TIME Magazineのインスタグラム(time) - 10月26日 07時05分

Rock 'n' roll began so long ago now that its genesis is practically the stuff of myth. But Fats Domino, who died at 89 on Oct. 24, wasn’t just there at the beginning: he was one of its beginnings, a veritable human bridge between the traditional rhythms of New Orleans and all that would come after. The man who would became Fats Domino was born Antoine Dominique Domino Jr., the youngest of eight, in the Ninth Ward of New Orleans, the city he called home his entire life. His first recording, "The Fat Man," released in 1949, showed an artist both radically, dangerously free and completely in control—it's a sassy, rollicking walk of a record, writes TIME film critic Stephanie Zacharek. From there, Domino took jazz and boogie-woogie piano and spun it into a glorious futuristic offshoot, a joyful cartoon train that threatened to skitter recklessly right off the tracks but never did. Like so many black artists of his era, he wrote and recorded songs that would be remade by white artists, like 1955's "Ain’t That a Shame," which became Pat Boone's first record to hit No. 1 on the Billboard charts. Yet Domino's version ultimately eclipsed Boone's in popularity, and when we think of the song today, it's Domino's voice we hear. In performance he was captivating, his hands a flurry of shiny cuff links and bejeweled fingers. He could phrase a lyric as a conversation, a confession, a flirtation. And that voice, on hits like "Blue Monday" and "Blueberry Hill," had a cushiony, sauntering authority, friendly without being ingratiating. It was the music of sun-dappled country roads and big-city neon dreams all at once, a sound that could reach anybody. Little wonder it did. Photograph by Michael Ochs Archives—@gettyimages

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