Because I had my own group, I wanted to do my own material, tunes that would express my personality, not just standards. I had fooled around writing little things out when I was with Kenton. Now I tried writing seriously and found I had a talent for it. I wrote a ballad for my daughter, Patricia, probably the prettiest thing I've written to this day, and I wrote a real flag-waver, a double-fast bebop tune, very difficult, and I named it "Straight Life."
We worked at the Surf Club and got a great review in down beat. In that same issue, announcing my starting a group of my own, I was written up in another article with another new leader who was going to throw his hat in the jazz band ring and see if he could make it, and that person was Dave Brubeck. We all know now, anyone that follows jazz, that Brubeck became, and still is, one of the outstanding leaders of a jazz group, but at that time, if you read the articles, I was the one they felt was more talented and the one that would make it bigger and make more money and be more popular. I was more of a jazz player. I swung more.
Everything was perfect. I bought a tract house on my GI bill. I had finally gotten to know my daughter and was just mad about her, really loved her. We had a little white poodle named Suzy, and I had a car. I had everything. I was making good money and I didn't use any of that money on my habit-I was dealing a little bit of stuff to musicians, friends of mine, to support my habit. And I felt that I wasn't doing anything wrong because I wasn't taking food out of my child's and my wife's mouths by using. But I was really strung out.
I realized I had to get away from the stuff. In the latter part of '51 there began to be newspaper stories about dope. It was beginning to hit the limelight. I realized that things weren't going to be the same, things were going to tighten up. And that meant either I had to kick or I had to go to jail. That would really ruin my career. I was thinking how nice it would be to just stop, be cool, and not pay any of the real heavy dues that you usually have to pay. So that's what my thinking was when my dad came out to the house I'd bought in Panorama City and asked me if I'd like to come and have a drink.
My mother had gone to my dad, who was living in Long Beach, and she told him I was using. I had asked her not to say anything to him because he hated junkies; he'd always told me don't ever do that. But he found out and came to me and said, "Let's go out and have a drink." He used to come with Thelma, but this time he came alone and he said he wanted to talk to me.
We went and had a drink, and then he looked at me, and he put his hand on my arm. We were in a bar in Van Nuys, a bar I later worked in with a western band. He said, "When did you start on that stuff?" He put his arm around me and got tears in his eyes. And the way he put it to me I knew that he knew. I think at first I tried a feeble "What do you mean?" But he grabbed my arm. I had a short-sleeved shirt on. I had marks all over my arm. He said, "You might as well be dead." He said, "How did it happen?" So we talked and I tried to explain to him. I had tried to minimize the feelings I had, but it was so good to be able to tell somebody about it, to let him know how awful I felt and how really scared I was. He said, "What are we going to do?" I said, "Oh God, I don't know. I want to stop." He said, "Tell me the truth, if you don't want to stop nothing is going to do you any good." We talked and talked. Before he'd even come to me he'd inquired and found a sanitarium in Orange County, and they said they'd take me in. He made sure the police wouldn't hear about it; I wouldn't be reported. He said, "Will you go to this place?" I was afraid because I was afraid to kick, and I was afraid I might goof, and I didn't want to disappoint my dad. I felt miserable when I saw how miserable he felt. He said, "Anything I can do, no matter what it costs, don't worry about it. Don't worry about anything-I'll take care of you." That's when he started crying, and we hugged each other, and we were in this bar, and it was really strange, but I felt wonderful because after all these years I felt that I'd reached my dad and we were close. And so he asked me if I'd go to the sanitarium, and I saw that he wanted me to real bad, and so I said yes, alright, that I would go.
(Sammy Curtis) As to drugs, it's like the thing going on now. It's a peer thing. A lot of guys are doing it, gettin' stoned. It did feel good. People enjoy feeling good. You don't know what it's going to lead to. You don't think of that. I'm a follower of Jesus now, and I look at everything spiritually, so I think that anyone drinking, getting stoned, you name it, is looking for the Lord. They're looking for something greater but they don't know how to go about it, to find it, and unfortunately, in the search they fool around getting stoned, and it feels better. But it's a temporary and destructive thing. I've been there, and getting closer to the Lord feels much better. It's cheaper and it's constructive not destructive.
DOPE MENACE KEEPS GROWING
Dope is menacing the dance band industry. It has become a major threat and unless herculean effort is made by everyone concerned to halt its spread, it may well wreck the business. We are not talking about marijuana, benzedrine, or nembutal, although these are the first steps leading to the evil.
We are referring to real narcotics, heroin principally, and too many well-known musicians and vocalists are "hooked," as they say in the vernacular. This is serious business and it constitutes a triple threat to the future of dance music.
It is demolishing the professional as well as the personal careers of the addicts themselves, many of whom cannot be spared from the ranks of working musicians because of their talent.
It is giving a bad name to ALL musicians and jeopardizing their living. We know instances in which bookings have been refused to clean units and bands because of undeserved reputation.
Most important of all, the example set by musicians who are addicts and who also are well known, is a wrong influence on younger musicians and on youngsters who may become musicians.
down beat usually has not given prominent display to news stories about musicians who run afoul of the law because of their habit. We did not wish to be accused of sensationalism. We knew, of course, that Miles Davis, the trumpet star, and drummer Art Blakey were picked up recently in Los Angeles on a heroin charge. We did not print it.
Now we are becoming convinced that we are doing a disservice to the industry by not giving wider publicity to such facts. We are begin ping to believe that we should name names and state facts, even in the instances of musicians who die from the habit, without attempting to thinly disguise the cause of death as has been done in two or three cases recently.
The grapevine is flooded with rumors and rumors of rumors. A name girl vocalist and her musician husband both are said to be hooked. One of the five top tenor sax stars has flipped, it is reported. Another femme singer, who has been in trouble before, walked out after playing three nights of a two week club engagement because her chauffeur was picked up with heroin capsules in his possession and the law began to stalk her again.
We can't print names on the basis of rumors alone, even those which seem to be substantiated. There must be an arrest or other official record. When there is, and it is only a matter of time in nearly all cases, down beat intends to print it as a small effort to help stamp out this traffic.
One name band leader has seen the light. He is eliminating, one by one, his sidemen who are known to be using the stuff. There have been half a dozen replacements in his band recently. Other leaders should follow his example. It's a tough decision to make, turning out an otherwise capable instrumentalist who may well have stellar talent. But it's better than having the entire structure collapse.
It's a pity, too, that such musicians should practically be deprived of making a living by the only means they know. Too many of them, however, are not making a living even when they are working. The dope pusher takes most of it. It's better that they should be forced to work out their own destiny alone, rather than be permitted to remain and infect others, like a rotten apple in a barrel. down beat, November 17, 1950. Copyright 1950 by down beat. Reprinted by special permission.
Perspectives
CRITIC DEMANDS JUNKING OF WEAKLING JAZZMEN by
Ralph J. Gleason
The most important question in the music business today is not who's going to make the next hit record, but rather is something nobody talks about, particularly for publication.
Apparently operating on the ancient myth that you can conceal illness by not recognizing its existence, nobody, from bandboy and sideman up to bandleader and booker, will speak openly and frankly on the cancer that is infecting the business. I don't have to state it any plainer than that for you to know exactly what I'm talking about.
Jazz Is Big Business jazz is big business today. It's an important and money-making part of every major record company's activities and a major part of most minor firms' work. The jazz clubs flourish all over the country. In the opinion of a veteran publicist in San Francisco, a man connected with show business, the entertainment world and publicity for years, the jazz clubs are a strong part of the backbone of the entertainment field today and in the near future will be the biggest thing in the business.
Today's youngsters are the potential night club patrons of ten years from now, and what today's kids want is jazz. They are giving up the Joe E. Lewises for the John Lewises and the Sophie Tuckers for the Sarah Vaughans. Every year the older entertainment world loses another generation of customers. And the new order gains one.
Time To Clean House With this in mind, please consider the possibility that it is time for the musicians, the jazz fans, and the musicians' union if necessary, to clean house. But good. It's up to bandleaders and bookers, sidemen and managers to see to it that the cancer is contained, that the infection is stopped and a thriving business, that is also an art and a way of life, is not penalized by the twisted attitudes and hysterical flight from reality of a very few. And they are, relatively, a few. Even though they may be a talented, articulate, and amazingly active few.
How can you respect a man who does not respect himself? There is no reality on Cloud 9, and there is no clearer perception of life. If the music business, itself, doesn't do something about it, we will all be losers in the long run. Frankly, I can think of no re-orientation too severe for certain of our so-called stars for their behavior in recent years. An addict is a shame and a disgrace to the very word "musician."
"Special Privilege" Gone Time was when camaraderie between the races and the colors and the factions in music was the rule. The residue of history when musicians were strolling players, a group apart, and as artists and special human beings enjoyed special privileges. It's getting so the word is one of opprobrium rather than praise.
Sure the papers exaggerate; sure the hysterical columnists shoot off a lot of nonsense. But you know what's happening, don't you? Is it good? No one can cure it but you. It's time the hipsters got their hip cards punched, but in the right place. down beat, December 2, 1953. Copyright 1953 by down beat. Reprinted by special permission.
(Shelly Manne) Drug use was prevalent among musicians then. That was why I originally left New York. People hitting on me for money to score. Leave something on the bandstand, turn around, and it's gone. Friendship goes right out the window. People turn into animals. But there are different extenuating circumstances in everybody's life: the need to be accepted by a group of peers who maybe are using drugs or alcohol at the time, the need to be accepted as one of the guys, the need to be considered hipper by doing that, by being a farout cat, or the discontent with one's own playing. Maybe he feels that a stimulant or a depressant might somehow enable him to get his head together so he can cut the crowd out and get totally into his playing. Who knows. There's a hundred reasons why. It might be something in your personal life which a friend wouldn't necessarily know about, in your background, in your bringing up, in your environment. It's too hard for me to speculate on why a guy would use heavy drugs or heavy alcohol. I know that to do it just for fun - smoke some pot, take a few drinks with the guys, just partying it up - or because there's a lot of tension on the road, just as a release, was cool. We used to have a lot of fun. We'd get stoned or something and just enjoy ourselves. But when you start getting into heavy drugs, you're getting into another area, and it's a terrible vicious circle because it's a losing battle all around. You're not only leading a life on the road that is debilitating to your body, to use heavy drugs as a relief from the stress of being on the road creates another disability to your body. And finally your body breaks down, and finally you break down, and finally you have no control or will power, and the whole thing just goes down the toilet.
I was fortunate because drugs scared the hell out of me. When I was young, in New York, playing on Fifty-second Street, when I was eighteen I looked fifteen, and all the musicians I was playing with-Ben Webster, Coleman Hawkins, Trummy Young, Dizzy-all those musicians, kinda were very protective. Even when I hung out in a saloon, the White Rose, on Fifty-second Street, with all those guys and somebody'd offer me a drink (I didn't like alcohol), they would put them down, "No, give him a Coke." I'm very grateful to them for that, being protected like that. And, of course, what helped me, too, was being accepted by those guys. It gave me strength and confidence. I felt selfassured about what I wanted to do, where I was going.
7
Busted
1952-1953
THE POINT was whether I really wanted to do it or not. A month at the sanitarium cost two thousand dollars, and there was no sense in spending all that money if I was just going to come out and start using again. But I felt I wanted to stop. I was hoping I felt that-way.-
My dad phoned the sanitarium and they told him I should go and stay with him so they would know exactly how much I was shooting a day. He put his house in mortgage and took his money out of the bank. He bought dope for me. I'd make a phone call to East L.A. and line it up, and he and my stepmother would drive me to score. We. did this for three days. Then they made the appointment for me to go into the sanitarium.
Before I left, my dad got a hammer and we all went into the kitchen. Patti was there. He handed me the hammer and told me to do it right. It was like a ceremony. I broke the outfit into a million pieces and took the pieces into the backyard and threw them as far as I could. I felt that I'd be able to make it with my dad behind me.
When I got to the sanitarium I was already sick. They got me into bed and took the standard tests, and then the doctor came in with the nurse and talked to me for a while. Heroin isn't like drugstore dope: you never know what you're getting. He tried to estimate how much I'd been taking a day but he couldn't do that, so he said, "I'll send the nurse back with a shot of morphine and after you get the effects of it, call for her and let her know how you feel, if it takes away the sickness, because I don't want you to be uncomfortable." The nurse came back with a syringe and injected the morphine under my skin instead of into the vein. (Later on I tried to get her to let me fix myself in the vein, but she wouldn't do it.)
The morphine helped me quite a bit but I still felt bad. So I called the nurse and told her to get the doctor; I was still sick. She came back with another shot of morphine. They set the dosage at a certain point and keep it there for four days, and then they gradually decrease it. You get a shot every four hours. After the second shot I felt just fine but I told the doctor that I was still sick and got another shot, and after that I said, "I still don't feel comfortable." He said, "Well, I don't understand it, but alright, we'll give you one more shot." By this time I was just wasted. I was sailing. So I finally told them that I felt okay. I could make it. Hahahaha! I could stand the pain.
The next day they put me in a whirlpool bath and a guy gave me a massage, the most beautiful massage I've ever had-he was an artist. Here I was in this gorgeous room, comparable to any hotel I'd ever stayed in; I had my own private patio with flowers and lawn and birds chirping; and every four hours this pretty nurse would come in and give me an enormous shot of morphine. And I was just blind: I tripped out and sang to myself and made funny noises and looked at myself in the mirror. I stood in the bathroom for hours looking at myself and giggling, saying, "Boy, what a handsome de
vil you are!" I had a beautiful body. I'd get in the shower and bathe and get out and take the hand mirror and put it on the floor and look at my body from the floor. I'd look at my rear end and the bottom of my balls and the bottom of my joint, and I would play with myself until I got a hard-on and then gaze into this mirror and say, "What a gorgeous thing you are!"
I mentioned that as a child I used to play a lot alone. I loved sports and I made up a baseball game that I played with dice, and I never played it with anybody. I'd choose the names of the best players and roll the dice to make up fantasy teams, six or eight teams in the league. I would make up names like the New York Bombers, the Philadelphia Penguins. I had a typewriter that my mother's husband, Whit, had bought me, and I'd type up a sheet for each team listing all the players including pinch hitters and relief pitchers. I'd set up a page with the team standings and I kept batting averages, home runs, runs batted in, the whole thing. I had meetings for the managers, and I would talk. Sometimes I'd have trades. If a team was really losing I'd have them buy somebody that had a good batting average. And when I played the game, I was the radio broadcaster; I was the manager; I was the ball player; I was everything. I'd roll the dice. Each roll of the dice meant something. I'd say, "Ted Williams is up. Warren Spahn is pitching. It's the first pitch. Strike one!" I'd keep the standings and the percentages, and then I'd have my own all-star game with the leading batters. I even rolled the dice to get attendance.
Straight Life Page 15