By Jimmy Raney Back in 1939 or 1940, when I was just starting out to be a jazz musician, I was a Downbeat and Metronome freak. I devoured these two magazines in search of news of my heroes. I’m not talking about Benny Goodman or Artie Shaw. They were household words to everybody, as the Gabor sisters, The Grateful Dead and Kentucky Fried Chicken are today. I’m talking about the guys who played jazz on offbeat labels. I knew they all lived in New York City, and had penthouses overlooking Central Park. I went to the movies and saw jazzmen (portrayed by Cary Grant and David Niven) doing just that.…

Growing up the son of a musician is a unique experience. But growing up the son of a universally accepted genius in jazz is life defining. Despite his critical reputation, Jimmy Raney’s manner was matter of fact, almost like a librarian in his quiet, understated yet informative and economic manner. Watching him play was marvelous because he was so nonchalant about it. Something about the act of performing a great feat without seemingly trying seems to carry universal appeal. Right leg casually crossed over left, his left hand gripped the guitar purposefully angled for just the right creative leverage. He often kept a cigarette stuck smoking in the strings on…