by Rose, Al;
Yet Tom Brown, except for this neurosis, could be a charming, friendly fellow. We did do a few things together in the fifties. But since he was nearly illiterate and, where music was concerned, opinionated to the point of rejecting any concept he hadn’t initiated, the potential for a working relationship was very narrow indeed. For a time, late in his life, he attempted to operate a small job-printing business. But he was frequently handicapped by his inability to spell simple words. I gave him a job once over the phone—printing personal cards for me—but he spelled the street I lived on then “St. Louse Street” and insisted I should have spelled out “St. Louis” over the phone if I was going to be so picky.
One Monday evening in 1954, I was managing the regular monthly meeting of the New Orleans Jazz Club in the University Room of the Roosevelt Hotel. I invited Tom to sit in with a group of his peers. He said, “I’ve got my mouthpiece, but I ain’t got my teeth,” a fact I could plainly see. “But if y’all don’ mind,” he offered, “I might take a crack at it.”
And without teeth he played as beautifully as any trombone man you ever heard. In fact, for interested collectors, if you own the Southland album (reissued on GHB) of Johnny Wiggs and his Jazz Kings with Tom Brown on trombone, you have a textbook performance of trombone in the jazz band. Tom didn’t have his teeth in for that either.
His ethnic hostilities were apparent in virtually every musical comment he ever made to me—as though he, personally, were constantly under attack by racial groups other than his own.
Them foreigners don’t want to hear no jazz unless a nigger’s playin’ it.
You notice how the dagoes get all the hotel jobs? You ever hear Castro Carrazo at the Roosevelt? He can’t play nothin’.
It ain’t like the old days. They got Jews movin’ uptown.
There’s niggers in De La Salle High School. Now they wanna eat in white restaurants and sit in the white section of the trolley cars, the movies—everywhere.
Once I mentioned a concert I had presented in New York and mentioned that Albert Nicholas had been playing the clarinet. He snorted and reminded me, “Come on, Al! You know niggers ain’t no good on clarinet. Them thick blubbery lips can’t make no decent tone.”
I pointed out that Nick didn’t have thick, blubbery lips. But Tom replied, “That ain’t the only thing. They ain’t smart enough to tell where the harmony is, neither. After all, they niggers.” Thus was my understanding of ethnology augmented by the wisdom of Tom Brown.
Even now, a quarter-century after his death in March of 1958, this attitude survives among some white jazzmen of New Orleans. It is, of course, encouraging to see it declining, but I can’t guess how long it will be before that brand of stupidity vanishes from among the very people for whom it is least appropriate.
George Girard
It’s impossible to write of any phase in the history of jazz, most especially a first-person account, without finding oneself constantly dealing with bigotry, meanness, and the gross insensitivities that are just as prevalent in jazz as in the rest of our society. Such character flaws are not, of course, restricted to white, southern musicians. And from time to time, I’ve even made the joyful discovery that not all southern jazzmen are cast in this mold.
One of the noblest young men New Orleans jazz ever produced was George Girard, who died in 1957 at the age of twenty-seven. George played the trumpet and was the original leader of the Basin Street Six in which teenaged Pete Fountain played the clarinet. His trumpet sound, admittedly inspired by Bunny Berigan, had reached an exceptional proficiency, and its superior quality was matched by his entertainment skills. Representative of the musical school identified with Louis Prima, Wingy Mannone, and Sharkey, George was a true gentleman—thoughtful and considerate, concerned for the welfare of others.
One night in 1954 I was preparing the usual all-star session that was part of every monthly meeting of the New Orleans Jazz Club at the Roosevelt Hotel. One of the members, Don Perry, met me on Royal Street and mentioned to me that Lee Collins was in town. “It’s a shame we can’t have him playing at the meeting,” Don said.
“Why not?” I asked, with the naivete that has oftentimes enveloped me.
My esteemed colleague was surely skeptical about my astonishment in learning that we were operating under an unwritten segregation law. But since I had for years been presenting Journeys Into Jazz concerts in more civilized climes, I had failed to notice that a color line survived in this one. I’d been away too long.
I promptly invited Lee Collins to attend and to perform. I even arranged to pick him up myself and to see that he wasn’t required to go upstairs via the service elevator. With Lee ensconced backstage, I had a talk with George Girard. I planned to bring Lee out during George’s forty-minute stint, and I asked if he’d mind going to a little trouble to make the old maestro comfortable.
“A great musician like Lee Collins!”—and I was shocked at an actual tear in George’s eye—“to think you’d have to ask a jazzman to treat him like a human being!” The tear ran down George’s ample nose. He was an emotional kid.
I made no prior announcement to the audience. My plan was just to bring Lee on, let him play, then wait to see who raised an objection. Lee told me he’d heard that black musicians never played at the Jazz Club. I decided that if I got any flack from the board, I’d just resign with a public—and published—statement of my reason. The more I contemplated the confrontation, the more hostile I became. Then I found myself on stage. Turning my head, I could see Lee Collins standing in the wings. George and his New Orleans Five stood behind me as I was saying to the crowd, “And now, friends, here’s an unscheduled treat to delight you. We have with us tonight one of the great masters of hot trumpet. It’s been my pleasure in the past to introduce him on some of the most prestigious stages in this nation. And it’s an honor and a privilege now for the first time to present him in my own home town—and his. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Lee Collins.” I thought I could hear some sharp intakes of breath, but in a split second I was conscious of applause behind me. As I turned and joined in, I could see George and his band clapping their hands vigorously and smiling broadly. Then the audience joined in the swelling crescendo as Lee walked sedately to the center of the stage, carrying his brilliantly polished, golden horn. He was, as usual, beautifully groomed and poised, with all the confidence you’d expect of an outstanding performing artist.
I don’t remember what he opened with or what his program consisted of. I do recall that it was all superb. But even more, I remember George Girard submerging his well-known ebullience to concentrate on playing magnificent, skillful, and deliberate second trumpet, using his horn to showcase every nuance of Lee’s performance. Lee, of course, was both musician and showman enough to be aware from the start of George’s intent and the masterful effectiveness of his efforts. The combination of his gratitude and affection reflected itself in every phrase Lee played. The audience, whatever the philosophical flaws of some of its members, was enthralled by the overriding beauty of the performance. They responded with volcanic applause.
At the end, George embraced Lee—even kissed him. Louis Scioneaux (now Sino), the trombonist, stepped up to shake Lee’s hand, and the rest of the band filed by to do the same. George thanked me for giving him the opportunity to play behind Lee.
As I left the stage, George Blanchin, who was president of the club that year, said to me, “Another great show, All”
I never heard a critical word. After that we had mixed groups on the stage right along, and nobody thought anything of it. Their comments always pertained only to the quality of the music.
I wrote George a personal letter of appreciation, expressing my admiration for his handling of this delicate circumstance. Now he’s been gone for a quarter-century, and I continue to think of this fine young gentleman with the same warmth and affection, wishing all jazzmen shared his personal generosity and sympathetic understanding.
James P. Johnson
Th
ere’s a kind of piano playing I never could work up any enthusiasm for. I can’t label it “stride,” since I was always transfixed by the performances of folks like Luckey Roberts and, later, Don Ewell. On the other hand, Fats Waller, Willie “The Lion” Smith, and Art Tatum, despite their unquestioned brilliance and dazzling virtuosity, always seemed to me more engaged in solving problems of their craft than in bringing to the audience the kinds of thrills that I think should be at the core of every jazzman’s art.
Even though my personal taste rebelled against it, I nevertheless frequently employed James P. Johnson to play in my concert jazz bands. I’m sure many will agree that James P. left a lot to be desired as a band pianist, but there’s no doubt that, especially in solos, his proficiency was outstanding. I never could understand why, but Journeys Into Jazz audiences never seemed to get enough of James P. My musician friends, notably Eubie Blake and Luckey Roberts, had a boundless admiration for his pianistics.
Irrespective, though, of my musical appraisal, I found James P. to be grossly unreliable. When I stopped hiring him it wasn’t because of the way he played, but because I couldn’t rely on him cither to show up or to be in satisfactory condition when he did. But I’ve been in audiences that included Don Lambert, Luckey, Eubie, and Willie “the Lion”—all mesmerized by James P. at the piano.
One night in Philadelphia in 1946, I had a concert going on at the Academy of Music. As curtain time approached it became increasingly apparent that I would have to face the crowd without a piano player. James P. was nowhere to be seen. I looked out through a slit in the curtain to see if I could see any competent keyboard star who might have come in as a paying customer. In the past, in similar exigencies, people from the audience like Frank Signorelli or Arthur Schutt had come to my rescue. This time I saw no musicians I recognized. Backstage, I told the members of the band what we were up against. There wasn’t time to call the union and get a replacement sent over. Then Max Kaminsky, whom I had engaged to play the trumpet that evening, said, “I brought a friend along as my guest. He’s not a professional musician, but he’s a very good piano player. He can handle it.”
It didn’t seem likely to me that there was anybody in the world who could “handle it” that I wouldn’t already know about. I said, “My audiences expect to see the best jazz musicians in the world—that’s why you’re here. I just can’t sit anybody on that piano stool. I don’t want this to sound like a high school band.”
Max seemed a tad indignant. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t sure he was good enough!”
So I asked Kaminsky to find his friend and bring him to me. In a few minutes he was back with a short, stocky, wavy-haired lad who looked more like a freshman in accounting school than a jazz piano player. Max said, “Al, I want you to meet George Wein.”
I said, “Do you think you can play with this band?”
“I think so,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I’ve played with Max and some of his friends before. Not for money, though.”
“Well, here goes,” I thought to myself as I went on stage to greet the audience and introduce the musicians. Among them that night were, I think, Brad Gowans and Pee Wee Russell.
“And on piano,” I heard myself saying, “in place of James P. Johnson [Groan], who was supposed to be here and isn’t [Groan], a young man from Connecticut who has established himself, etc. etc….”
George Wein was sensational. As a band piano player, I found him infinitely superior to James P., though, naturally, he couldn’t match the master’s solo virtuosity. The crowd was extremely responsive, and I have to believe the young man was heartened by the enthusiastic acceptance. For my part, I was massively relieved.
As the first half ended and I came on to announce the intermission, there was James P. sauntering down the center aisle toward the stage. He was profusely apologetic, had obviously been drinking, but didn’t seem as bombed out as I’d had him before. I announced that James P. had turned up, introduced him, and told the crowd he’d perform during intermission.
In the second half, I didn’t ask him to play with the band, frankly because I found Wein’s performance more satisfactory. At the end, I paid James P. off for the whole nights work, promising myself he’d never again appear on a stage under my auspices. I paid George Wein the same amount and thanked both him and Max for saving the day. As for George Wein, he impoverished jazz both by quitting the piano and by producing his festivals. James P.? Of course I never hired him again, though there were occasions later when he asked me to. The last time I talked with him, we were in Tom Delaney’s club in Harlem and I heard him say, “All this jazz business. I always wanted to be a musician—not a jazz musician. Any son-of-a-bitch can play that!”
I thought to myself, “I know one son-of-a-bitch who can’t.”
Chris Burke
There have always been magical people in this world, individuals found in unlikely places, catalyzing their environments into something infinitely better than without them. With an aura of indestructibility, agelessness, magnetic charm, they make legends. Two such flowered in Nottingham, England; one was the romantic and elusive Robin Hood, who gave the sheriff fits, stole from the rich, gave to the poor, and in general comported himself like a carefree adolescent in springtime. The other is the elfin and resourceful Chris Burke, who, by 1985, had become a fixture in the world of New Orleans music.
I became aware of Chris sometime in the early seventies. I’d see him around with other musicians during Jazz Festival time when so many Europeans mill around Preservation Hall to hear and talk to—possibly play with—the old-time New Orleans performers who are featured nightly. To my knowledge, nobody ever hired Chris to play his clarinet or saxophone, for the acceptable reason that he sounded miserable. But he really had something going for him. Not prepossessing to look at, short and slim, he nevertheless attracted young girls with a kind of magnetism much envied in jazz circles. His quick wit and geniality make him an ideal master of ceremonies. He could as well have been a stand-up comic as anything else.
He would seek me out to satisfy his insatiable thirst for information about jazzmen and the history of the music. He was much interested in my reaction to his musical performance, which I gave him with all the tact I could muster. And because he was really serious about his music, he wasn’t offended, but rather always seemed to be paying close attention to what I said. In any case, we became good friends and he graciously invited Diana and me to visit him on our next trip to England. We did go in 1976 and, after spending a week or so in London, we proceeded to Nottingham to see the castle, Sherwood Forest, and Chris.
Chris proved to be a superlative host. He showed us the sights, including Yeats’s Tavern, where a superannuated gentleman with an excellent violin and an elderly lady sitting at the piano played popular music of a bygone era—even before my time. When they learned that Americans were present, they honored us by playing perhaps the only yankee tune they knew, “Old Black Joe.” We had occasion to listen briefly to Chris playing his clarinet with a couple of superb local musicians—Maggie Kinson, an outstanding pianist who has since made her home in New Orleans, and a trumpet man, Teddy Kullick, easily the best we heard in Europe.
Our next proposed stop was at Stratford-Upon-Avon and Chris, when he heard that, spontaneously volunteered to take us there in his van. He told us of his beautiful sister (a stand-in for Elizabeth Taylor) and her husband, the set designer for the BBC series “Upstairs, Downstairs.” They had recently purchased the grand Eddington Manor, which dated back to the eleventh century and had eighty bedrooms. The trip devoured most of a day, including stops on the highway at some of the very worst eating places into which I’ve ever ventured. The English stoutly defend certain things as edible which, I submit, should at the very least be called controversial. A glutinous mass they lightly call “trifle,” contrived of wallpaper paste and thin milk, seems to be legal, even though it can reduce strong men to catatonia.
We spent the evening in what had
been the great dining hall of Eddington Manor and which had been converted into one of the most satisfying pubs to be found in the civilized world. Five young men sang beautiful English folk ballads in exquisite harmony, and then we went to bed in a room as cold as the tone of Perez Prado’s trumpet.
Sometime afterward I had occasion to hear Chris perform again in New Orleans, and I noticed at once that his facility in the lower register showed marked improvement, as did his tone. I recall lecturing him a time or two on the role of the clarinet in the authentic New Orleans jazz band. He told me he’d taken some lessons from Barney Bigard, and they’d obviously helped. Then Barrie Martyn, the superior English drummer and impresario, had hired Chris to go on the road with his Legends of Jazz for a European tour as band manager. Chris wrote to me frequently about their progress and his delight that Barney was one of the “legends.” The aging maestro apparently helped Chris a great deal.
Chris came back to New Orleans and married an American girl (whose name is Chris, too), and became a citizen. Early in 1985, while in New Orleans, I stopped by the Gazebo in the French Market where he was playing with the best band I’d heard in many years. He gave me a copy of a new LP they’d made, which I’ve played perhaps thirty times by now. Chris, happy as can be, has become part of the city’s jazz establishment. His dress is more subdued, and he’s divested himself of his golden earring. And even though this appraisal is sure to embarrass him, there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s become the best jazz clarinet player in New Orleans, that his taste and understanding of the form will eventually win him a pedestal in the pantheon of Crescent City jazz gods.
Eddie Condon
We were walking together toward our rooms in the Downtowner Motor Inn in Manassas, Virginia. I was the only one sober enough to count that there were three of us on that winter night in 1969. There was me, for one. I was in Manassas to attend Johnson McCree’s annual jazz bash at the local high school. I also counted Bob Greene, the shadow of Jelly Roll Morton, but not the Johnny Walker he was carrying. And finally I counted Eddie Condon, who was, by this time, no longer speaking, but dedicating his not inconsiderable powers of concentration to getting his room key out of his pocket. Our three rooms were situated in a row, with Eddie’s in the middle. We told each other goodnight and retired. It may have been two in the morning.