The Game Changer

by A. G. Lafley

  Just like in Maine, mail started coming in from all over, again. Somebody from Canada wrote to say we sounded just as good as a colored band. I guess they hadn’t heard Murphy’s music policy had changed.

  I showed the card to Mr. Murphy. “You passing now, Clyde?” he joked.

  “Passing for what?” I answered. We both had a good laugh.

  The band kept getting renewed. Sometime in December, Foch Allen brought over the popular blues singer, Wynonie Harris, to check out the Blue Blazers for a record date. There was a new recording ban coming up the first of 1948, and everybody was rushing to studios before the deadline. Wynonie asked me to back him for his new King record session. I agreed only if he didn’t use my name, as I was still signed with Sonora.

  We went in the National Studios in New York on Friday, December 12. Because I was working nights at Murphy’s, I had them set the time in the afternoon from 2 to 5. Willie Moore was with Sy Oliver for a couple weeks, so I brought in another trumpet, Jesse Drakes. Don’t recall the numbers we did, but there was four sides.

  It would of been a good session, but that Harris guy was as rough as everybody said he was. Shouting and hollering all the time at Syd Nathan, who owned King. Not asking, but telling him he wanted a brand new Cadillac and Nathan should go right out during the session and buy him one. The Cadillac dealer was downstairs on the corner of Broadway and 57th. Then Harris got drunk, cussed, talked nasty to everybody and all that notoriety stuff. It was a hellish session.

  During our break, Foch Allen came over and asked us to back a young singer right then for a audition. I always liked to give somebody a break. This fat gal was standing back in the corner. She called a B-flat song and began shouting the strongest blues I heard in years—she was rocking hard. Right in the middle, Syd Nathan and Wynonie Harris got up and went out to lunch. Man, I felt so sorry for her.

  “Don’t feel bad,” I said as I stopped the band. “You got a great voice gal. What’s your name?”

  “They call me Big Maybelle,” she said softly.

  I heard later she did some records for Nathan and made herself a name but always thought she got treated badly that day.

  So many talented people been treated like that by the big shots of this business. I saw how bad they did Ella in the thirties, when she first sang at the Savoy. Billie Holiday always talked of her turndowns when first starting out, how she went home and cried. People can be so mean-hearted, especially to their own.

  Harris wanted us for his next session on Monday, but I turned him down, and the boys all backed me. I tell you, the man got on everybody’s nerves, had no respect for anybody. Foch later told me Harris got Bob Merrill for the date and they had one hell of a argument in the studio—so bad that Merrill pulled a knife on Harris. No sir, I didn’t care for that hell-raiser.

  The records came out without a band credit like I wanted, and nobody every did know I was on it. But that was my Blue Blazers behind Wynonie Harris on his first King session.

  We worked at Murphy’s Cafe for a full six months, long after Kitty left and they put back some white acts. Business was so good, the local union in Newark started noticing. One of their delegates began pressuring me to let three of my men go so he could put in his white boys. Even brought them down so they could sit in and “get the feel.” Said he would manage me and get the band other jobs. Had plenty of places “sewed up” he said.

  I knew trouble when I saw it, and smelled it too—the racketeers were closing in on a good thing. I knew if I went along, Murphy’s soon have a all-white Blue Blazers. Including me.

  On March 22, 1948, I pulled the band out.

  A very good club job outside Philadelphia came up next. They heard my broadcasts from Murphy’s and offered each man a hundred and a quarter a week. Remember, that was when you could get room and board for fifteen dollars a week. The deal was all set, but then my guys started crying that their wives didn’t want them going out of town and their kids would miss them—all that kind of stuff. I still didn’t want to break the band up so we lost the job.

  Then Syd Nathan wanted us to go on tour with Wynonie Harris, but we sure didn’t want that either. I heard Hot Lips Page took the job but split with Harris over something in the middle of the tour and had to come back.

  When I finally did get something lined up, three of my guys left for another band job and decided not to come back. It burned me because they were the very three the Newark union wanted to replace with white boys.

  I felt disappointed and discouraged. Almost two years with the Blue Blazers, uphill all the way. Fighting for what I believed. Turning down single jobs and struggling to keep the guys together. Buying new arrangements. Building a good rep and trying to prove myself. Had a damn good little band here, and even other musicians told me that. Luis Russell said he liked us better then Louis Jordan.

  But it was slipping away. Running a band did not seem to be in the cards for me. I disbanded the Blue Blazers.

  27. Luis Russell’s Orchestra, 1948–1951

  Man, I felt bad for a long time after I broke up my Blazers. Packed my trombone away and started going out just as a singer. People always told me to go out and shout my blues as a feature single act. To tell the truth, I never rated myself as a top singer—it was always other people that liked my blues better then I liked them myself.

  But it was a challenge, to see if I could do it. When I went in these nightclubs, I found those backup house bands were all young, most had no names, some couldn’t even read music. And when I asked them to play a blues, what blues they knew, they played in the key of F. Everything they did was in F. The club bosses didn’t know a hell of a lot of difference, so no use complaining.

  Foch Allen booked me in the Paradise over in Linden, New Jersey. Then I picked up some one-nighters around the Metropolitan area. I quickly found out I was now just one more singer on the bill.

  Times sure was tough. Many bands and musicians all working below scale, but I wouldn’t do that. Not yet, at least.

  Late in April of 1948 I got a call from Mort Browne, who said Bill Campbell, a good pianist, wanted me to record some of his numbers for a subsidiary company of Sonora. I knew the recording ban was still on but most companies and musicians was paying it no mind. Some high official in the union told me privately it was all right to take the session.

  “Just don’t talk your business in the street,” he cautioned.

  So I took the date with Bill and some young guitar player that Browne picked up. I sang Roberta and That’s Lulu over in the United Studios on 51st Street. It was the first issue for Tru Blue. Browne thought up that label name and was handling all this for Sonora.

  Bill and me did another Tru Blue session on May 19 with four extra pieces. We recorded four numbers and I just sang vocals. They wanted me to play some trombone also. I refused, afraid the union might make a example of somebody during the ban and catch me. I heard they could fine leaders up to a thousand dollars, but singers were OK because they are not part of the musicians’ union.

  The records sounded pretty good and they started getting noticed. Bill Cook of WAAT in Newark had me on, and we did some radio publicity. Also booked me in his own place, the Club Caravan, singing blues and playing trombone at a hundred a week. Of course, I sang Let’s Have a Ball This Morning and Crazy ’bout the Boogie, two of my Tru Blue hits.

  After about a month or so I went back working with Luis Russell as sideman and singer. He was paying me more then I was getting at the Club Caravan and I felt better working in a band. Like coming home.

  Some of the guys from 1944 was still there. I remember Clarence Grimes on alto, and Charlie Holmes filled in sometimes; Howard Callender and Chester Boone in there too. George Scott been added on trumpet. Nathaniel “Bones” Allen, Luther Brown, and myself were the trombones.

  Roy Haynes was on drums and John Motley came in once in a while on piano. Lee Richardson was the vocalist, and Milton Buggs from Cleveland, Ohio, came back often to fill for him. Altog
ether, six brass, five reeds, and five rhythm.

  Luis Russell featured my singing, and I did more blues in a set then the regular vocalist did ballads.

  Russell worked mostly in the Metropolitan area of New York—down in the Village, up in Harlem, club dances all over. Many times we worked at the Hotel St. George that had the biggest ballrooms in Brooklyn. Really fine. Also the Terrace Ballroom in Newark for a while. Then two or three nights a week up at the Savoy where things were slow because working people just not coming out as often. Didn’t have the folding money.

  Mort Browne got me another recording date. August 20, 1948, on a Friday, to be exact. Mort was lining up talent for Decca and got me together with Sam Price, the house pianist. Browne didn’t exactly call me direct. He was nobody’s dummy. Suppose to be talent man for Sonora and Tru Blue, and here he was working on the side for Decca. Had Sam call me and left himself clear—that way he could always blame Price for taking me.

  When I got to the studio, Milt Gabler, the producer for Decca, was up in the control booth, and Sam Price’s group was just finishing a Ella session. They wanted me as sideman, but I again refused because the ban was still on. So I sang Pretty Mama Blues and My Heart Belongs to You, two popular numbers they wanted.

  After the session, I told Gabler about my exclusive Sonora and Tru Blue contracts and how I was afraid to use my name for this date. Sure didn’t want any trouble and neither did he. When the record came out it read “Clyde Bernard” on the label, but everybody knew it was me. Also got a five-year contract from Decca.

  I ran into Hal Singer a few months later. I worked with him in the old McShann band. Started laughing when he saw me.

  “Damn, if this isn’t a coincidence,” he said.

  “Why’s that, Hal?”

  “I recorded an instrumental yesterday and named it after you.”

  “After me?”

  “Yeah, I called it Cornbread.” He laughed again. Everybody in the McShann band called me that and it used to tickle the hell out of him. Cornbread turned out to be a smash for Hal Singer. They even started calling him Cornbread after that. Then I had the laugh.

  Luis Russell worked the Royal Theater in Baltimore, Maryland, on February 18, 1949. A big show with Dinah Washington, the famous Ravens, and a gang of other good acts.

  Decca had me down sometime later to discuss more record dates, and I brought along two of my new songs to show Gabler: Cracklin’ Bread and Daisy Mae. He looked them over and then handed me some numbers laying around his desk. I knew I couldn’t do anything with them—they looked so amateurish and would of sure killed me quick. I was just climbing the ladder as a singer so I turned his songs down. Didn’t get any record session that day.

  I kept taking dates with Luis Russell all around the New York area through 1949. When I didn’t hear no more from Decca, I got some of my Kansas City buddies together—Sam “The Man” Taylor, Dave Small, Earl Knight, René Hall, Gene Ramey, and Gus Johnson. Paid all the guys out of my own pocket and went down to the United Studios again where I made another of my demo records. I sang and this time played my horn because the recording ban was long over.

  We did Cracklin’ Bread and three of my other numbers and just on a hunch I took the disc over to Blue Note Records. Didn’t know nobody there—walked right in the front door. They liked the songs and on October 6, 1949, took my group into Carnegie Hall to re-record in their own way. Said they wanted that special echo sound that was popular then.

  The session was one big boresome date. Blue Note kept fussing with the mikes, running up and down the stage, moving us here, moving us there. Then coming back to move the mikes again. When they play back a number, someone holler: “Too loud.” Then somebody else came running out to fix the balance again. Kept doing that over and over. Don’t think those guys knew how to record a little band. I couldn’t say anything, but when the sides were released, they were not as good as some of the rejects they threw out. Not even as good as my demo.

  I showed Blue Note my Decca contract, and they said I couldn’t be held to a exclusive clause because it didn’t guarantee me a certain number of sides each year. But it sure worked my mind a long time after the Blue Note sides came out under my name.

  Clyde Bernhardt appearing with Luis Russell’s orchestra at the Royal Theater, Baltimore, Md., Feb. 18, 1949.

  I wrote Cracklin’ Bread early in 1949 after going to a party up on Sugar Hill. It was all about bad times and was one hell of a number. Mama once told me colored people used cracklin’ way back in slavery times when all they had to eat was animal parts the old master threw away. Cracklin’ is fat that comes from pork—you fry the grease out of it and all the crispy pieces left are called cracklin’. Then you bake that in cornbread in place of lard. It’s more popular now in the North then the South.

  As I remember, the song went like this:

  Goin’ to give a party

  Up on Sugar Hill,

  Just a birthday party

  Uptown where I live.

  Goin’ to cut down on our eatin’

  So we can get along,

  Goin’ to serve some beans and neckbones

  So we can carry on.

  Goin’ down to my butcher

  And beg him for some fat,

  Goin’ to bake it till it’s crispy

  It sure is good like that.

  Yes, we gonna have some cracklin’ bread

  Did you hear what I said?

  We gonna have some cracklin’ bread

  To go with the beans and bones.

  There’ll be no cake and chicken

  We won’t be serving that,

  It cost so much to live now

  We all must pay our tax.

  Yes, we gonna have some cracklin’ bread

  Cracklin’ bread, good cracklin’ bread,

  We gonna serve some cracklin’ bread

  With red beans and rice.

  Can’t afford no sweet potatoes

  Can’t have no candied yams,

  It cost so much to live now

  Can’t serve no Virginia hams.

  So, we got to live on cracklin’ bread

  Beans and bones, rice and beans,

  We gonna have some cracklin’ bread

  Till the cost of living comes down.*

  I sang that song many times since the record came out, and even today people tell me the words are still true. I guess some folks never do see good times.

  Cracklin’ got good air play, and Willie Bryant and a gang of others had it on their radio programs. Every day I heard it played over WAAT out of Newark.

  Some time in January of 1950 Luis Russell went on a three-week tour working TOBA theaters in Ohio. We backed comedian Pigmeat Markham.

  When Russell was off in 1950, I put another five-piece band together with Earl Knight, Joe Garland, Ted Sturgis, and Slick Jones working the Kinney Club and the Club Caravan in Newark. Then Garland took over while I went with Russell to the Riviera in St. Louis to back singer Ruth Brown for three weeks. When I got back in July, Garland and the boys were long gone.

  So I kept working here and there with Luis Russell and sometimes with Johnny Jackson in Newark (no kin to the Jackson from McShann’s band) and with Noble Sissle’s pickup band. And when Garland came back and formed a large society orchestra with his brother, I gigged with him, too.

  I had plenty free time to watch all those great shows at the Apollo. I remember Annisteen Allen with Lucky Millinder. She was damn good—sure could wail. Beulah Bryant was there too—always did like her work—sang heavy blues and had a feeling for comedy. When Kay Starr played the Apollo with Charlie Barnet’s orchestra, I heard guys say they didn’t believe she was white—had to be a high-yella chick they said. Man, was she singing them low-down blues.

  On September 12, 1951, I went in the United Studios again for another demo session. Had six top jazzmen. All name musicians. Paid the men myself and booked three hours of studio time. We did Cracklin’ over and Daisy Mae. Did those blues
the way I liked: hot and shouting. When we tried to do other numbers, the producer kept interrupting our takes because his phone kept ringing. He say “cut” and be on the phone for five or ten minutes—all on my time, of course. As soon as the guys started bitching, I had to cool them down.

  We start over and then something technical go wrong, and while it was getting fixed, another call came in. Suddenly, my three hours up. I took my two good sides and left. Didn’t make a fuss, but I was damn angry.

  There was a little record company called Derby that wanted to put out my demo. I was still worried about that Decca contract—didn’t know what could happen if they jumped on a small company that couldn’t protect me. Especially if the record was a big seller, and when big companies smell money, you know that’s trouble. So I thought of using another name again.

  I knew I was going through a bad-luck cycle—hard times, scuffling for work, losing my bands. It was time to make a change, make a fresh start as another singer. I settled on my two middle names: Edric Barron. I cut that down to Ed Barron, as two and six are my lucky numbers, and that is the name I used.

  The Ed Barron single came out on June 9, 1952, and it was a bigger hit then any of my Blue Notes. And if it had come out on Decca with their good distribution, it would of been a sensational smash. I knew that.

  Cracklin’ started getting jukebox play, first in the New York area, then out in Pennsylvania, then all through the South. It was in a gang of jukes everywhere and became my biggest hit. Musicians coming back from New Orleans told me they heard it in all the clubs down there. Publicity about me and my record started coming out everywhere—New York, Chicago, even Los Angeles.

  On the success of the Derby record I went out as a single again. Got some work in white clubs in Pittsburgh and did pretty good spotted in the show as “Ed Barron, the Derby Blues Recording Star.” I got three hundred dollars for a three-day weekend.

  Mary Dee, the big-time DJ on station WHOD told me Cracklin’ was the top record on Pittsburgh radio during the summer. The others on the charts at that time were Lawdy Miss Clawdy by Lloyd Price and Have Mercy Baby by Clyde McPhatter with the Dominoes. They weren’t calling my record blues or jazz, they were calling it rhythm and blues. But as long as it swung, it was jazz to me. Mary Dee also told me Cracklin’ was on every night as a regular lead-in for the Quaker Oats commercials.