Rags to Riches

by Nancy Carson

  Maxine, who had avoided looking in the direction of Brent Shackleton, was surprised when he sidled up to her as she spoke to Gwen Berry on a point of interpretation on the cello score.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, Gwen. Do you mind if I steal Maxine off you?’ he asked courteously. ‘Have you got a minute, Maxine?’

  Maxine excused herself and stood up.

  ‘Last night, Maxine…’ he began seriously. ‘Look, do you mind coming with me to The White Hart for a drink? There’s something I want to talk to you about. It’s probably best done over a drink.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, surprised at the prospect of being in his company again so soon. ‘What do you want to discuss with me?’

  ‘I need some advice. Something you said last night.’

  About the question of him being married? ‘Let me grab my bag.’

  She trotted alongside him to the exit. ‘Horrible last night, wasn’t it? The weather, I mean.’ She smiled appealingly to confirm she really did mean the weather.

  In Chamberlain Square the pigeons were out in force, strutting earnestly in the sunshine, flapping boisterously as crumbs and crusts landed among them. Lunch time was an engrossing time of day for pigeons, for on fine days such as this the providers of all these scraps of bread, the city’s office workers, took to the Square to enjoy sandwiches and flasks of tea among the splendour of some of Birmingham’s grandest Victorian architecture. Office romances budded and blossomed as workers sought relief in the sunshine from the tedium of eye straining paperwork in poorly lit rooms.

  Maxine and Brent walked briskly through this urban springtime lunch hour, forcing conversation, for both were aware of how strained their tenuous relationship had become overnight. Brent ventured a remark on the progress of Amy Johnson’s solo flight to and from South Africa, and Maxine replied how brave she must be to attempt it. Then he told her it would be his dream to play jazz on the Queen Mary when the liner made her maiden voyage to America at the end of the month.

  He was nicer today, not dashing off in front. She didn’t have to struggle to keep up with him. He was more attentive. In fact, he was beginning to sound rather charming.

  They arrived at The White Hart. It was busy, noisy with conversation and laughter.

  ‘What would you like to drink, Maxine?’

  ‘Lemonade, please…Brent - no beer this time, thank you.’

  He grinned. ‘Okay. Lemonade. What about a sandwich? They do decent sandwiches here.’

  ‘No thanks.’ She had taken her own sandwiches as she did every rehearsal day. They were lying in her basket next to her cello; to be eaten alongside her cello usually. Besides, she could never countenance buying sandwiches when they were so cheap and easy to make at home.

  Brent returned with their drinks. ‘There’s nowhere to sit.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to stand.’ She took the glass from him and sipped it. ‘So what do you want to discuss with me?’

  ‘The Second City Hot Six.’ He took a long draught through the foam on his beer.

  ‘Oh? How do you think I can help?’

  ‘Well, you’re a musician, Maxine. You listen to jazz. You reckon you play it yourself occasionally…’

  ‘But only for fun. Never seriously. I’ve only ever played it with my friend Pansy. She’s brilliant, mind you. Completely wasted.’

  ‘Cigarette?’

  ‘I don’t smoke, Brent. You know I don’t smoke.’

  ‘I forgot. Sorry…Something you said last night, Maxine, made me think. You said there was no point in doing something – playing jazz for instance – if you didn’t do it right. You said you’re a perfectionist.’

  ‘I suppose I am. I can’t stand music to be played slapdash.’

  He lit his cigarette. ‘After I dropped you off I thought about that. And you know, you’re spot on. I want to earn my living playing jazz. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. You made me realise with that comment of yours that if that’s what I want, then I have to do it properly to achieve it. Why shouldn’t I be the best? Why shouldn’t the band be the best? It’s the only way forward.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Maxine agreed, wafting unwanted smoke away with her hand.

  ‘I want to take it more seriously, Maxine. You know, there’s good money to be made playing jazz. I could earn a lot more than I do playing in the CBO and, believe me, I could do with it. So I need some guidance from a self-confessed perfectionist. You heard us last night, Maxine. What should we do to get the best out of what we’ve got? How can we improve, do you think?’

  ‘By hard practice, I should say. By disciplined practice. It’s no good turning up for practice and fooling about. If there’s something to be rehearsed, rehearse it. Rehearse it till it sounds as good as you hear it in your imagination. And then keep on rehearsing it till playing it is second nature – till you don’t have to think about it.’

  ‘But everybody else in the band has to be of the same mind.’

  ‘Course they do. A half-hearted musician will stick out like a sore thumb amidst really serious ones – and spoil what they do.’

  ‘The one bad apple that spoils the whole bag, eh?’

  ‘Yes. So, it requires hard work and very serious commitment. But, Brent, I tell you straight. You’ll get nowhere with that pianist. I don’t mean to be unkind but he’s next to useless. He’s an organist and choirmaster, for God’s sake, and that’s all he knows how to play. Even Howard said he was no good playing jazz.’

  ‘Oh yes. I forgot you and Howard are big chums now.’ His comment seemed tinged with cynicism, Maxine thought, but she hoped she was mistaken.

  ‘You need a decent clarinettist besides. Somebody dedicated. It’s no good having one whose wife won’t let him out at night. That’s just too pathetic. You have to be professional about this if you want to be a professional – all of you. In any case, he hasn’t got the ability either to play jazz. He doesn’t feel the music. I told you…’

  ‘Yes, you did…So will you help us? Will you come to some of our practices and try to put us right? Will you come and guide us where we’re going wrong? Help us get things right? I’m too close to it to judge properly. It needs a fresh ear. I reckon you could do it. You know what to listen for. Make any comment you reckon is warranted.’

  ‘I’m flattered that you’ve asked me,’ she replied with a broad smile that revealed her even teeth and put a sparkle in her eyes again. ‘I’d love to help. When do we start?’

  ‘How about tonight? I’ll pick you up from home at half past seven.’

  It had not occurred to Maxine that the jazz club might not be open for business that night. The Second City Hot Six had assembled to practise, and they had the place to themselves except for Nat Colesby, the owner and licensee. He was cleaning beer lines, restocking shelves, cleaning up, and on hand to serve beer to the six or seven musicians as they worked up a thirst. The band practised here most Tuesdays. Although the rest of them had noticed Maxine the previous evening with Brent, he introduced her tonight. He outlined his ideas and aspirations and explained how he thought she could help.

  ‘So what happens about Arthur?’ Kenny Wheeler, the drummer asked. ‘The chap’s woman-licked. You can’t count on him to be that dedicated.’

  ‘That I know,’ Brent replied. ‘We’ll have to find another clarinettist.’

  ‘Ain’t there nobody in the CBO?’ Charlie Holt, the slightly tubby double bass player enquired.

  ‘Nobody who’d want to join us,’ Brent remarked.

  Maxine had already considered that Stephen’s sister Pansy would be an admirable replacement but it was not up to her to suggest it. It might sound too pushy if she did. But if they found nobody quickly, she could perhaps drop a hint. After all, Pansy could do with the work. She was dissatisfied working in the pit orchestra at the Hippodrome. On the other hand, maybe they wouldn’t want a girl in this band.

  George Tolley, the banjo player who answered to Ginger, took his instrument out of its case and began plinking, tuning i
t up. ‘Where’s Randy? He’s late. So do we bugger off home or get cracking on something then without him?’

  ‘Randolf’s not coming,’ Brent informed them.

  ‘Bloody typical. So bang goes this new commitment before we even start.’

  ‘I’ve sacked him, Ginger. He just isn’t good enough. And Maxine agrees. That job’s up for grabs as well. So we’ll have to start without a pianist.’

  ‘Christ. Who is considered good enough?’ Kenny asked. ‘Are all our jobs shaky in this line-up? I’d like to know in case I need to look elsewhere.’

  ‘You’re not going to be sacked, Kenny,’ Brent said. ‘Nor anybody else. Those of us here are first-rate musicians, well capable of playing the sort of stuff we’re likely to encounter. Arthur and Randy are not up to it. Deep down we all know that and odds are they’d admit it themselves. I want us to be the best jazz band in the Midlands – in the country – so we need chaps capable of getting us there. As of now, we look for a new clarinettist and a new pianist…I’ll put an advert in the paper in the next day or two…Right. What shall we start with?’

  ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band,’ Jimmy Randle suggested with a mischievous smirk. Jimmy was the trumpet player and better known as Toots.

  ‘Oh, anything but that, Toots,’ Ginger pleaded. ‘I hate it. Let’s do “My Sister Kate”.’

  Brent stood up, poised to play his trombone. ‘Right. “I Wish I Could Shimmy like my Sister Kate”…One, two, one two three four…’

  And they were away.

  Maxine listened intently. Some things that could be improved were evident immediately and she could not imagine why they had not put them right before. Maybe it was because a stranger’s ear can detect weaknesses that those most closely involved are deaf to. Wood for trees. But they were all competent musicians.

  ‘So, what d’you think, Maxine?’ Brent asked when they had finished running through the number.

  ‘Well…It seems as if you’re all trying to outplay each other – as if you’re all trying to do a solo at the same time. Try to play for each other. Be more together, as one unit, not six separate ones. It all needs tidying up, too. The stops should be cleaner…Kenny, when you’re supposed to have a rest for a few beats, don’t try and fit in a drumroll to fill the gap. Stay silent till you’re due to come in again and let the melody instruments and the singer have their glory. Those little rests are for emphasis, for effect. It’s what makes Jelly Roll Morton great. It’ll make your music more effective as well. Otherwise it sounds all ragged and undisciplined.’

  ‘Kenny likes to turn every number into a drum solo,’ Charlie Holt remarked, and Maxine detected his frustration at Kenny’s overly enthusiastic drumming. ‘He thinks he’s Gene Krupa.’

  Maxine’s eyes creased into a smile. But she had to be honest. She had to take this seriously. That’s why she was here.

  ‘Same applies to you, Ginger, really,’ she continued. ‘The banjo is a rhythm instrument as well. Try playing with the drummer, not as if you’re in competition. Generally, when Kenny has a few beats break, you stick to the break as well…Why don’t you try it again doing just that?’

  Brent counted them in once more. At the first point where Kenny was supposed to stop, he did so and the effect was significant: it all held together more tightly, more eloquently. The musicians looked at each other and Maxine could see satisfied grins passing from one to another at the immediate improvement. She was relieved, for she was not certain how these hard-nosed males, with vastly more jazz experience, were likely to view advice from a much younger person – even worse, a girl. Doubtless one or two would resent it unless she had something positive to say, something that really worked. Musicians, she had learned already – male ones especially – were a race apart: hard-nosed, uncompromising; usually hard drinking as well, just to add to their volatility.

  ‘It sounds better already,’ Toots Randle admitted.

  ‘Just one little point that improves the overall quality,’ Maxine confirmed. ‘It demonstrates much more musical discipline as well.’

  ‘Let’s try something else,’ Toots suggested.

  ‘How about “Tiger Rag”?’

  Brent counted them in.

  The same principles applied, of course, and the band again signalled to each other their approval as their instantly cleaner, more refined music pleased everybody.

  ‘Something’s still missing,’ Charlie Holt complained. ‘I grant you it all sounds tighter playing it how Maxine suggests, but it’s lacking something…Soul, for want of a better word.’

  ‘Rhythm?’ Maxine suggested.

  ‘We’ve got rhythm,’ Kenny said. ‘I provide the rhythm.’

  ‘Some of it, I agree,’ Maxine countered, afraid that she sounded like a know-all. ‘But you don’t want lifeless, mechanical rhythm like a metronome. Jazz needs more than that. It needs to swing easily. It has an inner rhythm that you either feel or you don’t feel. And if you feel it, you can turn it loose. Try to be more relaxed about your playing – everybody. Loosen up a bit. Each instrument should have its own rhythm.’

  ‘We’re missing the piano,’ Brent said. ‘That’s what’s lacking.’

  ‘Yes, that’d help,’ Kenny agreed. ‘Can’t you play piano, Maxine? Just to give a bit more body to the sound. Just to fill it out a bit. It don’t matter if you play a few wrong notes. Just to give us the feel.’

  ‘I could try.’ She stepped up onto the stage. ‘What key is this in?’

  ‘B flat.’

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ she laughed, rolling her eyes. ‘Can’t you play it in C?’

  ‘I can play it in any key you want,’ said Kenny with a smirk as he ostentatiously twirled his drumsticks in the air.

  ‘Okay.’ Self-consciously she made herself comfortable on the rickety chair. ‘When you’re ready.’

  ‘One, two, one two three four…’

  Twelve bars into the piece, Brent and Kenny signalled each other with a look that gave complete approval to the difference Maxine’s piano playing made. They all felt and heard something that none of them had felt or heard before in the Second City Hot Six: real syncopation; slick, smooth, well-oiled syncopation that insinuated itself into their own individual performances, improving the quality of the whole out of all proportion.

  They were enjoying the difference so much that they didn’t finish the number where they normally finished it. By a tacit understanding that regular musicians acquire, they continued to play, swept along on the rising tide of enthusiasm and joy that playing something well engenders. Brent took a solo, improvising, sliding and growling his notes like he’d never done before, followed by Toots whose trumpet sounds sparkled like the polished brass his instrument was made from. The next verse and chorus they all played together, followed by Kenny’s promised drum solo. At Kenny’s signal they all came in together again for another verse and chorus, then Ginger excelled with a banjo break that Maxine thought must surely end up with his right hand flying off his wrist. And finally, although she’d been dreading it, there came an impromptu piano solo from Maxine. She’d never had to improvise like this before, but clinging tenaciously to the principles of syncopation she worked around the basic structure of the piece – the main chords – and delivered a creditable performance that made her perspire.

  Then, suddenly, by a nod and that aforementioned tacit understanding, the others stopped playing. She had not seen any signal from Brent and, for a few bars, she carried on. She turned around as soon as she realised she was playing by herself and saw them all laughing. Her first thought was that they were mocking, so she stopped – embarrassed. But they applauded. They were definitely not mocking.

  ‘Where did you learn to play like that, Maxine?’ Ginger asked.

  ‘Yeah. Brent said you played the flippin’ cello.’

  ‘Was it all right then?’ Maxine shoved a wisp of hair from her face with the back of her hand. ‘Did I do all right?’

  ‘All right? That was great,’ Toots enthused. ‘Si
gn her up, Brent. Sign her up.’

  Brent placed his trombone on the floor, took out a cigarette and lit it. The others took their cue from him.

  ‘You played that really well, Maxine,’ he said. ‘It made a world of difference, I have to admit.’

  ‘A girl as good-looking as Maxine would be a big asset to this band,’ Kenny commented with enthusiasm. ‘She’d be a hell of a novelty. Folk would come and pay to see us just to get a look at her. God, she’s bloody lovely…She can really play as well.’

  ‘She might not be interested in playing with us.’ Toots suggested. ‘ So why don’t we ask her first?’

  She was blushing again, not only at the compliments, but because she was causing so much controversy all of a sudden. ‘I’d be happy to play in the band as long as it didn’t interfere with the CBO. I’d love to play.’

  ‘Brent? It’s up to you, mate. But I think we’re all for her joining.’

  ‘I reckon we’d be bloody stupid to turn down the opportunity,’ Charlie said. ‘She’d be a brilliant attraction. We could double our booking fees and get twice as much work.’

  ‘Without doubt,’ remarked Toots.

  That clinched it for Brent. The possibility of commanding more money was too great to resist. At once, he saw the potential in having a lovely looking girl in the band, especially a girl with real talent.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Maxine, welcome to the Second City Hot Six. If you can put up with us, we can certainly put up with you.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Are there any more at home like you, Maxine?’ Kenny asked.

  ‘Never mind him, Maxine,’ Toots said. ‘He’s married. Not that it makes any difference. So watch him.’

  ‘As regards the CBO, it won’t interfere, Maxine,’ Brent assured her. ‘I don’t let it interfere. We don’t make bookings for when the CBO are playing or rehearsing. We couldn’t have them missing a cello and a trombone, could we? Okay, now that’s settled, what shall we have a go at next?’

  ‘Let’s ask Nat for a beer.’