The Game Changer

by A. G. Lafley

  Many times uniformed Germans was sitting right next to us in our compartment.

  “You are American jazz musicians?”

  “Yes we are.”

  “We would like to have some of your records, but we are not allowed to listen to your music.”

  I noticed that every German soldier I met spoke English. Once, a very blond one was sitting nearby. It was the time in 1938 when Joe Louis was training for his second fight with Max Schmeling.

  “That Max,” said the soldier, “he going to knock him out in the first round this time. Joe Louis not fight all that good.”

  R. H. Horton was sitting next to me and didn’t take kindly to that remark. “Goddamn, you just wait,” he said, shaking his finger. “Old Joe get him this time.”

  “Wait a minute, Robert,” I said, “he just trying you.”

  “Someday we will be in America,” the soldier suddenly said. “We going to take your country, and the first thing we will do is send all you schwarzes back to Africa.”

  “Yeah?” shouted Horton. He was standing up now. “Well, just let your Hitler fellow start something over there, and we got stuff that will stop him before he even get started.”

  The other soldiers all laughing now.

  “Shhhh, shhhh,” I whispered to Horton.

  “The only damn way you come to America,” Horton added, waving his fist, “will be as a prisoner of war!”

  “You damn fool, keep quiet,” I said, pulling Horton’s sleeve. “You in Germany now. Put the soft pedal on it. Won’t take much for them to pull us all off the train and toss us in a concentration camp. Take it low, man, take it low.”

  Horton sat down, but the soldier kept saying how Americans were not ready for war. “Unprepared, untrained, soft and lazy,” was how he put it. “We will whip the world,” he said as he got up and left.

  So we rode through Germany, past train stations where long rows of rifles all stacked like corn stalks, past pretty little towns with dozens of dark Army trucks just standing around, waiting.

  I thought of what that soldier said and hoped he was just boasting on a lie on sand foundation.

  We stayed in Belgium and Holland almost two weeks and was very well received everywhere we played. Long applause. People shaking everybody’s hand. Kissing Tater Mae’s hand. One time a man bowed low to kiss her hand, and she turned to me with her chin up, “Clyde, from now on you can call me Madame Tater!”

  The Edgar Hayes European tour was scheduled for four weeks but lasted almost twelve, with more offers coming in then Hayes could handle and plenty of holdovers. We got a terrific offer to play Monte Carlo in Monaco for a twelve-week residency, but the guys started grumbling. Said they knew how good we going over, that Jimmie Lunceford been to Europe in ’37 with a hell of a band and come back after only two weeks.

  So the boys held a kangaroo meeting, talking about getting more money, thinking about going home to their families right then. Some guys even pulled a strike one night in Sweden, wouldn’t go on unless they got more money. All that kind of stuff.

  The Edgar Hayes orchestra in Copenhagen, Denmark, Mar. 1938. Kneeling, left to right: Frank Darling (sb), Clyde Bernhardt (tb), Bernard Flood (t/v); back row, left to right: Kenny Clarke (d), Joe Garland (ts), Happy Mitchner (as), Henry Goodwin (t), Earlene Howell (v), Leonard Davis (t), Roger Boyd (as), Rudy Powell (as), R. H. Horton (tb), Eddie Gibbs (g), Jimmy Anderson (v). Not shown: Edgar Hayes and Jelly James. (Photo courtesy of Frank Driggs collection.)

  I kept out of it because I was wanting to go to Monte Carlo. Would of been on location in some casino, so I was in no hurry to get back.

  When Oxley and Hayes heard about all this they decided to end the tour and everybody come back to the states together. Didn’t want the band breaking up.

  We sailed from Bremerhaven, Germany, on the big S.S. Bremen. The trip was smooth this time and the food delicious, but the Germans wouldn’t allow us to visit the engine room—seemed to be very secretive about that. And since they didn’t allow no American music, we didn’t play no dances. And of course, there was no captain’s dinner for us, either.

  During the eight days it took us to return, some of the guys got bored and started looking around for something to do. Eddie Gibbs had bought a new suitcase to replace his beat-up, ratty one. So the guys decided to bury the old suitcase at sea.

  Both sides of musical program used by Edgar Hayes’ orchestra on tour of Finland, Apr. 7–13, 1938.

  Four of them carried the case while the rest walked slowly behind in a single file, humming a dirge. Around and around the deck they marched solemnly, finally stopping by the railing. Henry Goodwin began shouting a funeral sermon, carrying on about how good the case been and how it was going to a better world. And the guys all holler, “Amen, brother” and “Glory to God.” Eddie Gibbs sob loud each time.

  Everybody came over to see what was happening. The Americans all laughing. The Germans didn’t know what the hell to make of it. One old German in a deck chair nearby turned to me. “Is this a real funeral?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I answered sadly.

  “Who died?” he whispered, showing concern.

  “A suitcase,” I said. “It was all wore out.”

  “Ohhhhh, just like a old man, it wear out.”

  “That’s right,” I said, just as Gibbs pitched the case over the railing and in the water below.

  Then the guys formed a single line and slowly marched back to their cabins, jiving on a spiritual. It was one big laugh.

  When we returned from Europe in May of 1938, Hayes left the Lunceford and Oxley Booking Bureau. I thought that was a mistake, but some guys in the band kept running Oxley down, and Hayes wasn’t strong enough to say no. So he dropped Oxley. After he did that, wasn’t too long before those very same bad-mouthing guys then quit Hayes. Just a rotten thing, all around.

  I was surprised when Oxley asked me to form my own small group. Said he would handle the booking and get me my own recording dates.

  Well, I never wanted to have my own band because I seen the headaches some leaders had from their guys, no matter how nice they were. Those guys just like to give trouble—step on you, try you, late on the bandstand, borrow money, not pay back—do all kinds of dirty things.

  I didn’t need that kind of trouble so I turned Oxley down. I was happy with Hayes and stayed with him.

  But Rudy Powell, R. H. Horton, and Henry Goodwin all went over to Charlie Johnson’s orchestra. Hayes picked up Louis Jordan on first alto and Norman Green on third trombone. Jimmy Wright, tenor, came in later when he got Cyril Newman on third trumpet. Newman wasn’t as good as Goodwin, but he was a light-looking boy, and Edgar was very particular about having light ones in his band.

  He was as bad as King Oliver regarding color. I once recommended a good horn man but Hayes said he was too short and much too dark.

  “Damn it, Edgar, you lookin’ for a Rudolph Valentino band?”

  “Oh man, shut up,” he answered. “We playin’ fine white places and chicks might turn their back if they see all them ugly niggers up there. I’m gonna get somebody that look like somebody.”

  I never did go for that kind of stuff. Louis Jordan told me he had that trouble when he came to New York. Some of those black guys in Harlem wouldn’t give him work because he was too dark. And, he said, the problem was worse in Chicago. I heard it happened to Sylvester Briscoe when he came to New York in the thirties. He was one hell of a trombone player.

  Hayes was being booked now by the Gale office. They put Teddy Hill’s orchestra against Hayes and toured the two bands as a Battle of Music playing dances all down through the South.

  While Hayes was working the band at the Savoy in June, most of the guys took a special recording session with Luckey Roberts. Roberts was always helping New York musicians and getting those high-powered, high-paying gigs, so we were happy to help the man out. Musicians always helped one another in those days. To me, Luckey was one of the all-time great piano players. Did
n’t take a back seat to nobody.

  Roberts said this was a special charity recording so we contributed our time and got permission from the union for the session. Had his wife there, singing in front of this big choir. We did gospel numbers, some jazz and pop tunes, all Roberts originals—about eight or ten sides. A great session, but I never seen or heard nothing about those records to this very day.

  Early in July we were rehearsing to go in the Apollo Theater to open on the fifteenth for a week.

  We had two new numbers. One was Eddie Durham’s Slip Horn Jive and the other was a hell of a arrangement by Hayes on Bugle Call Rag. Had some four-bar breaks in there for the brass that was rough—all written in harmony—cut everybody at first, but after a few days we started getting it. All but this Cyril Newman fellow. He couldn’t make it. The guys started grumbling that the band was too fast for him, that he played a weak trumpet and was hurting everybody, holding us up.

  A few days before we scheduled to open, a twenty-year-old Dizzy Gillespie walks in our rehearsal and sits down in the back. He was carrying his horn in a velvet cloth tucked under his arm. Drummer Kenny Clarke was good friends with him.

  “Goddamn, there he is!” shouts Kenny. Hayes didn’t know much about Dizzy. “This here boy’ll play your goddamn music,” Kenny said, “and he’ll take it apart.”

  Hayes needed a trumpet bad, but didn’t know if this Gillespie fellow was any better then Newman. Asked Diz to sit in and told Newman to stay in the back.

  Diz walked up. “Gimme a A,” he said. He tooted his A and a few other notes. Wasn’t but a minute that the band lit out on Bugle Call Rag. Old Diz played every damn note that was written there.

  Edgar started laughing. “Take it down again for me,” he said looking over at Diz. And we all ran through it and Diz played flawlessly again.

  “Fess,” said Dizzy, “now take it down again for me. I think I got it now.”

  Edgar was shaking his head in disbelief. Knew Diz already had it. So we ran through it a third time, only now Diz turned his back to the music and played the entire number from memory. Everbody about fell out. Damn, that man was dizzy. He got the third trumpet spot that day and Newman was out.

  Everyone got to like Diz, kept a lot of life in the band. He wasn’t known yet, but was swinging like hell, not bopping. Didn’t have that bent horn then nor did he blow his jaws out either—got that showmanship much later.

  Diz was a born comedian—had the guys laughing all the time. Breaking everybody up. Like a mischievous kid, he be doing devilish things on the job. One time during a number he slid off his seat and sat on the floor, blowing and turning his horn all kinds of funny ways.

  Another time, he rose from his chair while playing, came down, and pushed Hayes halfway off the piano bench. With his right hand he chorded some extra harmony, then slowly walked back to his seat and sat down, not missing a note the whole time.

  “That’s the biggest fool I ever saw in my life,” Hayes said. But the audience loved it, thought it was part of the act, and had a good laugh.

  One time we all staying at this hotel in Detroit. Every night before we left for the club, Dizzy play fingering exercise runs for about twenty minutes. Jimmie Powell was in the band then, and we shared a room right above Dizzy’s. Bassist John Drummond was in our room at the time. We kept hearing Dizzy’s runs echoing loudly up and down the courtyard outside our window.

  “That old Dizzy down there,” said Drummond, “he always messing with somebody. I’m gonna fix his ass.”

  So Drummond calls Diz on the hotel phone and puts a handkerchief over the mouthpiece. In his best old-lady voice he squeaks: “Hello . . . hello . . . is this Mr. Gillespie?”

  “Yes, ma’m,” Diz said.

  “I wish to hell you would stop blowing that damn horn. You about drive me crazy. If you continue to play that thing, I’m calling the manager and have him put you out.”

  “Yes, ma’m,” said Diz.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself disturbing my rest. You nothin’ but a damn nuisance.” And wham! He hangs up.

  We were starting to break up.

  Drummond calls the number again. “And I mean everything I said.”

  “I’m sorry, madam,” said Diz, “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

  “And I don’t want you to blow that damn horn tomorrow either.” Wham! He hangs up again.

  That night on the bandstand, Diz looked mad.

  “What’s the matter, Diz?” we asked. The whole band was in on the gag, of course.

  “Man, some old bitch called my room. Told me I can’t play my horn no more.”

  “What you say, Diz?”

  “Hell, I cussed that mother out. Told her off and said to go to hell if she don’t like it. Man, I laid that bitch’s ass out.”

  “You gonna practice again tomorrow, Diz?”

  “I don’t know, said she cause trouble for you guys. Maybe I’ll practice in the basement.”

  That broke the band up. Here he was telling us how much he cussed the woman out and we all knew he was humble as a lamb.

  Nobody ever told Diz the real story. Doesn’t know till this day.

  The Apollo Theater had some of the greatest entertainers in the country at that time. It was the “Palace Theater” of Harlem. Singers, comedians, dancers, great bands, and MC’s all played there for blacks and whites that expected only the best. They were tough audiences, but when you played the Apollo, you knew you played the top.

  When Hayes took the band there in July of 1938 with Diz, Jordan, and the rest of us, he had a funny accident. Edgar was a card player, always getting a game of Tonk together and playing everywhere he went. That night, the stage manager hollered, “All on stage,” and we took our places. But no Edgar. He was still in the dressing room playing Tonk with some sucker.

  The curtain went up and we hit it. Still no Edgar. Suddenly here he come running out from the wings and the audience just howled. He forgot to take off his stocking cap that was holding his process down.

  All he could do was stand there in open-mouth astonishment. “Wa . . . wa . . . wa . . .” was all that came out.

  The show that night was great. We did all our special arrangements. Jordan sang Flat Foot Floogie. I sang Without You. The blackface comedian Pigmeat Markham was on the bill, along with Ralph Cooper, Vivian Harris, George Wilshire, and others.

  I remember Pigmeat did one of his crazy court skits that was hysterical.

  As the “judge,” he came out shouting: “I feel so good! Everybody gonna do some time today.”

  George Wilshire, as the policeman, brought some street girls in Pigmeat’s court.

  “Who are these luscious looking broads?” said Pigmeat, smiling wide at the gals and popping his eyes.

  “I picked them up soliciting,” said the policeman.

  “What’s your occupation, mama?” said Pigmeat to the first woman who had on a short, tight skirt.

  “I’m a seamstress, your honor,” she said sweetly, adjusting her stocking and snapping her garter, “and I do my business after midnight.”

  “What? How this nice old gal get picked up? Case dismissed.” The audience loved Pigmeat and laughed loud.

  “And what’s your occupation?” he asked the second.

  “I’m a seamstress,” she said, rotating her big butt to a drum roll as Pigmeat followed every movement. “And I do my business after midnight, too.”

  “Another honest working gal! Case dismissed.” More laughs. “And what’s this?” Pigmeat asked, looking down at Ralph Cooper in drag as the third gal.

  He was the worst-looking old broad you ever saw—messy makeup smeared over his face, a big fright wig on his head, stocking falling low. Skirt hanging off. Had these huge rubber bubbies under his sweater, and every time he walk, they bounce up and hit him in the face.

  “I picked her up on 135th and Madison,” said the cop.

  “What’s your name?” asked Pigmeat.

  “Cleota Runabout.”

/>   “And what’s your occupation?”

  “I’m a streetwalker,” he answered, “and I do my business after midnight.”

  “How’s business?”

  “Well judge, I was doing all right until these damn seamstresses come in.”

  Pigmeat bops him loud on the head with a big air bladder and the lights go out to fighting and bopping. Roars of laughter. Even the band broke out.

  Bill Robinson, the greatest of all black tap dancers, toured often with the Edgar Hayes band. (Photo courtesy of Frank Driggs collection.)

  Everybody liked Pigmeat’s burlesque blackouts, especially Diz. For months after that show, he point to a loverman in the band and whisper: “Cleota Runabout. Cleota Runabout.” And we break out all over again. Became a inside joke.

  Louis Jordan left the band after the Apollo date and took a small group over to a Brooklyn club where his wife, Ida, was singing. That was his startup as a name.

  Jordan knew of Oxley’s offer to me and often said I should go out for myself just like he did.

  “You hid in that band, man,” he say.

  But I stuck with Hayes.

  Late in 1938 Hayes took us out on a five-week package tour headlined by the greatest of all black tap dancers—Bill Robinson. We played the RKO circuit that was big-time white theaters. He traveled in his own Duesenberg, but most of the time he be in the bus with us and his chauffeur followed behind.

  The first time we went out, he called a meeting of all the boys. “We gonna play white-time on this tour fellows,” he announced, “and I want you all to know up front what I expect.”

  I knew we rehearsed his routine down pat so didn’t know what in hell he was talking about.

  “I had a damn hard time getting where I am,” he said. “I’m accepted wherever I go—hotels, restaurants, clubs, theaters. All white places. You boys are part of my tour and therefore you go where I go.” I knew what he was getting at now. “If anyone in this show disgraces me by being loud, arguing, getting drunk, and acting a damn fool, I’m gonna beat the living hell out of him. And after I get through goin’ upside his head with my fists, I’m gonna pistol whip him to finish the job.” He flashed that shiny, gold-plated automatic he always carried.