The Game Changer

by A. G. Lafley

  “Goddamn . . .” he said.

  We all got along fine.

  I tried to develop a good Kansas City sound—a pushing beat, something like a little 1942 Jay McShann band. The guys liked that and we worked hard.

  Two weeks into rehearsal, Ralph Cooper called to say he booked us in the Elk’s Rendezvous up on Lenox and 134th. A fill-in while Herman Flintall, the regular band, took the night off.

  I don’t think Ralph Cooper had the confidence in us he said he did, because he didn’t show that night. Sent his skinny little nephew to check us out and report back.

  There was no acts at the Elk’s Rendezvous, so we had a good chance to show our stuff. Opened with our theme, Gate You Swing Me Down, the number I wrote in 1937. Then we played some popular numbers like Cement Mixer, a few of our special swing arrangements, and finished the set with me shouting Lost Weekend Blues and Triflin’ Woman Blues.

  Cooper’s little nephew came running up and hugged me, then hugged all the guys. “How in hell you get this great band together in only two weeks?” he kept saying.

  I told him how hard we worked every day, about all the good arrangements I bought, the way I run the band, and the KC beat I was working on.

  “You got somethin’ here,” he said.

  It was in 1946 that my Blue Blazers worked the Greymore, the biggest white hotel in Portland, Maine. Left to right: Clay Burt (d), Clyde Bernhardt (ldr/tb/v), Joe Scott (sb), George Scott (t). Three musicians not shown.

  The owner of the place was standing nearby. “Damn, this little old band is better’n my regular boys,” he was mumbling.

  It was a beginning. After that, word started getting around. We picked up jobs in the Metropolitan area, some up in Harlem, and a lot of white dances downtown. One was backing Maxine Sullivan at the McKinley Theater in the Bronx.

  While we were doing one-nighters, Johnny Hart, a downtown booking agent, got us a audition in the Times Square Hotel for a location job up in Maine. We did some of our best numbers, and Clyde Bernhardt and his Blue Blazers was hired.

  It wasn’t until later I heard they auditioned some eighteen different little bands, black and white, before they took us.

  We went up to Maine in July, the first colored band ever to work the Greymore in Portland, the biggest white hotel in town. Got a two-week contract playing just for dining and dancing—six nights a week, nine to twelve midnight. And every night for our last set we broadcast live over the local ABC radio outlet.

  Before long we were getting fan mail from as far away as central Canada, Minnesota, and Michigan. People writing for us to play certain numbers. Telling us they liked us. Some couldn’t believe how few pieces I had in the band. Even got a letter from a woman that wanted to come to Portland and spend the weekend with me. Obviously she guessed wrong about this Bernhardt, because I damn well knew there was no colored people where that letter came from.

  Shortly after we got the hotel job, Johnny Hart came up and tried to get me to drop three men.

  “Too many ugly boys in your band,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I can see you don’t know nothin’ about this business,” he said, waving his hand. “Even the coloreds don’t like too many black faces. You put in more light ones like yourself, and you be surprised the jobs I can get for you.”

  It was that same old race stuff all over again. I never did approve of it and told him so.

  “Then you finished with me,” he said. “I can’t be bothered with a stubborn fool like you.”

  After two weeks at the Greymore, they renewed our option for four more. And I didn’t hear nobody complaining about how my men looked.

  When we returned to New York, I got a call from Mort Browne, a white publisher that put out my Without You through his Lewis Music Publishing Company. He was now a talent scout for Sonora Records, owned by a Mrs. Rubin and her vice-president husband. Their son was the publicity man. They been making popular and children’s records and was thinking of branching out. Mrs. Rubin heard the Blazers on the radio and wanted us to audition.

  Browne asked me to come to his office in the Brill Building to talk business. I walked in with my pianist and Mort started acting funny. “Uh . . . don’t know if I can talk to you today, Clyde.” He been positive on the phone, told me the appointment was set. “Go home and wait for my call,” he said sharply. “Goodbye.”

  About a hour and a half later, he called me at home. “Who’s that boy you brought down, Clyde?”

  “The piano player I’m gonna use.”

  “Your whole band look like him?”

  “What in hell you talkin’ about, Mort?” But I knew.

  “Well, that fellow is far from good-looking. I know damn well you can get men who make a hell of a lot better appearance then that guy.”

  “He’s a good musician,” I protested.

  “Doesn’t matter, Clyde. Can’t use him.”

  “But this is only for a record date, what the hell does it matter how he look?” My Indian started coming up in me.

  “Matters to me. If your record goes over, there’s a lot more work in it for you. Don’t want any problems then.”

  I thought about what he said long after I hung up the phone. It was more of the same old line. My guy was good. Wasn’t the notoriety kind or anything. At the Greymore I refused because I was working the job. This time, the job depended on it.

  After a while, I called him back. “What you think of Jimmy Phipps?”

  “I’ve seen him,” he said. “If you can get that boy, you got the audition.”

  I sure didn’t like to be part of this damn color business, but I had no choice. Recording dates for a new band was damn hard to get—meant money for us now and maybe later, too. I had to think of the other guys, so I went along. But I knew what this was all about and felt real bad. Real bad.

  Phipps and me went over to the Fifth Avenue offices of Sonora. Mrs. Rubin liked my singing and the songs I selected, and we got a one-year contract.

  The Blazers made its first records on Monday, September 16, 1946. Four of my own vocal numbers: Sweet Jam Jam, Triflin’ Woman Blues, Lay Your Habits Down, and Would You Do Me a Favor?

  Publicity photo of Clyde Bernhardt taken in New York City, Sept. 18, 1946.

  “If this sells,” Mrs. Rubin told me, “you’ll be making more for us.”

  I was the first colored band to record for Sonora. Later, Dud Bascomb and Coleman Hawkins made records for them, but I broke the ice there.

  When Triflin’ came out, some juke box operator in Miami ordered nine thousand records to put in boxes all over the South. Big radio stations started giving it air play. It was the biggest-selling record that Sonora ever had. Mine too.

  Mort Browne never told me, but I heard through the grapevine some Harlem musicians went to see him before I got with Sonora.

  “Hell,” they told him, “we got better bands in Harlem then the Blue Blazers. Don’t mess with that Bernhardt.”

  But Browne laid into them and threw them all out. I knew one of the guys, and he always been calling himself my friend. Just don’t understand some musicians. No sir.

  We recorded another vocal session on January 21, 1947, for Sonora. Four sides again: Good Woman Blues, one of my originals; If It’s Any News to You, co-written with Walter Hillard; My Little Dog Got Kittens, by co-writer Harry Stevenson, a record salesman up at Vim’s in Harlem; and I’m Henpecked, Enoc Martin’s number. He was the leader of the Velvet-tones, a pop group that Mort Browne was booking, and we did him a favor.

  As the records started coming out, I let Mort act as my manager and booker. I put Skippa Hall in as my regular pianist and picked up some local white jobs, dances and such. But the big ones all seemed to get away.

  I found out later that Browne was asking more then twice scale for us. I guess he tried to get rich overnight, so he knocked us out of lots of good work.

  Late in 1946, Leonard Feather wanted me to go on a tour to Spain with a jazz group he was putting t
ogether. Didn’t want my Blazers, only me. And it paid good money. As my band was just getting started, I felt I owed it to them not to break up. I turned Feather down.

  In January of 1947, we played a benefit at Mitchell’s Field out in Long Island. Nipsey Russell was MC. Also had Madeline Greene, she used to sing with the Earl Hines band. It was a big show with many acts, and everybody was glad to do Uncle Sam the favor.

  About a week later, we found out it was not a benefit after all. The black officer that booked us pocketed all our pay and even had the nerve to ask us to do another free show. We blew the whistle, went up to the top white officer, and just laid that nigger out. They demoted him or something, but we never did get our money.

  There sure are some hurtful people in this world.

  Early one spring day in 1947 I was on the way over to see Mort Browne. Don’t usually carry my horn when I’m not working, but just before I left home, something loud and clear told me to bring it along.

  As I was walking in the Brill Building lobby, I heard a voice off to one side. “Are you a musician, son?”

  I sort of glanced around and saw it was a white Army officer speaking to me. Had on a chest full of medals and plenty of braid on his cap. Didn’t know this man from Adam’s house cat.

  “Yes sir,” I answered.

  “What’s that you have there?”

  “A trombone.”

  “Where do you play?”

  “I have a band uptown right now.”

  “I’m looking for a little six-piece band to play for a private party in Washington, D.C. I’ll pay a thousand dollars and first-class transportation both ways. Can you get me a band for that?”

  Now, I always been known as a cool guy. But big paying jobs only fall your way in fairy tales. I couldn’t believe this.

  “Well,” I said thoughtfully, “I got seven men that can do the job.”

  “Don’t want seven. Too much noise.”

  Then I thought of Ralph Cooper at Gale. Took the officer inside to the phone and called him up. Figured Cooper checking him out couldn’t hurt—and I let the man see I was a business man.

  After Cooper got a advance, we all went down to Washington. The Army picked us up in busses and drove us over to this outdoor pavillion. It was a fancy dress affair, not more then about fifty people—all rich whites, high-ranking officers and politicians with their wives. Along the side was long tables filled with all kinds of hot and cold dishes, soft drinks, and a lot of hard stuff, all open to the band. It was a class A job.

  I told the officer we cut the band down to six as he wanted, but I didn’t. Pazuza, our tenor, went along as our “valet,” but I paid him the same as the other guys. It worked out fine for everybody, and we all got a good payday.

  Never did ask why that officer was standing in the lobby of the Brill Building just as I happened to walk by carrying my horn. The band all said I was damn lucky, but that wasn’t the reason. I knew somehow it was my Papa watching over me as he said he would. Only I couldn’t tell that to the guys. They’d never understand.

  But I knew.

  When we got back to New York, I gave Ralph Cooper twenty-five dollars for his “booking,” even though the job came to me without him. The last time I gave another booker a lead, he gave it to some other band.

  Word started getting around about me falling into top jobs and how I treated my guys special and all that. Musicians began calling me up all hours of the day and night, worrying me for some work. Every living soul wanted in.

  After picking up more local one-nighters plus a weekend at the Savoy, another good break came along. Foch Allen, a black booker, got us a audition for the famous Smalls Paradise up on Seventh near 135th, owned by Ed Smalls, who opened it back in the mid-twenties. Had just about the best in black entertainment in Harlem, rated on the level of the old Connie’s Inn. It was also one of the highest-paying band jobs in New York—more then the Savoy, the Renaissance, or any of those big places.

  We came to audition, but Mr. Smalls wasn’t there. Only three or four black waiters sitting around. “Let’s hear what these cats wanna bring in here,” they kept saying as we warmed up. I knew a lot of guys that called themselves good musicians couldn’t get a audition here—bands had to have something going to get this club date.

  So we played our hottest numbers, and when we finished, nobody said nothing. One of the waiters told us to come back tomorrow as he got up and walked away.

  The next day, there was two black bartenders sitting down front of the bandstand. The place was empty. “Go ahead, man,” one of them said. So we auditioned again. “Yeah,” the guy mumbled, “come back tomorrow.”

  So we kept coming back, and back again. We auditioned for every black ass in that place, from the manager down to the busboys, the hat check girl, and even the janitor. I knew they were trying me because I didn’t have a name as a band leader. If I was going in, it was the hard way. Had to prove myself to everybody. And maybe to myself.

  After coming back about nine times, one day we finally found Mr. Smalls sitting there with all the help crowded around him. We played our best four or five numbers and waited.

  Some black flunky in the back tried to look good in front of the boss. “I bet yawl can’t play no cal-ip-see-o,” he drawled.

  I didn’t answer him, but Mr. Smalls nodded, and we hit off on a hot Calypso number.

  “Been hearing good things about your band,” he said in his high voice as we finished, “but seven pieces are not enough. Not in my place.”

  I told him how good we went over at the Greymore, how we broadcast and people all thought we was a big band, and how all my arrangements was only for seven men.

  He thought a while. “Tell you what. Business is slow. Just dropped my chorus line and let Earle Warren out, and he had nine pieces. I’ll give you four weeks, no option, and we’ll see what happens.” As he walked away he turned his head. “And later if you want to add two or three pieces, let me know.”

  We opened upstairs in Smalls early in May. This was a popular Harlem spot and had been for years. Wasn’t unusual to look out in the audience and see comedians Olsen and Johnson sitting there, or Lena Horne, Lennie Hayton, Ethel Waters, or Joe Louis. One night, Sugar Ray Robinson came and sat in on drums.

  After about two weeks, Mr. Frank Gibbs, the manager, called me off to the side.

  Joe Allston got nervous. “I hope we finish the four weeks. Hope we finish,” he cried.

  But Mr. Gibbs patted me on the shoulder. “Clyde, I like what you’re putting down,” he said. “I been managing the Paradise since 1924 and never had a band in here that pleased everybody like you do. I see these old people on the floor, some of them can barely walk, but they out there shaking butts.”

  Now, that was exactly what I was trying to do—give the people what they wanted and pack the floor with bodies, young and old. Play those standards like Star Dust and Honeysuckle Rose, then sneak in the heavy ones when they be feeling ready. One party had us play the same waltz over four times and tipped us a ten each time. When the jitterbugs come out, I knew just the right swing numbers they wanted. If we had to get down, growl and moan, my slow blues always went over big.

  “You got ’em all under your thumb,” Mr. Gibbs said. “I’m giving you another four weeks with an option of four more. Keep up the good work.”

  Advertisement for Smalls Paradise featuring Clyde Bernhardt and his Blue Blazers, New York City, May 31, 1947.

  I told the guys the good news.

  “Goddamn,” said Pazuza, “this old Heartburn is one lucky cat. Comes up here to the hardest black place in New York and has every damn nigger in the world liking him. Goddamn!”

  After nine weeks at Smalls, business got better, and almost every night there was a full house. Nipsey Russell was M.C. At different times Dinah Washington, Billy Daniels, the Hillman Brothers, Baby Hines, and other class acts worked the floor show. Baby Hines was Earl Hines’ real wife and one hell of a singer. I watched her do Happiness Is
a Thing Called Joe, and women in the club had tears falling down their faces.

  George and Chris was the Hillman Brothers—a great dance act. Black top hat and tails, white tie, white boutonniere, white gloves, black patent leather shoes, white spats, walking cane. When they did their soft shoe dance so easy and light, audiences went wild. George had a finale where he strutted off with high kicks, higher then his head and got shouting ovations. The Hillmans was class all the way.

  The acts liked us because we could read their music, play in their correct tempo, do just what they expected. Nobody had problems with the Blue Blazers. Ever.

  One day, Mr. Gibbs told me business was so good that Smalls was putting back the eight chorus girls and adding a soubrette. I thought that was good. Then he said I had to drop a man to help pay for the extras. Now, that didn’t make sense to me. First my band wasn’t big enough and now that business got better, it was too big.

  Didn’t think that was fair and told Mr. Gibbs so—we were a team, working together, compact, and we got along. I just wasn’t going to do it, said I rather walk the streets and play jobs here and there, before I cut the band.

  Mr. Gibbs gave me a week. Cut or leave.

  One night during that “cut or leave” week, I saw Kitty Murray sitting down front. She been on tour with Edgar Hayes in 1941. Said she was working at Murphy’s Cafe over in Newark and was scouting for a small band. After a couple sets she offered me the job. Paid scale and the offer came at the right time.

  Gibbs got my notice that very night.

  We started at Murphy’s, 40 Park Place, on September 22, 1947, with a four-week contract. Murphy’s was a nice place, in fact it was one of the best all-white places in Newark. Even the guy that cleaned the restroom was white.

  Kitty was in charge of the program and the mistress of ceremonies. She sang, danced, and did comedy, working in front of six black chorus girls. It had been all-white entertainment too, but Kitty was making it darker.

  I sang my blues, backed the acts, and played for dancing. They got in a radio line so we could broadcast three times a week over WAAT, Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday nights from 11:30 to midnight.