The White Father

by Julian Mitchell

  After half an hour they took a short break to confer. People were still coming down from upstairs, and by now the cellar was getting too hot for comfort.

  “How about an extended ‘Moonlight in Vermont’?” said Pete. “Edward and I have got that really worked out.”

  “O.K.,” said Barrett. “I won’t guarantee you’ll be asked here again, though. This is a dance place.”

  Edward wondered why Pete had brought him there. They were agreed that pop had its points and jazz was serious music, but that trad, which Barrett seemed to think was all the Racket’s patrons wanted, was a canker on the commonweal.

  As they were about to start again, Pete leaned over to Edward and said, “Listen to the tenor. I think maybe he’s really got something. See what you think.”

  For the new number Barrett contented himself with brushes, no doubt considering his talent, which was for loudness, wouldn’t be appreciated by the others. His playing indicated that if they wanted to send everyone out into the streets, that was their business: he knew what was wanted, and this wasn’t it.

  Edward played a brief introduction, then the trumpet and saxophone launched into the opening bars. At once it was obvious that Greg and Pete had been listening to each other carefully during the opening session, and were now playing for what could be made out of their different styles. Greg allowed Pete a start of two bars, then started on an elaborate canon-like parody. Grinning, Edward broke in with a couple of bars of counter-rhythm in an attempt to shake Greg off, but the saxophonist hung on, while Pete dodged around the tune. Then Greg took off on what was supposed to be his solo, only to find Pete at his elbow, after half a dozen bars, prompting him, beckoning him on, hinting. Where he himself had been a couple of bars behind and mocking, now Pete was a couple of bars ahead, and mocking, too. Their eyes met above their instruments, and if their mouths hadn’t been busy, they might have smiled. They kept the teasing duet going. for several minutes, while Edward, enjoying himself at last, added occasional dry comment. Barrett seemed to be paying no attention, but the crowd seemed interested. They stood watching the band, feet sometimes tapping, faces expressionless in the current mode. You couldn’t tell, Edward thought, whether they found you lousy or great. He broke into the duet with a finicky piece of right-hand work and drove off the two horns with a series of arpeggios, telling them he wanted his turn now. There was applause for Pete and Greg, and Edward looked up in surprise to see them solemnly shaking hands. Then he concentrated on his solo. It was a tune he liked, and he rounded it out at first, like a pub pianist, giving it straight and sentimental, then slipped in a new rhythm on the left hand. He felt happy. The audience seemed to be enjoying it, the horns had been good, the sound seemed right, Barrett had stopped drumming. He was involved in an intricate piece of atonality of which he was rather proud, when he heard Pete come in very high and muted. It wasn’t anything they’d ever practised, and he glanced up quickly. Both Pete and Greg had their backs to him, but he could see that Greg was about to join in too. No one was to be allowed a full solo, then. He grinned, and bent in concentration over the keyboard. Pete was playing at double speed now, interpolating a few low notes to show off, but keeping mainly to the highest register. Greg suddenly moved in with a long sustained middle C which had both Pete and Edward fumbling for a moment before Edward forced him off it with a series of bass chords in the minor that came perilously close to discords. Barrett looked extremely puzzled.

  There was applause again as Edward finally finished his solo and Pete took over. The rivalry continued, with the players chasing each other round the tune like children trying to push each other off a chalk line in the road. There were some bad moments, when glee got the better of understanding, but on the whole they were good, Edward thought, really pretty good. What passed for Pete’s solo got even more applause than Greg’s or Edward’s. The kids were getting the idea, then. Edward glanced at Barrett, who was supposed to enter now with a drum solo, but Barrett grimaced, as though asking for a moment to collect himself after all the rubbish that had gone on. Edward smooched back into the introduction in a parody of what he called Music To Lay Your Neighbour’s Wife By, then cut off on a major chord. Barrett was worse than he had feared. He pulled every boring stunt in the drummer’s repertoire—stick-tossing, standing up, lighting a cigarette—and lacked all panache. It wasn’t easy to be original on drums, of course, but Barrett needn’t, Edward thought, have been so confidently third-rate. His solo seemed interminable, and none of the others interrupted him.

  Pete bent over to Edward and said, “Pretty good, right?”

  “It was fine. A little practice and we’ll have a band.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Pete. “O.K. for the sentence?” (This was how they described the concluding ensemble.) “We’ll get this goddam tenor yet. Just stick with me, man, will you?”

  Barrett’s solo was greeted with only moderate applause, to the surprise of all on the stand, and most obviously of Barrett. He shrugged at Edward and went back to gentle brushwork, at which he was at least quieter. Greg and Pete were fighting again, but this time Pete was winning, with Edward’s firm support. Time and again Greg broke out of the pattern they were laying down, but couldn’t stay out. In the penultimate bar he tried a final break away on his own and Pete and Edward left him there, to his chagrin, to find his way back alone and in a hurry to where they were waiting for him. At the end there were whistles and shouts of “Man!” and “Great!” Greg and Pete shook hands with each other again, then with Edward. The audience continued shouting and clapping. The number had lasted almost fifteen minutes.

  Barrett looked stunned. “Jesus,” he said, playing a couple of angry rim-shots, “I didn’t think you could feed them that sort of junk and get away with it.”

  “It was good music,” said Edward.

  “Pah,” said Barrett. He called a heavy rocking number which made Pete wince at Greg. But they played it straight and the kids danced and everyone except the three musicians was happy. Barrett grinned as though to say he knew all along what the audience really liked. Edward thumped out the necessary chords without enthusiasm. That was the thing about kids, you could throw almost anything at them, and they’d like it or not like it, and you could no more tell which way they were going to go than you could bring Charlie Parker back to life. They’d listen, listen really very carefully, then they’d say “Yes” or “No”, and if you asked them why they liked it or hated it, they couldn’t tell you. They’d say something about the beat or the tune, but it wouldn’t be anything definite, anything you could use. Not that they were stupid. They just had their likes and their dislikes and they didn’t see any particular reason for doing more than liking or disliking. Anyone who wanted to analyse their taste had only to look at the top twenty chart to see that it was unanalysable.

  At midnight the last group of the evening took over. It consisted of a bass saxophone, an alto, drums, piano and electric guitar. In front stood a short boy of seventeen or eighteen, with a face like putty and suspiciously blond hair cut in a pseudo-Roman fashion. He was announced as Albert Swetman, and began to shout the words of the Choke, a new rhythmical dance, in a whining, characterless voice. The dance was quickly taken up by the audience, expertly swaying with expressionless faces.

  Edward followed the rest of his group upstairs to the coffee-bar, where they sat down and ordered coffee.

  “That was great, Greg,” said Pete. “Why I haven’t I seen you around before?”

  “I don’t get around much,” said Greg. “I live out in Norbury. It’s a long way to go home after a session in town.”

  “How are you getting back tonight?” said Judy.

  “I’ve got my dad’s car for the night.”

  Greg was a minor civil servant in the local council. He worked in the Housing Department, he said, and it was all right. He wasn’t, it seemed, a man of much ambition.

  “I found him playing in a dance hall in Clapham,” said Barrett. “Can you beat that? Churn
ing out requests for local hops. You ought to get around more, Greg.”

  “There’s no good jazz in town,” said Greg.

  “Where did you learn all your fancy stuff?” said Pete. “You must have played with a group some time, haven’t you?”

  “Oh, there’s a bunch of us at home. We used to get together several nights a week. Then I listen to a lot of records. My brother’s in the merchant navy, works the Atlantic route. He brings me all the latest stuff. London’s no good at all. There’s no real jazz being played here.”

  “There could be,” said Pete.

  “Doubt it,” said Greg. He had very thin shoulders and he hunched over himself as he spoke. “The English won’t ever be able to play proper jazz.”

  “I don’t see why not,” said Edward. “I mean, it isn’t as though jazz was only what came out of New Orleans and Kansas City and Chicago and so on. It’s stopped being an American possession. It’s international.”

  “Oh, sure,” said Greg. “The enjoyment of it, the listening to it, that’s international. But though we can imitate the best stuff—and we try to, don’t we, if we’re any good?—we’re never going to be really original. Every time a jazz style reaches Europe it gets bogged down, it becomes unspontaneous, you know what I mean? Then it drifts into something awful, like trad. Anyway, I think it’s true that it’s basically negro music, and there’s nothing we can do with it which is a quarter as good as what negroes can do with it.”

  “There’s some good white musicians,” said Barrett.

  “Yes, of course. But they’re all American, aren’t they? What I mean is, jazz is always on the move, right? And that movement, it’s something to do with negroes or America or a bit of both, perhaps.”

  “But you play,” said Judy.

  “Oh, sure. I love playing. I play for myself, it gives me kicks. But I don’t ever expect to be any good. English people aren’t, that’s all.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Edward. “But so long as we play for ourselves, it’s all right.”

  “It can be worth a lot of money, too,” said Barrett.

  “Maybe,” said Greg. “But there’s no audience for the sort of music I like to play, and who wants to spend his time slaving his guts out to earn money when he doesn’t like the noise he’s making? I’d rather stay poor.”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Barrett. “I’m going to make it one day, you’ll see. I may never be famous like Acker Bilk or Chris Barber, but I’ll be playing with bands like theirs, and I’ll be rolling.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Greg.

  “Now come on, Greg,” said Barrett. “I’ve told you. God knows how many times I’ve told you. You’re good. You can go far. You’ve got that little bit more that matters.”

  “Thanks,” said Greg coldly. “But I’m not a pro, Frank, and I don’t want to be one. I just want to play my own way and when I feel like it.”

  “I give up,” said Barrett. “Look, you see that man over by the window? Drinking Free? That’s a talent scout from Champney, Morrison, Dulake. He’s always here, listening to the bands. He’s a pal of mine. He’s going to fix me up with a nice slot in a good band. He’s promised. Well, he wants to talk to you.”

  “Let him talk,” said Greg.

  Barrett called the man over. He was about twenty-five, with heavy shadow round his chin and a blue shirt without a tie.

  “This is Ken,” said Barrett.

  “I liked your stuff,” said Ken generally.

  “Thanks,” said Barrett. “A little far out for the kids, some of it, didn’t you think?”

  “They seemed to like it.” Ken unwrapped a piece of gum and began to chew on it very slowly.

  “Yeah. That had me kind of fooled.”

  “It was fine,” said Ken. He shifted his gaze suddenly to Greg. “I’ve heard you before,” he said. “You were better tonight.”

  “Is that so?” said Greg. He drank some coffee.

  “I’ve heard you before, too,” said Ken, switching to Pete. “You’ve got talent, you know that?”

  “I know that,” said Pete. Stolid was what you had to be with these people, stolid and ruthless.

  “And you,” said Ken, turning to Edward. “Haven’t heard you before, have I? What’s your name?”

  “Edward Gilchrist.”

  “We’ll have to change that,” said Ken, almost, but not quite, to himself. “That ‘Moonlight in Vermont’ bit, that was great.”

  “We kind of fancied it ourselves,” said Greg.

  “Of course, there’s not much room for a band with a sound like yours.” Ken scratched at his blue chin. “The kids go more for the trad stuff. It’s kind of lousy, but there you are.”

  “Not me,” said Greg. “I’d fall asleep on the stand if I had to play trad all night long.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Ken. He scratched again. “Lot of money in it, you know.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What do you say to coming and having a little session with Champney, Morrison, Dulake, you fellows? I can’t promise anything, of course. But we might be able to interest someone in you, you never can tell.”

  “Not me,” said Pete. “I’m starting my own band, thanks.” Greg looked at him with interest.

  “Nor me,” said Edward. “I’m having an audition there next week, anyway.”

  “You are?” said Ken. He stopped scratching and narrowed his eyes at him. “What for?”

  “Ah,” said Edward. “It’s a recording date, sort of.”

  “Is it, now?” said Ken.

  Barrett was looking at Edward with amazement. “What kind of recording would that be, then, Ed? Piano solo? Not much room for piano solos these days.”

  “I sing, too.”

  “You sing?” said Ken. “Why didn’t you sing tonight?”

  “I don’t mix jazz and pops.”

  “You goddam highbrows,” said Barrett. “You get me down, really you do. Anyone would think your chastity was in danger.”

  “Chastity is always in danger,” said Judy.

  Ken looked at her briefly, then turned back to Edward and said, “Who are you seeing, then?”

  “A man called Fred Martin.”

  “You’re going to see Fred, huh? Well, best of luck.” Ken looked slightly annoyed. He said to Pete, “When you’ve got that band of yours together, maybe you’d like us to listen, right?”

  “Maybe,” said Pete. It wasn’t what he planned, but if the club fell through, it might be useful. You couldn’t get far in the music business without a good agent.

  “I’d better go and listen to this Albert Swetman,” said Ken. He nodded round the table. “Glad to have met you. See you all again, maybe.”

  He slouched off towards the narrow stairs.

  “You see,” said Barrett. “He’s interested. He’s really interested. He’s got a memory like an elephant, Ken has. He won’t forget you, ever.”

  “Lucky for him,” said Pete. He got up and said, “I think it’s time we were making tracks. Thanks for the session, Frank. Let me know if you feel like calling us in again some night.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Barrett. He was looking at Edward. “What kind of stuff do you sing, Ed?”

  “That’s a secret,” said Edward. “I’m going to be a surprise bombshell, top of the pops with my first disc. A private bodyguard in six months.”

  “Best of luck,” said Greg. “Your piano’s good, anyway. Maybe we could all get together again some time.”

  Pete asked for his address. His surname, it turned out, was Smith. His telephone exchange was POL, and Pete was embarrassed to ask what it stood for.

  As they moved towards the door, Judy took Edward’s arm and said, “It’s a foul business, the pop business. I don’t think it’ll suit you, Edward, darling.”

  “Probably not. I’m not in yet, anyway.”

  They walked down Shaftesbury Avenue and hailed a taxi. Barrett said goodbye, and he and Greg walked off towards Covent Garden, where Greg had par
ked his father’s car.

  “We must get some transport,” said Pete to Judy. “It’s mad taking taxis at night.”

  “Why didn’t you bring the Bandwaggon, Edward?” said Judy.

  “It doesn’t like London traffic. It gets frightened and stalls in the jams. It’s strictly a country car.”

  “You know,” said Pete, “I think Greg could be our man. He’s got some original ideas, I liked him. I want a line-up of trumpet, tenor, piano—that’s what we’d have if Greg came in—drums, and perhaps alto. What d’you think, Edward? Alto or clarinet? Perhaps even another tenor? Or vibes?”

  “I hate playing with vibes,” said Edward. “They crowd out the piano. And I don’t think clarinet’s right for us.”

  “Why do you want another horn?” said Judy. “Surely two’s company?”

  “I don’t know,” said Pete. He plucked at his fringe of beard. “It makes for a richer sound, a more complicated sound. If you can get two saxes mixing right, they give a great basis for contrasting the other instruments. A trumpet often sounds better with two saxes.”