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Any song, babe, in the key of fine
Jazz, strippers, belly-dancing, Nordstrom
whatever the gig, Herbie Hall dug it
He'd show up at his gigs with no music, no songbook, just a pair of hands. "Don't worry, babe," he'd say reassuringly. "Everything's cool, man. I don't need the book."
He was the world's biggest warehouse of songs, and nobody ever stumped him.
Customers at the piano bars could call out the names of songs, and with a snap of the finger, he could play them. If the key wasn't right for a singer, he'd switch in an instant.
"Yeah, man, I can do that," he said. "Yeah, babe."
Herbie Hall had learned how to work with a variety of acts as a teenager, when his first real gig was backing strippers at the Star Theater, a burlesque house in downtown Portland.
His entire career, he was there to please, and it didn't matter to him whether he got his name listed as a performer. That was fine, with him, man, just fine.
Herbie Hall was the pianist with the comfortable, swinging style at the cocktail lounge, nightclub, the jazz show, the piano bar. He was backing the singers at all the hotels, or playing with the big bands or his own small ensembles.
He could have gone far in the business, but he liked being his own boss, and was content to live in the small Parkrose house he bought in 1962. He had all the work he could handle.
Herbie had bladder and colon cancer, and subbing at the London Grill was one of his last jobs. When, as a result of his illnesses, his left hand stopped working well --he was left-handed --the piano's fall board went down for the last time on his Mason & Hamlin. He died July 5, 2008, at 73.
His Mason & Hamlin used to sit at the Chicken Coop jazz club on Northeast Sandy Boulevard and it was covered with chicken grease when he acquired it. As a teen in the 1950s, Herbie sneaked into the Chicken Coop, a magnet for would-be musicians. Big name singers such as Ella Fitzgerald once performed there.
Herbie started off with piano lessons at age 8, growing up with his older brother. His father was in industrial real estate, and his mother was a homemaker; both parents liked to sing. He was reared in Ardenwald, took drafting classes at Milwaukie High School, and by 18, he was a thoroughly professional player.
By day, the budding young jazz player who modeled himself after pianist Art Tatum was a draftsman for the Portland School District. By night, he played piano. Soon he discovered he was happier playing piano full time, and he made a lot more money, too. His career was launched.
He also played glockenspiel and piano with the 234th Army Band, "Oregon's Own."
Along the way, he had three shorter marriages before meeting Linda Anderson 32 years ago; they lived together for 12 years, and then married in 1998. Herbie never had children.
There was more to Herbie than the piano, though. He built remote-control airplanes and ships. He had owned a motorcycle, a small cabin cruiser, a Cessna 150, and a red 1962 convertible Corvair that he used for his special gigs; otherwise he hauled speakers and his electronic piano in an older car. He was known for his frugality.
He met just about everybody in his line of work. He knew drug addicts, the wealthy and the successful.
When asked where he had played, his response was: "Where haven't I played?"
He was there in the Hoyt Hotel's Roaring '20s room for tunes from "My Fair Lady," cha-chas, Sinatra and Perry Como. He was at the Three Star Restaurant on Barbur Boulevard playing Middle Eastern music during a late 1960s belly-dancing craze.
You might have heard him play "Have a Heart" or "In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning" at the Jade West, Tuck Lung, the Frontier Room, Bill's Gold Coin or Top o' the Cosmo. You might have seen him play in the McCormick & Schmick's piano "picture frame."
You might have heard him play "They Can't Take That Away from Me" or "Two for the Road" during a Mother's Day brunch at the Sheraton, the Shilo Inn, the Red Lion, or Charbonneau Country Club. You might have cruised to his sounds on the Queen of the West or Empress of the North.
You might have heard his electric piano outside the Widmer Brothers Brewery during the Portland Marathon. Maybe you heard him and his ensemble, Society Strings, at a Classical Chinese Garden wedding.
And, of course, he worked for 20 years playing the piano at Nordstrom stores both downtown and at the Lloyd Center. If the pianist who once played for strippers at the Star Theater considered this one of his more humdrum gigs, it was steady daytime work, he got an employee discount, and how could you beat getting paid to play the piano?
And whether the gig paid $75 or $750 really didn't matter.
"Man, it covers me, babe," he would say, "it covers me."