by Bill Moody
“Sounds good to me.”
Over dinner we get around to what Ace calls my “mission.” “It’s really nothing,” Ace insists, but I still have the feeling he hasn’t told me everything. “This guy will play a tape for you, and all you have to do is tell him your best-educated professional-jazz-musician opinion whether or not it’s Clifford Brown.”
“Like a blindfold test?”
“A what?”
“Blindfold test. Leonard Feather used to do them for Downbeat magazine. Get some famous musicians, play various selections, and see if they could identify the players.”
“Right, only all you have to do is confirm it’s Clifford Brown.”
True, I think, but in many of the blindfold tests I’ve read, some awful mistakes have been made by famous musicians.
Ace gets up to get us both coffee. I light a cigarette and think about that. “This friend of yours, he’s sure it’s Brown on the tape?”
“Well, yeah, of course. He just wants confirmation.”
“Based on what? Is this guy a musician? By the way, who is this guy?”
“A musician? God, no. He doesn’t care whether or not it’s jazz or R&B. If it’s valuable, he wants it.” Ace pauses before looking at me again. “I can’t tell you who he is.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Look, Evan, these are very serious collectors. They’re obsessed, paranoid, highly secretive. If this is Clifford Brown, they could be very valuable tapes, right?”
“Of course. I know the immediate market would be every trumpet player in the world. Clifford didn’t record very much.”
“Exactly, so you can see the need for security.”
“Security? What do you mean?” Here it comes, the part Ace hasn’t told me.
“I can’t tell you who it is because I don’t know. This is all through my partner, who is also very secretive. Look, I’ve got a fair collection, everything back to some ten-inch acetates, but I’m an amateur compared to these guys. Everything is dependent upon secrecy. They don’t want word to get out that this even might be Clifford Brown until they get absolute verification.”
“Depends on how it’s put.”
“How what’s put?”
“You remember the Howard Hughes scam? The writer Clifford Irving had a publisher believing he was meeting with Hughes, doing a biography. When they finally demanded a sample of Hughes’s writing, Irving thought it was all over. The publisher hired some handwriting experts and said, ‘We have no doubt that this is Hughes, and we want you to confirm that.’”
Ace suddenly gets it. “Oh, I see, if they had said, ‘We don’t believe for a minute this is Hughes,’ that’s what the experts would have confirmed. Psychological edge, yes, I see.”
“Exactly. Okay, I’m supposed to be objective in this, so this mystery man will simply play me the tape, and I tell him yes or no. This will only be my opinion. I don’t want whatever deal they try for to be dependent on my opinion.”
“Essentially that’s it. We pay your expenses here and five hundred dollars.”
I watch Ace carefully. Something is still not right. “What else, Ace? You’re still not telling me everything.”
“Well, as I mentioned, there is the security thing.”
“What security thing?”
“You’ll be picked up by someone and taken—” Ace starts laughing.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing, just that you mentioned a blindfold test.”
“And?”
“You won’t know where you’re going until you get there.”
“Why won’t I know?”
“They’ll probably blindfold you.”
Despite Ace’s assurances that the blindfolding is merely a formality, I realize I have a lot to learn about record collectors and the lengths they will go to. Of course, if this tape I’m to verify really is of Clifford Brown, it will be worth a great deal of money. Because of his early death, Brown’s recorded legacy is relatively small. The discovery of new recordings will set the jazz world on fire.
To relax me, Ace suggests we take in some live music at the Riviera, one of the new Las Vegas jazz venues, but I’m not so sure I want to go nightclubbing.
“C’mon,” Ace says. “Don Menza is there with a quartet, and his guest tonight is Cedar Walton. You can go from there to the meeting. I’ll call them from the Riv for the location.”
“This is sounding more like a James Bond deal all the time.”
“Stop worrying,” Ace says. “This will be a piece of cake. What could go wrong?”
We get to the Riviera after nine. Menza and company are already under way, and Cedar Walton is given plenty of solo space. An alumnus of the Jazz Messengers, Walton is playing better than ever, the crowd is appreciative, and there are a number of musicians I recognize in the audience.
“Pappy Dean ever come by here?”
“I’ve never seen him,” Ace says. “The last time I talked to him he and Louise were doing just fine.”
“What does Alan Grant think of this?” I ask indicating the stage. Menza, a fiery tenor player, has just ripped off several choruses of “Just Friends” and managed to play several hundred notes in the process.
Ace shrugs. “This has been going on for some time, but I gather it hasn’t affected Grant’s thing at the Four Queens.” Ace looks at his watch. “Back in a minute. I’ve got to make that call.”
I listen to the rest of the set, and then a guy who introduces himself as a KUNV DJ takes the stage to introduce the players and tell us about next week’s attraction.
“I’m Don Gordon, thanks for coming to Jazz on the Strip.”
As the curtain drops, Ace slides into the booth next to me. “Okay, we’re all set. They want you to meet at a place called the Inn Zone. It’s over on Decatur and Flamingo. Easy to find.”
“Will you be blindfolded too?”
“Me? No,” Ace says. He looks a little sheepish. “Didn’t I tell you? You’re going alone.”
CHAPTER THREE
The Inn Zone, as Ace tells me, is a sports bar. Pulling into the parking lot a few minutes after eleven, I park and go inside, feeling a little silly when I remind myself this is all only to listen to a tape that might possibly be Clifford Brown. Jazz at midnight.
Straight ahead, there are a few people at the bar nursing drinks, playing video poker machines, and glancing up occasionally at the TVs situated all over the bar and in the walled-off dining area to the left. A couple of pool tables take up the right side of the room. The balls are racked, but nobody’s playing.
I take a booth facing the door, order some coffee from a waitress who seems surprised to find someone in the dining area, and watch the silent television screen, which is showing a rerun of a Lakers game. I don’t see any record collector types around, but Ace assured me they would find me.
About eleven-thirty, a guy who looks like he might be an accountant walks in, takes one quick look around, and comes directly to my table. He’s got short brown hair, combed straight back, and wears baggy slacks, a white shirt, and thick glasses. I figure him for mid to late forties.
“I’m Ken,” he says, sliding into the booth. He grabs one of the plastic menus and signals the waitress, a blond with a curly perm. She refills my coffee and takes his order for a draft beer and a basket of chicken fingers.
“Mild, medium, or hot?” she asks; popping gum and scribbling on a pad.
“Medium,” Ken says quietly, turning his attention to me after she’s gone.
“I trust you had a good trip from L.A.”
“Yeah, fine. I trust you’re sure I’m Evan Horne.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. Charles described you very well.” Ken’s eyes are all over the bar, as if he’s looking for someone. “You’ll have to leave your car here, but we’ll bring you back. I hope that’s not too inconvenient. We do appreciate you doing this. It’s very important,
you know.” Ken has suddenly become very earnest.
The waitress returns with Ken’s order, and I watch him wolf down a basket of fries and fingers, dripping with grease. He carefully dips the last piece in a plastic container of ranch dressing, licks his fingers, and shoves the basket aside. He glances at his watch. “Well, shall we go?”
“Fine,” I say, getting up.
Ken pays the check, and we go outside. There are only a few cars in the parking lot. He takes me to a dark green Buick in the far end of the lot. A few feet from the car, another man gets out, but I don’t get a good look at him.
“Wait here,” Ken says.
I watch the two of them confer briefly, then Ken opens the back door and motions me inside. I slide over, and he joins me in the backseat. The driver never looks back but hands something over the seat to Ken. It’s a black sleep mask with an elastic band. “I’m sure this was explained to you,” Ken says. “Would you please put this on?”
I do, and only then does the driver start the car. Ken checks the fit. I assure him I can’t see, and we’re off. I feel ridiculous sitting in the backseat with a Lone Ranger mask on and wonder what anyone would think if they looked inside the car.
For something to do, I try to keep track of the number of turns the car takes, but I lose count and realize the driver may be trying to confuse me. Ace was right, these guys are really serious. I estimate about a fifteen-minute drive before the car slows and stops. All I recognize is the sound of gravel crunching under the tires.
Ken opens the door and takes my arm. “Watch your head,” he says as I get out.
He shuts the door and leads me by the arm. We stop, and he evidently presses some kind of doorbell. A few seconds later I hear the car start and drive away. There’s a buzzing sound, and the gate or whatever it is clicks open.
“This way,” Ken says. We walk maybe twenty or thirty feet, then up several steps. A door must already be open, because we go right inside.
“Hello, Mr. Horne,” a voice says from my left. I cock my head in that direction. The voice is friendly, well-modulated, and much lower pitched than Ken’s.
“Hi. Nice to meet you.”
The stranger laughs slightly. “My name is Cross. We’re going to go down some stairs.”
With Ken still holding my arm, we walk a few more steps, and then come the stairs. I’ve counted twenty when Ken says, “Just to your left.” A few more feet, and we stop. Ken removes the mask. “You can just sit right there.”
I’m in front of a black leather couch that faces dual reel-to-reel tape decks and two large speakers. There are some other chairs and a couple of lamps. Cross, if that’s really his name, the man who greeted me, goes to the tape deck, puts on headphones, and listens for a moment. He rewinds the tape, takes off the phones, and looks in my direction.
The lighting is very dim—one desk lamp aimed at the tape deck, casting shadows over the rest of the room. I can’t make out the man’s features clearly. I wonder if it’s deliberate or simply a trick of the shadows playing around his face.
Cross is taller and heavier than Ken; he wears a sweater and slacks and some kind of boots. He too wears glasses, thicker than Ken’s, that glint off the light from the tape decks, and his dark wavy hair is parted on one side. His face never comes into focus. I can see his jaw moving as he chews on something—gum, breath mints, or antacid tablets.
“Please forgive all the what must seem to you unnecessary precautions, Mr. Horne,” Cross says, “but this is a very important project. Now, if you’re comfortable, we can begin and get you home quickly. Can we get you anything—a drink?”
“No, I’m fine. Is it all right if I smoke?”
He glances at Ken, who nods approval. Ken brings an ashtray and sets it on the coffee table in front of me. I take out my cigarettes, light one, and say, “Okay, I’m ready, but there’s just one thing.”
“Yes?” I feel Ken tense beside me.
“I want you to understand this will be just my opinion. I’m not a trumpet player.”
“Of course. I appreciate that,” Cross says.
I find myself trying to memorize the room, wanting to savor the moment, like some game show contestant about to choose Door Number Two. I realize I might be among the first to hear some previously unknown recordings of one of the great jazz-trumpet players.
Besides the tape decks, floor-to-ceiling racks of records, tapes, videos, and books cover the two adjoining walls. I’m sure I’ll never be back to this place, and I remind myself I wouldn’t be here now without Ace’s okay. But these guys are creepy.
Cross presses the play button. There are a few seconds of hiss as the tape begins to roll, then music. An eight-bar drum solo comes on first, mostly hi-hat cymbals that are soon joined by bass and piano in two choruses of a blues tune.
The great jazz players all have a very strong identifiable sound, usually a combination of tone and technique. Max Roach is no exception. He’s known for his melodic solos and also for the tightly tuned, high-pitched tom-tom sound that is so much his trademark.
At the beginning of the third chorus the trumpet enters like a crackling brushfire sweeping down a hillside. I can’t help but feel elated. The trumpet player sounds so much like Clifford Brown it’s uncanny. Within eight bars, I’m sure it’s him. He plays the line, then solos for four choruses. The technique, the ideas, the sound, everything is there. He roars through the changes, leaving ashes in his wake.
Next, the piano solos for a couple of choruses, but it doesn’t sound like Richie Powell. Competent, but no match for the smoking trumpet. The bass is muddy; simple lines that a modern bass player would not play. He walks for a while, then there are some four-bar exchanges with trumpet and drums.
It sounds like Brownie, but the drums definitely aren’t Max Roach. It’s just not his sound, unless Max is playing on a borrowed set. The drums are much lower pitched than the way Max was always recorded, and the cymbals are cloudy, not the high, bright tones I’m looking for. I can’t tell if it’s the recording quality or not.
The whole band plays the line again twice and ends it short, as was the style in the ’50s. The entire cut is probably not more than four minutes, but it’s enough for me. I lean back on the couch and close my eyes, hearing that sound in my head.
Ken walks over and hits the stop button. Both men look at me expectantly. “Well, Mr. Horne, what do you say?” Ken says.
I stub out my cigarette in the glass ashtray. “If that’s not Clifford Brown it’s his double, somebody who can really imitate him, and I don’t think that’s possible.”
Ken and Cross glance at each other and breathe an almost imperceptible sigh, but I sense some kind of tension between the two men.
“You’re sure?” Ken says.
“Well, you want my opinion, I’d say yes, absolutely. Can I hear some more?”
They exchange glances again. “Of course,” Cross says.
Cross presses the play button again, and for nearly an hour, I’m listening to Clifford Brown in full flight. The big, fat, buttery sound, clean lines, awesome technique, and breathtaking emotion make your hair stand on end. I’m just as convinced, however, that it’s not Max Roach on drums, and it’s certainly not Richie Powell on piano. But for my money, it’s definitely Brownie.
When the tape ends, I stand up and stretch. “Could I get a drink of water or a Coke?” I ask.
“Of course,” Ken says. I hear him go upstairs while Cross rewinds the tape. I wonder what’s happened to the driver.
My mind is racing with questions. Where and when were these tapes done? Where did Ken and Cross get them, and what are they going to do with them? But Ken, when he returns with a soft drink in a can, won’t say a word.
“Obviously, at this stage we can’t reveal any of that, Mr. Horne. I’m sure you understand, perhaps better than we do, the value of these tapes. Record collectors are a very competitive breed, and record companies very careful. We want to be first with this find.”
“You mean there are more?”
“Oh yes. We have two all together.”
I sit back and let that sink in. Two tapes. Enough for a multi-CD package that is going to make these people a lot of money. These are probably master tapes, previously undiscovered, unreleased—who knows, maybe just misfiled and found now. Clifford Brown. Any record company would drool over these.
“So is that all?”
“No, we’d like you to listen to the other tape as well, or at least some of it.”
It’s much the same, and nothing I hear makes me think anything different. There are standards, blues, and some tunes I don’t recognize, but it’s all the same band, and it’s all Clifford Brown. The sound of his trumpet echoes in my head even when the tape comes to an end. I stand up and look at my watch.
“Well, congratulations, you’ve got quite a find here.”
Cross rewinds the last tape but leaves it on the machine. The other one he carefully places back in one of the tape boxes.
“There’s one other thing,” Ken says. “Something we’d like to show you.”
Ken and Cross exchange that look again. It’s something I can’t quite read, as if Ken looks to Cross for approval of everything.
Ken says, “There’s a trumpet.”
“A trumpet?”
“Yes. Would you like to see it?”
I sit down again as Ken sets a case on the table in front of me. It’s scarred and battered, a light gray with black piping. Some of the fiber threads are hanging loose, and there are a few gouges in the finish, as if it’s been dropped or scraped or shoved into the corner of a car trunk hundreds of times.
I don’t know what I expected to see. A shiny horn in red velvet? Not this one. When I open the case, a pungent odor drifts out. The case reeks with gasoline or kerosene. I take out the horn, turn it over, and look at it from every angle. The metal has oxidized, and there are a couple of small dents near the bell.
Inside, I can make out the initials C.B. etched into the metal in some kind of fancy script. The valves are sticky but they work, and the mouthpiece is missing, but sometimes trumpet players keep that separate or carry it around in their pocket. A very old trumpet that hasn’t been played in years. I set it back in the case and close it, shaking my head.