) when a chicken (in the middle of the road) was run over and killed. Mr. Parker halted the bus and collected the dead bird, which was plucked, dressed, and served for dinner later that night.
One could easily assume, that when the nickname was shortened to “Bird”, that it was applied to Charlie Parker apropos his exceptional musical abilities (“he sings like a bird”). But the name “Yardbird”, while jocular, was also a jibe; making fun of a country boy who seized a low-down opportunity.
Also consider that the nickname for Parker is already a nickname, an amusing descriptive for a bird that is limited to pecking around the yard: the chicken (Gallus gallus domesticus). The bird’s domestication making it someone’s (a human’s) property, while still allowing the creature to wander around the yard, the edge of the yard, and finally, unadvisedly, into the street.
It might be a question of when a nickname, the vernacular, becomes a proper noun. We lose track of its original meaning (like “chicken”?) and simply assign a sound, a symbol that designates the thing (animal or person). “Charlie” is already a nickname, the diminutive that Charles Mingus refused. Charlie “Yardbird” was good natured enough, or indifferent enough, so his nickname stuck, finally taking on other, deeper associations (he sang like “Bird”). Likewise, his brother-in-arms, Dizzy, flipped the jibe and imbued it with respect.
Charlie Parker leaping from a tour bus, seizing an opportunity that demanded immediacy (now or never) relates to his daring in the musical realm; discounting the jibes of fellow musicians to reap the coming now.
Another part of the myth sees the younger Mr. Parker knocked off a Kansas City stage during a “cutting contest”, unable, as a relative novice, to keep up with the changes, with the wit, with the demands of a fully functioning jazz musician. When he returns he’s come up to speed, meeting the challenge head on. Was it a matter of bargaining with the devil like Robert Johnson’s Afro-blue’s myth? I don’t think so . . . the love of the music had them “woodshedding”, in a private rehearsal, practicing for untold hours.
We assign birds an analogous quality in our own manners of speech; those birds that greet us with seeming cheer at the break of dawn; that provide a wide variety of “song”, baffling our sense of interpretive communication. But after all, we’re not exactly sure about the meaning of our own music, beyond its abstract, soothing and stimulating sounds.
In tandem with music, the Charlie Parker myth conjures up dissipation, a “sad life”, burdened with mental illness and addiction. He’s a warning, but also prodigious. He’s unlike the rest of us. And while this part of the myth casts a dysfunctional spotlight on the proceedings, the music itself is as joyful as ever, soundtracking the healthiest bird whirling over our heads, chattering a sonic greeting, inviting us up in the air . . . if you are so inclined.
Now read: “Jazz and the Earworm”
