The Game Changer

by A. G. Lafley

  I laugh right now, just thinking of it.

  The walkathon in Camden lasted almost three months until everybody fell out but one pair. The show closed January 14 and went on to Atlanta, Georgia, but without me. I decided to stay in New York.

  Started getting good offers from Charlie Johnson’s Smalls Paradise orchestra and Luis Russell’s Saratoga Club orchestra. Kaiser Marshall’s Connie’s Inn orchestra wanted me and so did Vernon Andrade and his Renaissance Casino orchestra.

  With so many bands after me, I felt I was now accepted as part of the New York dance-band scene.

  19. Vernon Andrade and His Society Orchestra, 1934–1937

  I heard a lot about Vernon Andrade. Had a well-respected, established band. Played one of the best location jobs in New York, but so many musicians said he was hard to please. Very strict, with mean, hateful ways. I just knew he wouldn’t hire me to play in his orchestra and was thinking of taking Luis Russell’s offer.

  George Wilson was filling with Andrade at the Renaissance Casino until a regular trombone was hired, told me Andrade tried out four different trombones and didn’t like any of them.

  “Clyde,” he said, “you play the straight, sweet solos with that singing tone he’s looking for. Pays the best in Harlem—give it a shot, man.”

  So I put on my best light-brown double-breasted suit with matching tan suede shoes and went up to the Renaissance to see him. I knew he liked his musicians to be well dressed.

  The Renaissance Casino is at 150 West 138th Street, on the corner of Seventh Avenue. Used to have a long, tall sign sticking out from the red brick building. There was a bar inside, and the large dance floor had this reflecting glass ball hanging right down over the middle. The place was the most famous ballroom in Harlem, at one time more popular for big-name society dances then the Savoy.

  Bob Douglas was the manager of the Renny. He’s the one that had the basketball team called the Renaissance. Was a great black team long before the Globetrotters became known. Held all their games right there in the casino. That’s how big the place was.

  Andrade said he heard me with the Alabamians over the radio and also with Fowler at the Lafayette. Told me to sit in for a few numbers during a dance set. By the time it was over, I had the job. The date was January 23, 1934.

  In brass, he had Chico Carrion, a Puerto Rican trumpet man that also did some arranging; Don Christian, who I worked so good with in Ray Parker’s orchestra, on second trumpet; Allen Brown, a exciting high-note man on third—could hit F’s and G’s. Ulysses “Shorty” Scott was lead-off man on first alto and clarinet; Claude Greene from New York, sax; Wington Thompson, third alto, flute, and clarinet; Joe Thomas from Tulsa, Oklahoma, on tenor; and one other guy on reeds whose name I can’t call.

  Jimmy Parker, the drummer, was a pretty good professional boxer—had trained with Tony Canzoneri. A couple times he got another drummer to take his place and just took off to fight somebody.

  Clyde Bernhardt in 1934. (Photo courtesy of Frank Driggs collection.)

  Leo Julian was on piano. He was the brother of Colonel Hubert Julian, the famous black aviator. Peter Briggs recorded with Louis Armstrong’s Hot Seven, was bass, and Andrade played guitar and tenor banjo. Don’t know if he could play a solo—never saw him do that—just stomped off numbers.

  Half of Andrade’s band was West Indian. Since I worked in a few West Indian bands myself, a lot of guys thought I was West Indian too.

  They used to tease me, tell me I was passing for colored. “You really one of us,” they laugh.

  Bandleader Vernon Andrade worked at the Renaissance Casino for twenty-seven years. (Photo courtesy of Frank Driggs collection.)

  Even Andrade, who was from Panama but his people came from the Islands, teased me. “Barnhardt,” he say, “what part of Barbados you from?”

  He still called me Barnhardt and never did believe I was American-born.

  We were the dressingest band in town—Luis Russell and Duke Ellington were also—nobody dressed any better. Looked like a top-class band should look with different combinations of suits, jackets, and tuxedos for any occasion.

  Private organizations gave regular affairs and receptions at the Renaissance—mixed black and white political clubs, leading West Indian and Panamanian social groups, and high-powered colored associations. Andrade played for them all. He was the regular house band and sometimes worked seven nights a week, plus maybe two or three matinees. Bob Douglas often turned down social parties because the band was booked solid.

  Although Andrade was a hard man to work for, he carried a good name among musicians. Never tried to cheat anybody out of money. Told him right up front what he suppose to get. Some of those social clubs couldn’t afford to pay as much as others, so then we got less. When the heavy groups like the Cosmopolitan Tennis Club or the Cricket Club, the Carolinians or the United Sons and Daughters of Georgia came in—they pay more. We sometimes got as much as eight dollars a night for each of those good affairs.

  If Andrade thought the job didn’t pay enough—like maybe a little old women’s club wanted to hire us—he ask if we wanted it, and if the answer was no, turn it down.

  He paid by the shift, plus all the extra dates we worked. Most leaders paid by the week, and if they felt like throwing in a couple extra jobs, we play them and keep our mouth shut. That is, if we wanted to stay in the band. So Andrade was good that way.

  The few times Andrade played the Savoy and Rockland Palace, we got twelve dollars for the dates. I knew we were easily making double what the top Savoy bands got—some of them lucky to be pulling in thirty a week.

  Andrade knew his business. I gave him credit, because he knew how to call a set: usually four songs, different tempos, maybe a waltz, then a sweet number, a calypso, and then a hot number. Sometimes we did a beautiful twenty-minute waltz medley like Tales from the Vienna Woods and the people just loved it. Kept asking for that over and over. Waltzes was popular then in Harlem, and if you didn’t play any at colored social affairs, you didn’t play for that club anymore. Hell, no.

  Just like King Oliver, he spot a crowd and know exactly what the people wanted to dance to. That’s why he stayed at the Renaissance for twenty-seven years.

  Everybody in the band was a good reader. Andrade had a copy of all Jimmie Lunceford’s top numbers—and we could play hell out of them. Horace also brought over all the arrangements he made for his brother, Fletcher. We regularly played Rug Cutter’s Swing, White Heat, and For Dancers Only. If Andrade liked a hot record hit of some band, he got Joe Thomas or someone to take it off in the same key and make the exact arrangement.

  We did Stuff Smith’s Ise A-Muggin’ just as good as he did, maybe better. We sound so much like that record, people all cheered and stomped. We even played What Are You Gonna Do When I’m Gone?, a song I wrote in 1932 (and dedicated to my “wife”), and had Eddie White make up a band arrangement.

  Andrade rarely smiled. During dances he sat up there and looked like a sour puss. People came over and ask if he was angry.

  “I been coming here ever since 1925 and he still look mad,” they say.

  “No,” we answer, “that’s just his way.”

  “Well, he ought to get some personality.”

  He did have personality, but it came out after he had his whiskey. Then he was one of the jolliest, happiest guys you ever want to see—smile and laugh, and when we be playing, shout encouragement.

  “Oh play it, Clyde,” he holler, “let’s go, Shorty!” On the final bar he wave his hands: “Take it out fellows, take it out.” He sure loved his drink.

  The busiest time for the band was usually from Labor Day in September until around Independence Day. By the first of May, he call us all together.

  “If you guys haven’t been saving your money, you better start now. I’m taking no jobs after the Fourth of July. If you broke, you gonna have to root, hog, or die. Take a rest and be ready to hit it in September. Me? I’m leaving for Saratoga to play the races.”<
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  And that’s what he did.

  He was very strict about any of his guys playing outside jobs. I found that out after I took this little one-nighter with Charlie Johnson over in Montclair, New Jersey. Went there because I had the day off. Paid five dollars. The place was packed, but when it came time to pay, the boss had run off.

  I told that to Andrade and he got hot. “Clyde, you damn ungrateful and greedy, that’s what you are,” he growled. “You working the best job in town and still not satisfied. Guys all sittin’ around the Rhythm Club waiting on jobs and you bustin’ your ass for more.”

  Told me all I had was a ride to Montclair and back and got paid just what the job was worth.

  We once worked the Apollo, playing for the same Chilton and Thomas act that Billy Fowler backed. But they didn’t like Andrade’s orchestra—said he was good only for dances and not for playing a act. Andrade never took another Apollo date again. He had plenty offers for out-of-town dances but was satisfied with his steady location work at the Renny.

  During my time with the band, I kept up my music lessons, taking advanced trombone from Manuel Grupp, a Russian Jew that had a downtown studio. He was also teaching advanced lessons to Tommy Dorsey at the same time. Mr. Grupp was good and kept me from losing what I learned from Meredith Germer.

  One Friday, Harry Dial stopped over my house. I worked with him in the Walkathonians and he was looking for a extra trombone for a Alex Hill recording session. The job paid ten dollars. Hill’s regular trombonist, Claude Jones, was sick.

  Now, I knew Andrade wouldn’t like me to take no other job. That mess-up with Charlie Johnson in Montclair was only a few months back and it still worked my mind. But I wanted the record date bad because it would be my first, and I figured Andrade would never find out. This time I wouldn’t tell him.

  It was Monday noon, September 10, 1934, that I showed up at the famous Brunswick Recording Studios at 57th and Broadway. I had heard so many Brunswick records, so many good bands and singers, I rated them up with Columbia and Victor, the two major record companies then.

  When I walked in and looked around, I was very, very disappointed—it was the saddest looking place I ever seen in my life. All run down, old and shabby, looked like they been out of business for years.

  Chairs all scattered about. The rugs—I think they were rugs—had the floor coming through. Things peeling off the walls. The few music stands they had were the tall, old-fashioned kind that symphony orchestras used.

  Couldn’t believe what I was seeing. “Is this where Isham Jones, King Oliver, and all those others recorded?” I asked Alex Hill.

  “This is the place,” he said, looking around.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Man, this son-of-a-bitch place been here since time began.”

  We had a good laugh over that, but the studio was sure all beat to hell.

  At the end of the long room in the back was the control booth. I saw Irving Mills, the big-time music publisher and producer, talking with John Hammond that somebody said was a multimillionare jazz buff.

  The band went by the name of Alex Hill and his Hollywood Sepians. Albert Nicholas from New Orleans, was on clarinet; George James, alto; and Eugene Sedric, tenor. Fonley Jordan took first trombone and I was second. This was the first big-time job Jordan ever had and I saw he was scared to death.

  Dick Green and Joe Thomas were on trumpets—this was not the same Joe Thomas that was with Andrade; Eddie Gibbs, guitar; Billy Taylor, bass; and Harry Dial, drums. They hired pianist Charlie Beal, who worked with Noble Sissle, but Mills thought he was too “modern” for this session, so Beal got paid off and Hill took over the piano part.

  They put us all about—I was here, two trumpets way over there, rhythm someplace else. Some old beat-up mikes stood on the floor here and there.

  We rehearsed from noon for two hours. But every time the little red light went on to start a record take, Dick Green and Fonley Jordan got nervous—seemed like they was playing out of tune. Mills come running out to calm them down, tell them not to be scared of making records, they should be brave and strong and pay no mind to the little red light.

  After a few more false starts, Mills gave me the first trombone part. Don’t recall how many takes we made, but they finally got some good sides. Worked until about six that night and recorded four Alex Hill jump originals: Functionizin’ was one; Ain’t It Nice and Harlem Living Room Suite was two others. The fourth had no title, just a number. They tell me only two songs came out on Vocalion that was the subsidiary label of Brunswick. Don’t know what became of the others.

  After the session, I had dinner and came back up to work a dance with Andrade. Suddenly, one of the guys way at the other end of the bandstand hollered out: “Man, how that record session go today?”

  See, all the guys liked to jive and word got around. I didn’t know what to say.

  Andrade turned around and looked over the band with those suspicious eyes of his. “What session? Who made what session?”

  “Old Barnhardt there went downtown and made a session with Alex Hill.”

  He turned and looked at me. “That so? Still ain’t satisfied what I give you here? When you work in my band, ’spect you to work only in my band. The first damn Tom, Dick, or Harry come along, you with him.” He was really hot. “Barnhardt, if you wanna work with that guy, then you damn well better go stay with him.”

  That scared hell out of me. I knew I had a very good job and was afraid he fire me. He didn’t, but I never took another outside job again the whole time I was with him.

  And when those Hill records came out, people wouldn’t give me credit for my solo work on Functionizin’. Said it was Claude Jones. Now, Claude played one of those technical styles, fast passages and all that. I played like Jimmy Harrison, more in a swing style.

  Around the first of February of 1935, Cecil Scott came in on tenor and worked about a year until he left to go with Teddy Hill. Also during early 1935, Horace Henderson replaced Julian on piano and Teddy Wilson filled in for Henderson whenever he was out. But Henderson was out once too often, so on Christmas Day, Sharkey Victor came in regular. Once, Fletcher Henderson sat in on fourth trumpet and improvised the entire part. I never heard the famous pianist play a horn before.

  I remember early in 1935 when Ella Fitzgerald used to come up to the Renny two and three nights a week. She was working with Chick Webb, who was on and off at the Savoy. Everybody liked her. She wasn’t but sixteen then—just out of the orphan home—and won a amateur contest at the Harlem Opera House. That’s how she got with Chick’s band. Webb didn’t pay her any regular salary, but he let her have a couple bucks now and then.

  She always sang with us in her street clothes because that was all she had. Andrade wouldn’t let her work formal dances without a evening gown. And she didn’t have any. We all felt sorry for her and always gave Ella money before she left.

  I liked working for Vernon Andrade. It was solid, steady work, good money, and I was home for all the holidays. But on looking back, I think my three years with him hurt my career. Before Andrade, I was gigging around New York and usually available for extra work. Now when Sy Oliver came and tried to get me for a Jimmie Lunceford date, I had to turn him down. Got recording offers again from Alex Hill and some from Red Allen and others and turned them down also.

  So I was lost to a lot of people, especially when swing was getting to be popular and other musicians all making reputations on records and radio. Many important white writers and fans couldn’t get uptown to hear me because Renaissance dances was usually private.

  Kept meeting people during this time that thought I died. Didn’t know where the hell I was.

  One time we were rehearsing in the Renny when Edgar Hayes came in with his band. The Original Blue Rhythm Band that Lucky Millinder fronted disbanded early in January of 1937 and Lucky took half the guys. Hayes took the rest and formed this new band. Bob Douglas was nice and let Hayes rehearse up there for nothing.
He always gave guys just starting out a break, tried to help if he could, maybe give them jobs to keep their heads above water.

  Hayes had three trombone parts, and sometimes he was short or a guy was late to rehearsal so he ask me to stay and fill the part. Just for rehearsal—wasn’t asking me to join up or nothing. And I wasn’t thinking of joining. But I always told him I couldn’t do it. I knew Andrade get hot again.

  At home I talked about it. “Uncle Jim, that Andrade don’t like his men sittin’ in nowhere.”

  That got him hot. “This is America,” he shouted, waving his arms, “and what you do on your free time is your own damn business. That West Indian think he owns a band of nigger slaves—they all too scared to look back over their shoulder. Maybe he scare you, but not me.”

  My uncle was three-quarter Indian and had a temper.

  “But Uncle,” I objected, “he liable to fire me.”

  “Let ’em fire you—you don’t have to kiss ass. You not alone here, we all working, nobody on relief. The hell with that damn monkey-chaser!”

  Mama was a little calmer. “Don’t be selfish, Clyde,” she said. “If he asks your help and you want to do it, do it. God will open doors for you, don’t worry.”

  So I rehearsed with Hayes a few times when he needed me. No money, just sat in to help the man out.

  Andrade caught me one day, got hot, and sure enough fired me. On the spot.

  20. Edgar Hayes’ Orchestra, 1937–1942

  I left Vernon Andrade Sunday night, February 21, 1937, and Edgar Hayes immediately hired me, and by Wednesday we all in Philadelphia working some weekend jobs.

  The next time I saw Andrade was in the Alhambra Ballroom where Hayes was rehearsing.

  “Barnhardt,” he said, “I made a mistake when I let you go.”

  “No, Vernon,” I interrupted, “it was no mistake. You did me the biggest favor you could of done for me.”