And I loved Fats Waller. I love his instrumental abilities, his

When Paul McCartney said, “And I loved Fats Waller. I love his instrumental abilities, his vocal abilities and his sense of humor,” he was not merely praising a musician — he was honoring a spirit. In those few words lies a reverence for artistry, joy, and the divine union of skill and soul. McCartney, himself a master of melody and feeling, recognized in Fats Waller something that transcended notes and lyrics — the rare gift of a man whose music carried laughter, resilience, and light. His admiration was not for fame, nor for perfection, but for the living pulse of humanity that Fats poured into his art.

To understand McCartney’s words, one must first understand who Fats Waller was — a pianist of boundless energy, a composer of wit and warmth, and a performer whose music made joy out of struggle. In the early decades of the twentieth century, when the shadows of racial prejudice still loomed over every stage, Thomas “Fats” Waller rose from Harlem to become a legend of jazz, not through defiance or anger, but through exuberant creation. His fingers danced over the piano keys like sunlight breaking through clouds, and his laughter — rich and unrestrained — became part of his song. To love Fats Waller, as McCartney did, is to love the unbreakable spirit of music itself.

McCartney’s admiration reveals something deeply ancient — the truth that humor and beauty are not opposites, but partners. In Waller’s art, as in the wisdom of old, the divine manifests not only in solemn hymns but also in laughter. The ancients understood this. The Greeks told stories of the god Dionysus, who brought both ecstasy and chaos, reminding mortals that joy was sacred. The Egyptians sang to Hathor, goddess of love and laughter, who healed hearts through mirth. In the same way, Fats Waller’s music was a kind of worship — not of gods, but of life itself. His humor was not frivolous; it was salvation disguised as song.

McCartney’s phrase — “I love his instrumental abilities, his vocal abilities and his sense of humor” — reveals a harmony of three virtues. The first, skill, reminds us that mastery must begin in discipline; the second, voice, teaches that art must carry emotion; and the third, humor, is the crown, the element that makes all else human and alive. Without skill, there is chaos; without voice, there is emptiness; without humor, there is no soul. McCartney’s reverence for Waller’s balance of these three reminds us that greatness in any art — music, word, or deed — is not achieved by intensity alone, but by wholeness.

There is a story told of Fats Waller during a tour in the 1930s. After a long night of performing, he was kidnapped by a group of gangsters who adored his music. They brought him to Al Capone’s birthday party, forcing him to play for days while they drank and danced. Yet even as a captive, Waller laughed, played with joy, and turned fear into festivity. When he was finally released, he joked about the ordeal, saying it was “the best paying gig of his life.” This was the essence of the man McCartney loved — one who transformed hardship into harmony, who refused to let bitterness dull his brilliance.

Paul McCartney, though born in another time, carried the same spirit within him. He, too, blended mastery with mirth — crafting songs that could make the world weep and smile in the same breath. When he praised Fats Waller, he was paying homage not only to a musician but to a lineage of artists who understood that joy is an act of defiance, that to laugh and create amid pain is the highest form of strength. In every era, from the Harlem clubs to the Liverpool stages, this truth has remained the heartbeat of music: that humor and humanity are the twin lights of the soul.

So, let the lesson of McCartney’s words be remembered: cherish the joyful creator, for joy is not frivolity — it is wisdom in disguise. Cultivate skill, yes; nurture your voice, yes; but never let your laughter fade, for it is the bridge between art and immortality. Like Fats Waller, let your life sing even when the world is silent. Let your music — whatever form it takes — remind others that happiness is not ignorance, but courage.

For in the end, as both McCartney and Waller teach us, the truest art does not separate laughter from greatness or lightness from depth. It lives, eternal, in that perfect harmony where the hands are skilled, the voice is sincere, and the heart — above all — still knows how to smile.