(Lee Young) I started the band that Art was in after I left Lionel Hampton. Well, when I first quit Lionel's band, Lester left Basie, and we formed a band out here. Jimmy Rowles happened to be in Seattle, Washington, and he came down here to be in the band. Now, I don't want to make this a black and white thing, but at the time we're talking about it was an exception to have a white guy in a black band. Only we didn't say "black"; we said "colored band," "colored players." Music has always been the same to me. It never had any color to me.
Lester and I took our band to Cafe Society in '42-that's in New York City. Then our dad died. That broke up the band because I was very close to the family. I came back home to L.A. in the latter part of '42 or early '43.
I told you about the Jimmy Rowles thing because for some reason it seems like every band I had, I always had a white player. I don't remember where I heard Art, but I just believe it might have been at a jam session because that's all I did all the time. I kept my drums in the back of the car. They had all kinds of jam sessions on Central Avenue; it was against the union rules to play them, but I did it all the time. They must have fined me a hundred times. I'm certain that's how I met Art, and when I got the gig for the Club Alabam he was one of the first people I thought of because when you build a band you think of the first-chair man. And Art did play lead alto.
We had three saxes, one trumpet, one trombone, and piano, bass, and drums. We had to play two shows and we played for dancing. The arrangements we had were made by Gerald Wilson; Dudley Brooks and Nat Cole also used to write arrangements for us. I don't know if that was when Art was with the band or not. Nat always wrote in pencil. That'll let him know. Gerald Wiggins wrote for the band and played piano. We used to call him Wig. I've been all over the world since this-and talk about how times change-Art was just one of the band. We didn't know any different down on Central Avenue at that time. It wasn't about "whitey" this and "whitey" that. It was about good musicianship and people respecting one another for the talents that they had. I don't know of a single incident that occurred. We never thought in the terms that they seem to now; maybe white people can't go now on Central Avenue for some reason or other, and that reason I don't know.
I remember when Buddy Rich first came here with Artie Shaw and Vido Musso; they used to always be down on Central. Harry James, he used to be on Central Avenue jammin'. That's where everybody hung out. Everybody. They had so many little clubs. Next door to the Alabam was a Mexican restaurant, and she had a piano in the back, and piano players used to go in there, and I'm speaking about Art Tatum. Adjacent to that was the Downbeat. Within two blocks they had about six clubs where musicians were working, and so, like, we used to take long intermissions and go across the street and listen. We'd go next door and they'd come over to hear us play. It was like a west coast Fifty-second Street, but you never really heard of Los Angeles that much, then, where music was concerned. Everybody thought all the jazz and all the better jazz musicians came from the east. The writers for Metronome and down beat used to segregate it. They had what they called "West Coast jazz"; they thought it would be different. I think that's because the east wanted to really be up here and have the west down there, whatever that was. Music is music. Either you can play or you cannot play. And I've found that music is an international language. One of the best bands I ever heard was a band in Buenos Aires, in Argentina.
But let me tell you this about Art. At that time, I think everybody in the band was young, but, at seventeen, Art was the youngest. And about musicians, you can always tell when a guy is going to be great because the potential is there, and the only thing that needs to happen is for him to get out and play. It's like my brother, Prez. I know how much he could play at seventeen, and I think that what happens is that they could play snakes at that age, but they just have not mellowed into the type of style they're going to play. I think that's all that happens after that. When a musician is young, every idea they have, they try to play at once. They're not necessarily any better-Art probably wasn't any better at twenty-seven than he was at seventeen; he probably didn't know the instrument any better; but he knew what to do with it. He knew how not to overplay. You learn to pace yourself. But if he was not able to play all those notes and hear all those things, then he would never have been able to create a style. He was destined: nobody at that time was taking a seventeen year old and putting him into a band. The nearest I remember is when Harry James had Corky Corcoran. He played tenor. At that time he was the child wonder; I think he was sixteen or seventeen. But he was never destined to reach the heights as a jazz player that Art reached because you knew then, in hearing Corky play, that he wasn't the instrumentalist, the technician, that Art was. Stan Getz was very young, too, but Stan, he copied a lot. Stan copied Prez. Now, I never did hear that in Art.
I lost track of Art for a long time, and then he did a lot of things on his own. When he went with Benny Carter, that's understandable. He went from nine pieces to fourteen, fifteen pieces; he went from three saxophones to five. That was an education in itself. And then to go on and join Stan Kenton, that's beautiful.
Art was talented, but let me tell you, I never would have hired him if I'd thought he didn't have the right personality. If it's going to be one of you and a lot of another race of people, you could have a problem. I didn't just take Art blindly because I thought he played so well. I knew he'd be able to get along with the guys. And I knew the type of guys I had in the band. They would only judge him by his playing. He was quiet, the way I remember him. As a matter of fact the whole damn band was quiet! Hahahaha! That was a quiet band, but it was a good band. It could play.
The Club Alabam had had many names. When I came out here as a kid, you know, I used to be a singer and dancer, and it was one of the first places I worked. It was called the Apex. That was in the thirties, when all the movie stars used to frequent the club, so it was really a big business. And the same man who owned the Apex wound up owning the Club Alabam. How can I describe it? You had to buy your tickets at a ticket window, and then you'd go in, and they had tables all around the dance floor, maybe three deep, and they had a balcony, and right on the railing they had tables all the way around. I think you could get nine hundred people in there. And there was a long bar, maybe eighty, ninety feet, and all the hustlers and pimps, they stayed at the bar to fire their shots, so it was like something you see in the movies now, with the gangsters. But these guys were harmless, guys that gambled, no guns or that type of thing, and always shirt and tie and hats and coats. The dance floor was about fifty feet; you could get a lot of couples on the floor. And the show-they had eight or ten chorus girls. Oh yeah! That's why I always took the job! Hahahaha! We always had a shake dancer, chorus, comics, and a headliner, and you couldn't get near the place on Saturdays and Sundays especially. Most of the black people would be there on weekends, and all during the week the clientele was white.
That club was a nice place to work. But it all came to an end with the change of times and with the people moving out. I think it was the influx of transients; there was a lot of that. During the war, I went on the staff at Columbia Studios, but Central was really jumping then. It was almost like Broadway. After the war, the clubs started closing. I don't know if it was hard times or what it was. I never really thought about it, but I observed it happening. As a matter of fact, it's been years since I've been there because it was such a drastic change. If you've grown up used to something and it deteriorates ... The Downbeat turned into a dump, a lot of winos hanging around. And they started holding people up and mugging people. It was just the times, I guess.
WHEN I went with Benny Carter I played all my jazz by ear. I was good at reading, but I didn't know about chord structure, harmony, composition. Also, I had never played much lead alto, so with Benny I played second alto, he played lead, but in my book I had two parts written in most of the arrangements and sometimes, if there wasn't a large audience, Benny would just get off the stand and let me play his parts. I'd get
all his solos. I learned that way how to play lead in a four-man saxophone section. And I learned a lot following Benny, listening to his solos, what he played against the background. The guys in the band were all great musicians-Gerald Wilson, Freddie Webster, a legendary trumpet player, and J.J. Johnson, a jazz superstar. We played all over L.A. We did well. I was making fifty dollars a week, which was big money in those days.
The band went to Salt Lake City. I took Patti with me, and we stayed with Freddie Webster and his wife, with a colored family, on the outskirts of town. Freddie was a nice-looking, kind of a strange-looking, little cat. I had a strong affection for him. He was a little man who could back up the little man complex; his playing was incredibly beautiful. And he always carried an automatic pistol. He felt that because he was black and because of his size, somebody was going to push him into a corner and he'd need an equalizer. When we finished the job at night, I'd go stand in the street and flag down a cab. Freddie would hide. Then I'd go to get in the cab and hold the door open, and he'd run and jump in. Because they wouldn't pick up a black guy. And I was always afraid the cab driver would say something and Freddie would shoot him. I was happy and comfortable with the guys in the band, but my dad hated blacks. He hated blacks and policemen and rats, informers; those were the things he raved about all the time, and he was angry that I hung out with "a bunch of niggers, a bunch of goddamned jigaboos." The band was going down south and Benny told me it would be too dangerous from the blacks and the whites both for me to go along. I couldn't understand why I had to leave the band and I didn't know what I was going to do, but Benny talked to his manager, Carlos Gastel, who also managed Stan Kenton's band. Stan had an exciting new band, very glamorous; they were from Balboa and all that. Jack Ordean, who played alto, had just left Kenton, so an audition was arranged and I was hired by Stan Kenton when I was still seventeen.
(Benny Carter) I was greatly impressed by Art's talent, his sound, his concept of playing lead, and his creative ideas. He was a handsome, clean-cut, and most mannerly boy with a very affable disposition. I wasn't aware at all of Art drinking heavily or using drugs. I liked him and have only positive memories of him at that time.
THANKS to Benny, when I got with Stan I was able to play lead. But while it had been possible to play solos by ear with Benny, with Stan things were different. He had a syncopated style, very original; things were built on an eighth note, three quarter notes, and another eighth note. It wasn't easy to hear when you played a solo, and it got increasingly difficult. Finally, when we played the first record date that we did, on Capitol Records, and I did a solo on "Harlem Folk Dance," it was just impossible. That's when I realized I had to learn something about chord structure and the theory of music, so I started asking the guys in the band, "What happens with this? What happens with that?" And I gradually learned to read the chords. Red Dorris helped me a lot. He played tenor and sang with the band. He sang on that first date "Do Nothin' Til You Hear From Me."
Patti came to the jobs. She never did anything to excess. Sometimes she'd have a drink, and later on she smoked a little pot, but all she cared about was making love to me and watching me play. There I was. I had been a child living in my fantasies. Now I was a married man making lots of money. One of the first things I did, when I was still with Benny Carter, I took Patti downtown and bought her a watch with diamonds and emeralds. I remember that watch cost me a hundred and seventy-five dollars, almost a month's salary. I'd buy her sexy panties and when we were riding on the bus I'd put my hand up under her dress when nobody was looking. We'd play games. Sometimes I'd make her pay her own way on the bus and we'd sit in separate seats like strangers. Then I'd start talking to her. We'd end up getting off the bus together and all the people would see it; it was so obvious. Guys would watch: "I didn't think she was that kind of a girl! He must have a great line." I'd look back and they'd all be staring. We were living down toward Los Angeles, downtown. We'd wander around and see an old hotel or one of those apartment houses and walk in the front door and down the hallway. We'd sneak into the hall bathroom, lock the door, and lie down on the floor and make love.
We'd go to the market together, and coming home I would slow up and walk behind her. We did this so many times and neither of us ever did anything to ruin it. I'd say, "Oh, pardon me, young lady, do you live around here?" She'd say, "Yes, I live down the street with my husband." And I'd say, "I thought so because I've seen you and you sure are beautiful." She'd say, "You shouldn't say that because I'm a married woman." I'd say, "I just can't help it. You're so gorgeous. I'd give anything in the world if I could make love to you." I'd walk home with her. She'd go up to the house and look in. She'd come back and say, "Well, my husband isn't home. I don't know where he's at. I guess you could come in. You could maybe kiss me or something." I'd get all excited. We'd go in. I'd put my arms around her. I'd kiss her. Then she would say, "Please stop. I told you I'd give you a kiss but that's all. I'm sorry, because you are a nice boy; you are handsome; and if I wasn't married . . . " I'd say, "Oh, please, please, please! Anything you want I'll give you. I'll do anything. Just let me look at you. Just let me look at your breasts." "Don't say that!" "Oh, please!" "Will you promise that's all you'll ask of me?" "I promise. I swear." So she'd pull up her sweater and take her brassiere off and stand there posing with her titties hanging out. And I'd ask if I could just touch them....
I used to like to scare her, too. She'd go to the store and I'd hide in the closet. She'd come home and she'd shout, "Art? Where are you? Come on, Art, please. I know you're here." Then I'd start making noises. Growling. She'd say, "Come on out. Don't act silly. Please!" And she was always scared. I'd sneak out of the closet, and she'd turn around, and there I'd be with this horrible Frankenstein look I had. She'd say, "Oh stop it, honey, please." I'd yell, "Hhhrrruuuuuaaaahhh!" And she'd shriek, "Stop that!" I'd be coming toward her with my hands in front of me; I'd be jumping-little, fast, jump-steps. I'd be bouncing and I'd have this horrible look on my face. She'd scream, "Stop that!" And she'd start running. "Stop that, Art!" I'd be bouncing after her, "Pt-pt-pt-pt." She'd be hysterical. I'd chase her all around the room, into the kitchen and into the bathroom, and she'd scream, "Please! Please!" Finally, I'd kiss her, and everything would be alright.
I was doing well. People were getting to know me in the music business. I was starting to get a little following. And I was in love-after seventeen years of loneliness. I knew it couldn't last. Then, one day in the latter part of 1943, after six months of marriage, I got my greetings from Uncle Sam.
4
The Army
1944-1946
THAT WAR was a real war. Every day the papers had casualty lists showing thousands of Americans killed. You'd go to movies and see newsreels of bodies. I was praying for some miracle. I was just one little person. Maybe they'd make a mistake and overlook me. And then I got the greetings.
I wish I could describe the feeling. It was as if I'd been given six months of happiness and now I was going to be killed. I did everything in my power to get out of it. I wanted to fail the physical so I kept taking the strips and bennies and drinking. I'd get in the shower on a cold night, put my clothes on, and, still soaking wet, walk around the block barefoot so I'd catch TB or something. I stopped eating. I stayed up for days at a time. I ran into a chiropractor. He checked my heart. I had a slight murmur, and he said I didn't have anything to worry about. He wrote a long letter to the draft board to take with me when I went to my physical. I didn't know that the word of a chiropractor is valueless, so I paid him and continued my escapades, and when I went to my physical I was so weak I could hardly get to the place. I went through the first part; they tell you to touch your toes fifteen or twenty times and they listen to your heart. I touched my toes once and was going down the second time and blacked out and nearly fell over. My heart was pounding, and I thought I had it made, but it didn't work out that way.
I was inducted into Fort MacArthur on February 11, 1944. My dad drove me down,
and I went in. I was a loner. Even playing with the bands, I was a loner. The only times I could act out or talk were when I was drunk. Sober I was completely cut off. Now I was in the army. I had trouble going to the bathroom; I couldn't urinate in front of people. I couldn't do the other thing.
I stayed at Fort MacArthur having physical examinations and being miserable, and then they sent me to Fort Sill, Oklahoma. You took seventeen weeks' basic training to prepare you for overseas. We did everything imaginable at Fort Sill. We marched. We drilled. We scrubbed. It was a field artillery base so we fired all kinds of weapons. Whit, one of my stepfathers, had taught me how to shoot a .22, and I was an excellent shot. I got an expert's medal. After that we threw hand grenades, and then we went through obstacle courses, climbing ropes, and infiltration courses with barbed wire around them. You crawl up onto the course from a trench and you have to stay flat on the ground because .50-caliber machine guns are being fired over your head, four feet in the air. If you raised up, you'd get killed. They had holes with land mines, and the land mines would explode, so you'd feel as if you were in battle. Since we were in Oklahoma there were water moccasins and copperhead snakes. They used to crawl down on the course, and a couple of people were killed while I was there because they ran into a snake, flipped out, stood up, and got shot. You go through it twice in the daytime and once at night, and at night every fourth or fifth bullet in the machine gun clip is a tracer, which means it lights up. You could see these flashing bullets going over your head.
The only other person that wasn't from the south in my platoon of seventy-eight men was a guy named Dennis from Kansas. All the rest of them were from Texas and Oklahoma and Arkansas, and they really disliked northerners and me especially because I was from California-"Hollywood" they called it. They used to make fun of me so I got into a lot of fights.
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