Low Down: Junk, Jazz, and Other Fairy Tales From Childhood

by A. J. Albany

  Izzy would answer the door in a red Chinese robe but had the countenance of a kindly bookie. He always played jazz, knew my dad from Greenwich Village back in ’44, when he’d been a local scenester, respected writer, and great music supporter. However, times change, and those who don’t get steamrolled into oblivion. That’s what happened to Izzy, who’d been living at the Knickerbocker for sixteen years, since ’55. He’d decided to hole himself up surrounded by his memories and passions. Hotels in Hollywood and downtown L.A. are full of forgotten people like that. People you wouldn’t look twice at, with their hot plates and old slippers, but you should look, because they’re often far more interesting than all the rich assholes swanning around Beverly Hills, full of themselves and nothing else.

  The last time I saw Izzy was late ’72. I was with my grandmother at the beauty salon inside the Knickerbocker when I spotted him through the beauty shop window having his shoes shined in the lobby. “Hey, Starshine, what’s new? Done anything astounding yet?” He always called me Starshine, owing, I guess, to my rare astrological pedigree. “Not yet. How are you, Izzy?”

  “Hanging on the ropes, kid—so your dad is abroad and doing well?”

  “Yes, I’m glad he wrote to you,” I said.

  “He hasn’t written me—I saw it in the stars.” And I’ve always believed that he did.

  heaven points

  Blind Danny lost his eyesight in South Korea in 1953, just two weeks short of the Korean War’s end. He said a one-two punch of friendly fire and rotten luck caused the explosion that left him sightless on that fateful day. Back home, Danny had earned a living as a freelance photographer for girlie magazines. Now, unable to work in his former capacity and not possessing any other particular skills, he sort of gave up on living altogether. “All but the breathing and shitting parts” was how he put it.

  I met him early in 1971 when he lived at the Hotel Knickerbocker just below Izzy the astrologer. On the walls hung evidence of his lost, dashing glory. In one photograph Danny sat behind the wheel of an MG convertible with a racing cap pulled down slick over one eye. Another picture showed him at Don the Beachcomber’s, seated in a booth, a gorgeous woman on either side, tall exotic drinks lined up in front of them. Over the years since his accident, the Veterans Administration had made several attempts to send volunteers to help him with cooking and cleaning, but he always attacked them, and in the end they gave up, labeling him a hostile paranoid. Danny haunted the VA hospital, bombarding them with complaints of chronic, inexplicable pain until they finally wrote him a generous scrip for morphine just to get rid of him, which made Dad quite envious, though he quickly added, “Poor Danny—he’s one of the unluckiest cats I know.”

  Dad and I visited Izzy every week or two, but the cat hair and cigar smoke became increasingly hard on my asthma, and Dad suggested I pay a visit to Blind Danny for an hour. “Offer to make him a sandwich or read him a book—you know, kindness earns you heaven points.” He winked. Dad believed that enough good deeds would clinch you a spot in heaven. When I arrived at Danny’s he had a stack of three paperbacks sitting on a cigarette-burned coffee table and asked that I choose one to read aloud to him. The first title, The Four Horny Sisters, I quickly set aside, only to find that Hot Leather Seats was my second choice. It had a lousy cover, and I pinned my hopes on the last book, Case of the Throbbing Organ. I thought it might be a Hitchcock Presents story, or something comic like The Ghost and Mr. Chicken, though once I scanned it, I saw it was cheap porn like the rest. I looked at Danny, who thought he was looking at me. He had the pathetic expression of a starved dog. Flipping through the yellowing pages, I decided it was a quick, easy read. What did I care? I’d just go home afterward and take a bath.

  As I read aloud the empty words that meant nothing to me, I glanced over at smiling Danny, who was attempting to hide his whacking off with a frilly “I Love Florida” pillow that danced on his lap. My indifference soon changed into confused discomfort as I tried to decide if I was now racking up points in heaven or hell.

  When Dad knocked on the door to collect me, I stuffed The Throbbing Organ, of which I’d read forty-two pages, under a cushion, not wishing to have my dad thrown in jail for murdering a blind man. “She sure reads well for a nine-year-old,” Danny said. Dad looked at my proudly. “She likes to help people out.” As the two of them stood talking at the door, I seized the opportunity to quickly move a stool in front of the entrance to the bathroom. Gram always said, “We all pay in this life. Everyone has to answer for their actions.” I was looking for some assurance on that theory. Break your neck, Blind Danny, I thought. I’d still make it to heaven somehow.

  beauty of rain

  Some cities have a particular season that best defines them, and for L.A., I always felt that it was summer. Most striking was how differently things sounded when filtered through the thick haze that would come in late June and stay through September. As a kid, I spent many summer afternoons with my head out the window, listening to Sly Stone being played on some distant cheap stereo along with the loud, lazy conversations of end-of-their-rope mothers and the sound of babies wailing in many languages, their cries rarely answered. Plastic wading pools meant for two or three sat in the middle of Hollywood courtyards, at least six wild kids piled into each, while neighbors looked on from behind broken screen doors and cats sat on top of rusted-out VWs on lawns of long-dead, overgrown grass.

  My passion was for summer showers. Dad said my love of the rain came from being conceived and born on rainy days. To me the smell of rain-wet pavement was sweeter than that of any flower. I’d lie out on the fire escape, looking straight up at the sky’s end, trying to see the rain’s origin, watching it fall in seemingly slow motion, perfectly silent and true. Holy water. On the street below, shirtless boys skateboarded down slippery sidewalks with long, wet locks sticking to their backs, beautiful as statues.

  Then there were the old people who hung out at the bus stops, never going anywhere, just sitting on the benches, watching. These ancient sentinels were a mystery to me.

  Who were they? Had they been radicals or jewel thieves? Now they only sat at the Hollywood and Western or Hollywood and Vine bus stops, toothless and forlorn, with wet newspapers held over their withered heads, too old and tired to enjoy the rain. The summer showers never lasted long, but when they did come, I felt that life held possibilities, and I’d find myself almost believing in something.

  the poodle lover

  It wasn’t easy for a kid to make a buck in a hotel where few people ever had more than a nickel in their pockets, but at one point, I had a steady dog-walking job for an old widow named Mrs. Avery. She was a scary-looking woman, always dressed head to toe in black, including a black veil that hung over her hat and long black gloves, regardless of the weather. Her dog was an old standard poodle named Stein who had cataracts in both eyes and the foulest breath I’ve ever encountered. They’d move through the halls like ancient silent shadows, their combined ages easily topping two hundred, counting dog years. Every day at 5:00 PM I’d knock at room 212 to collect my fifty cents and Stein for our walk down the Boulevard, as far as Wilton Place and back. One particular Saturday, I arrived at 4:00 PM, hoping I could walk the dog early since Dad and I were going to the Star Theatre twilight matinee to see Bananas. I knocked on her door a couple of times, but received no reply, although I could hear that old song: “Somewhere just around the corner, there’s a rainbow in the sky—so let’s have another cup of coffee, and let’s have another piece of pie” blasting on her phonograph.

  I started to imagine that Mrs. Avery, and maybe Stein too, had “punched their tickets,” as Dad used to say, and wondered if I should go seek help, or try to investigate myself. I opted for the latter, and found that the door was, unfortunately, unlocked. When I poked my head around the wall that separated the entranceway from the main room, I fell witness to a bizarre scene. Mrs. Avery was propped up on the bed, stark naked except for her hat and veil, singing to the music full tilt w
hile her faithful canine shoved his head between her spindly white legs, nosing away at her nasty old cooze with great vigor. I stood glued in queasy fascination, trying to think of how I was going to get out of walking her perverted poodle ever again. I ducked out quietly and headed back to our room, where I composed the following letter: “Dear Mrs. Avery, Dogs make me sneeze now. Sorry I can’t walk Styn. Amy Jo.” She never tried to get in touch with me after that, only made the occasional appearance in my disturbed dreams. I felt a little badly—perhaps I had let her down, not helping out, but at least she wasn’t totally alone. She had her pal Stein for company, which was more than a lot of people have.

  laundromat, 2001

  There was a Laundromat on Western that I used to hang out in. It was open from 6:00 AM to midnight. The long hours and the fact that there was a sink made it a popular destination for the homeless, though the owner, Manny, never let anyone hang out too long. When he caught sight of one of them trying to wash out socks or stay warm in the early-morning L.A. chill by huddling near a dryer, he’d abruptly kick them out. “What the hell kinda place you think I’m runnin’?” he’d scream.

  Manny looked like an unscrupulous fight promoter of old, with his Durante nose, stubby cigar, and moth-eaten suit and hat, long after the death of suits and hats. He’d open in the morning and polish everything to perfection. It was beautiful and immaculate, with all the most modern equipment, and triple-load washers that had blinding chrome front-loading doors. The ceiling even had the special stucco with silver sparkling bits in it. “That there is the deluxe stardust finish,” he’d point out proudly to unhappy overworked housewives who didn’t give a shit. Music was always piped in, what he called “Easy classicals. Très elite.” When the place was empty of people, and I’d sit in its vast, gleaming whiteness listening to the music, I felt like I was in the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey. Dad had taken me to see 2001 at the impressive Cinerama Dome when I was only six. I couldn’t make sense of it but was riveted by the imagery, and I remember asking Dad after the movie how old I would be in 2001. “Hmmm—thirty-nine years old.” I was devastated, certain I’d be dead before reaching such an advanced age. I wanted to live to see the fantastically sparse and silent future represented in that film.

  The Laundromat, I feared, might be as close as I’d get. Manny bopped in and out of the place throughout the day and night, grumbling to himself about everything in a stream of obscenities. “Fucking bums—clean ’em up!” or “What’s with these hairy fucking broads? Nothing a good hosing won’t fix—ha!” He always made derogatory remarks about the feminist movement, which was making headlines in 1970. Perhaps because he sensed my appreciation for his fine establishment, I was the only non-coin-feeding loiterer who was allowed to stay.

  One day as I watched an old woman struggling to fold her laundry, I offered to help, having grown bored with sitting around. To my delight, she rewarded me with a quarter tip when I’d finished. That’s when I got the idea of charging to help people fold their laundry. Manny, pleased with my nine-year-old entrepreneurial spirit, took the matter to task, hanging a sign on the bulletin board that read: LAUNDRY FOLDING: 50 CENTS PER LOAD BETWEEN 3:30 AND 6:30 PM. We didn’t have a phone at home, so Manny came up with the after-school hours. The bastard charged me half my profits to conduct business there. I had a lot of customers, but burned out after a few months. Summer was coming, and with the heat from the dryers, it felt like 120 degrees in there. This experience left me with a permanent aversion to clothes folding. Now I stuff everything straight from dryer to drawer. Won’t even shake them out. I made some money, anyway, and it kept me out of trouble for a while.

  saints and sinners

  We had some strange neighbors in Hollywood. A few were old spinsters who felt compelled to offer me guidance, whether I wanted it or not. One such lady was Mrs. Culver (“of the Culver City Culvers”) who decided that the only hope for me and my delinquency was to accept Jesus into my heart. She asked my father if she could take me to her Protestant church on Sunday, but he was wary: “Well, we’re Catholics—I wouldn’t want to confuse her.” However, she persisted, and in the end prevailed. Bright and early one Sunday, to church we went, accompanied by her greasy nephew, Ernest, the kind of guy who was always jerking off in the bushes when I walked to school.

  My first impression, upon arrival, was that it was quite an ugly church, and that all of the people in it were badly dressed. Mrs. Culver hightailed it over to the preacher and talked to him frantically, gesturing to me, who he glanced at gravely a few times. Then began the endless hokey hymns and droning sermons. Within minutes, I was light-years away, but at some point I realized this alien on the pulpit had homed in on me. “Friends, look upon this poor child who is not in God’s flock . . .” he began. Mrs. Culver and Ernest then guided me by the elbows down the aisle toward the weird man of God, who was growing louder and holding his arms out to me. The congregation stared, and some wept audibly, at which point I decided I wouldn’t be sacrificed without a fight. I started screaming and tried to make a break for it as the alien yelled, “Satan is taking hold of the girl,” and I thought, Pal, if Satan were to show up now, I’d go flying happily into his red-hot arms to escape this God-fearing freak show.

  After much to-do that included a laying of clammy hands upon my possessed and fevered brow, my torment ended once I decided to give the preacher double shin scrapes down both legs to remember me by.

  When I arrived home, Dad took one look at me, in hysterical overdrive, and said, “Oh, little Jo. I’m so sorry.” Mrs. Culver was standing back a little in the hallway looking sheepish. “Keep away from my daughter, you fucking witch,” said Dad, slamming the door as she said she would pray for us both.

  From that moment on I detested all organized religions, though I still enjoyed reading about the lives of saints, like Saint Agatha, who died on my birthday and was from Catania, just like my great-grandmother. A martyred virgin, Saint Agatha was sodomized and had her nipples torn off after refusing to let herself be deflowered by some high-ranking Roman official. Such dedication to any belief truly inspired me. I’d play a game called “Saints” in which I’d test my pain threshold—poking myself with sharp objects, sticking my fingers in the fire, trying to make my palms bleed with sandpaper, et cetera. I concluded back then that it was wise to avoid overzealous Christians.

  jamming

  I sometimes accompanied my dad to jam sessions that took place in the houses and bungalows—even one penthouse—of musicians and jazz fans all over Hollywood. It wasn’t always as exciting as it may sound. Unless we were in the home of our friends Stan and Ellie, the atmosphere was usually not kid friendly. On many occasions I was greeted by some too-cool character groaning, “Shit, Joe, did you have to bring the kid?” to which Dad would simply say, “Fuck you,” not being one to mince words. In the end they’d tolerate me because they knew they were fortunate to have Dad and his talent there to make them look good. These evenings sometimes deteriorated into enormous circle jerks. There were so many large egos awaiting their climax, the inevitable eight-bar solo, that the room could barely contain them.

  I remember Dad telling me the story of working with Charlie Parker’s group in 1946. A young Miles Davis was also featured in the group. They were rehearsing for a live radio airshot out of the Finale Club in L.A. Dad said: “I was accompanying Bird and having a hard time figuring out what he expected of me. I tried out a few different things, but when I’d look at him he just shook his head, ‘no.’ Frustrated, I turned the beat around [played the melody backward], hoping for approval. Still nothing. Finally I yelled, ‘Fuck you, Bird!’ and he said, ‘You’re fired, Joe!’ then turned his back. Even so, I felt his eyes staring at me.”

  Dad would beat himself up endlessly over the incident, saying that he wasn’t good enough to keep up. When I tried pointing out that other musicians had said Parker was difficult to play with, and he should cut himself some slack, I got the brush-off. He preferred, in true Catholic form,
always to lay blame with himself, especially when it came to the alto sax god Parker. Once I made the mistake of saying I enjoyed listening to Lester Young over Charlie Parker, which solicited the response: “What the hell do you know?” It was true, I only knew what I liked, but in the often too-serious jazz scene, it seems what one likes isn’t valid unless backed up by a twenty-page dissertation. That attitude probably accounts for a certain percentage of jazz enthusiasts who are pedantic bores.

  There was an odd mix at these scenes. You had your goateed, spectacled set in their twenties, who sat off in a corner reading the writings of Lenin, and the weekend hipsters, who’d waltz in from the Palisades for a naughty night of Hollywood debauchery. It seemed to me that the women around were viewed merely as pretty baubles, good for collecting bottles and emptying ashtrays, which was a grave injustice. Some remarkable women gravitated to that scene. There was Ellie, a talented painter who possessed a kindness so genuine it often filled me with sadness. Then there was fast-talking Jean. Jean Roth, who started as Irma Rothman, had been a gorgeous Dior model when Dad met her in the middle ’40s on Fifty-Second Street. Fifty-Second Street, between Fifth and Seventh Avenues, was the nucleus of the jazz universe then. “You could step out of one club and duck into another that was right next door. It was like gorging yourself on a fabulous two-block-long smorgasbord.” That was the preface for one of my dad’s many bedtime stories about Fifty-Second Street, where he attained musical enlightenment on several occasions.