Bill King Words and Music

Bill King -The Gambler & The Delta Queen (Gloryland) Preview

2012-03-05T14:38:00.000-08:00

Bill King -The Gambler & The Delta Queen (Gloryland) Preview

Bill King - Sweet Sugar Cane - Gloryland (Tales from the Old South) Preview

2012-02-15T16:25:00.000-08:00

Bill King - Sweet Sugar Cane - Gloryland (Tales from the Old South) Preview

Zombies, Three Crime Dogs and a College Boy

2012-02-01T15:39:00.000-08:00

It was one of those sixteen below January mornings when I, GeraldFishburn, nearly made one of the gravest mistakes of my life. You see I metthis guy over a couple pints two nights ago at the Crest Inn who introduced himself as “ Stingray” . Not long afterpreliminaries the ray asked if I’d like to slide outside for a toke of this rareTibetan herb. I’m not saying I fall a little short of willpower in thesesituations but the lure of serious bud certainly appeals to the artistic sideof my brain.

I sneak back of this dumpster just beyond the kitchen door where I see Rayrolling this nasty looking leaf in what seemed to be a subway transfer .Remember this was by invitation only so I watch him drop this long tongue topaper and smear a wad of lip residue up and down one side, sealing the jointwith what looked be toxic paste dredged from the depths of Love Canal. Ray thentakes a heaping draw, tightens his abdomen, chokes, coughs, then sneezes a poundof nose biscuits all over the pavementthen passes along to me. Beforeinhaling, I inspect for water damage and happen to notice the time inscribedalong one side of the transfer, 12:10.

“ Hey man, what the hell is this crap?” I ask after first whiff.

“ Only the finest, most primo bud north of Texas,” Ray proudly quips.
Being no stranger to high herbal tradition I recognize this leaf moreakin to fungus than fruit.

“ This shit taste like it comes from the bottom of those Doc Martens you’rewearing. In fact, it tastes like you’ve been storing it up your ass .”

“ Yeah, yeah asshole, I’ve heard thisbull shit before. Punks like you look a gift horse in the mouth and piss init.”

“ No, I was just jiving you. I’m grateful for the gesture but nothingalters the fact this shit’s so ancient I’ll have to soak my mouth with Pledgeto keep the walls from cracking.”

“ Listen joke boy, if you thinkyou can do me something better here’s twenty. Meet me at that address tomorrowmorning , ten o’clock and bring me a sample. You college boys are all a like,besides I’ve got some friends I wantyou to meet. ”

“ Look, I’m not dissing your product.”

“ Man, you already stepped all over my high. Put your herb where your mouthis.”

I should have kept my mouth shut and commended Ray on the quality of hisprecious import but like an idiot I followed the directions scribbled back of the beer coaster andarrived at 652 River Drive
precisely at 10:00 a.m.

Now , if you no someone who gets high then you knowthis is not entirely out of character. Fools will drive a convertible into ablinding snowstorm, walk naked in six feet of ice water for a ten dollarhigh. Been there, done it. And you also understand white people will even walk thestairs to the bottom of the dankest, darkest rat infested basement to find outwhere that unexpected noise come from knowing full well Jeffery Dahmer oncelived down there.

As I climbed top of the wooden stairs, I notice the front door crackedhalf open. Since the temperature was hovering in the low teens I decided toreach warmth by stretching my neck throughthe doorway,

“ Ray, you in there?” , I call out.

As soon as the words slip from my tongue this guy in a pastel windbreakerlocks my arm under his, smiles and escorts me inside, then yells, “ Ray, you in here,........... you’ve got avisitor.

Bang! Up against the wall, legs spread. There I was in the middle of a whatI’d soon realize a serious drug bust.Illness quickly consumed me like I was catching six different strains of Asianflu leaving my
body to nearly collapse.

“ Keep your head straight, face the wall , spread your legs, and don’t move,”the escort in the light blue wind breaker instructs while crushing my noseagainst soot stained wallpaper.. I try my best to accommodate, but man, I had abad case of shakes making standing in one place near impossible.
Besides, I ‘d never been associated with crime or in anyway trespass thelaw.

Crime dog number one examines my frozen fingers then slides both handsinside my denim shirt. As his fingers pass below belt line the hands split thendrift past my pants pockets before hitting pay dirt.
“ I’ve got one, I’ve got one,” he screams.

Suddenly, five of the meanest looking thugs come rolling down the hallway stairslike hyenas sniffing out three day old meat, circle, then smile with a cockylike glint in their eyes. The closer they shift under the table light, I noticethe place starts to resemble a polyesterfashion show . Crime dog number one slides two fingers inside my right trouserpocket, splits the fingers , then clasps a small glass vial and slowly
withdraws then lifts near a lamp .

“ My, my,...... it looks like my friend’s been visiting his old buddy PedroEscobar,” he says in a sickening tone. Icouldn’t let him get away with the remark so I speak through the
back of my head

“ Pedro who? I ask.

You ain’t that naive, come clean with me before I let everybody in theroom search your skinny ass. When are you planning your next vacation toPeru?” I was so screwed up I beganquivering my words.
“ Perurururu…?....... You mean Colomomomombia , someplace like that don’t you?”

“ Of course Colombia. Only aknowledgeable fellow like you wouldn’t confuse the two countries, right? Justtell me what’s in the vial before I show the boys.” I thought for a moment anddecided to borrow from military experience. Two years of ROTC prepares you forthis line of questioning.

“ Hashish sir! ” I shoot back with military precision. I say it loud enough sono one would confuse the substance with white cane.

“ Hashish?”

Suddenly, the group breaks into song and dance. “We got one, we got ourselves abig ass dope dealer.” At first I couldn’t identify the melody but I knew from the celebratory strains, itsounded a lot like the Village People’s “ Y.M.C.A”

. “ Where’s the other ten pounds this came from? You must have hid itaround here with your friends?”
By then, my neck was entertaining a grievous lump so thick and dry I couldbarely swallow let alone answer with clarity. Just when I was about to ask for a glass of water crime dogspeaks.

“ Since you’ve been such a useful boy, I want you to have a seat and relax atthat table”. Nothing seemed more inviting at that time . The lax moment gave mean opportunity to scope the room.Thankfully, dog’s attention diverted to other matters.

Peering through the bleak,frozen air, I spot five emaciated figures, crammed shoulder to shoulder cradledon one tired looking couch. A coffee table below held crumbled bits of bread,hair and what appeared to be a patch of drying blood. I thought to myself,these people look like zombies at a picnic. In fact, it looked as if they’dalready eaten or at least had been preparing a meal before we all arrived.
Whoever decorated the place sure loved flat black and olive green, not tomention shopping curbside for furniture. With all the activity, I still hadn’tspotted Ray.

Bang!, In my face again. “ What’d you do with the needle?” screams thisover sized head sporting a full beard.

“ I swallowed it,” I say with a pinch of sarcasm.

“ Fuck me , we got ourselves a regular Rodney Dangerfield over here, a real comedy dude. Maybe, he shits needlesout his ass while doing stand up?.” All of the sudden the nasty five return andcircle again. I ask myself, why such stupidity. What ever possessed me to makelight of the situation.

“ What’d you do with the needle?” crimedog two inquires.

“ Mr, I’ve never seen no needle, in fact the word needle itself, makes me wantto faint,”

“ See your playmates, they love the shityou sell them,” crime dog three says in a sweet voice.

”What? I don’t know those people, in fact , they look like grave robbers orsomething and I don’t sell shit to anyone or anything . That hash waspersonal.”

From above a large hand arrives,slams a revolver centre of the table, jolting whatever minute debris tucked away in the cracks of the warped oak table..

“ Go ahead, pick it up,” crime dog two insists. I pause , then speak.

“ Sir, I don’t believe in guns, they scare the shit out of me.”

Hear it? That was my militarytraining at work again.

“ Pick up the damn gun,” he commands”.

“ Can’t do it sir. Like I say , guns are for killing , I’m for livin’.”

He then lifts the revolver and says, “ Give me your hand.”

“ I’m sorry sir, … can’t do it, I’ve never held a weapon in my life, and I’mcertainly not beginning now.”
“ You’re an educated junkie aren’t you?” he asks in a condescending tone. “College boy?”

I don’t have a clue where this line of questioning will lead so I blurtout, “ You should stop with that junkie talk. You’ve got the wrong person, lookat my arms no marks or tattoos for that matter. ”
Crime dog two then places the gun between my elbows , an inch from the edge ofthe oak table. I lift both arms , slide my chair backwards out of reach of theweapon. Crime dog one lunges forward, forcefully rams me and the chair intotable, causing the gun to spring , vault off my lap, and land on the floor nextto my trembling ankles.

“ Pick it up? ” he commands.

“ I’m sorry, …. can’t do that sir.” I could sense the man was setting me up forsomething greater than the hashish infraction.

“ What do you want from me, Idon’t know anyone in this room, I’ve never been here before, not even in a pastlife. I just come to meet Ray, so whyyou accusing me of all this phony shit?”

From above a large hand arrives striking my face with severe impact blackeningout the glaring light. It was a calculated delivery , a painful message to thebrain. I’d earned a concussion in a footballscrimmage from a legal tackle, but this was a professional hit causing my headand neck crash backward nearly severing them from my spine. As the downed lines in my brain lay in disrepair, a familiar voice sounds off again, “ Pick upthe damn gun asshole.”

Half dazed , I look away fixing my eyes on the five members of theghostly jury huddled on the stained brocade couch. They hadn’t moved or uttereda sound. I couldn’t help but associate this cast with the ghouls who pried theirway through the broken planks of a secluded farm house in Night of the Living Dead.

AsI’m catching a momentary reprieve, crime dog two grabs my right arm and twistsit back of my neck. I collapse face down on the oak table with the cold steelbarrel of a revolver puncturing my left nostril. One shake of the head and theweapon spins away. Dog then places it inches from my mouth.
“ This belongs to you asshole, now pick it up.” he implores. In a faint voice Iplead, “I beg you officer, I’m not a criminal, nor would I ever own a gun. Whydon’t you check the registration, there’s
surely a better match in this room. It’s got to belong to one of the members ofteam Zombie, over there.”
Just when I begin envisioning my ownblood splattered all over ghoul town, two uniform officers arrive and escort medown a filthy dim-lit hallway. As I’m directed into what seems a masterbedroom, I notice a trail of blood leading to what looks to be a man curled infetal position. A detective wearing latex gloves reaches down and twists theman’s face towards me, “Is this your friend?”

All of a sudden I feel this overpowering urge to blow a truckload of recently digested breakfast Mac Sausage allover the crime scene. I stand in the moment transfixed, mystified bycircumstance. Every thought questions the future, the abusive actions of my newfound associates. I decide to be candid, up front and speak with confidence.

“ That’s part of the guy I met at the Crest last night who calls himself “Stingray,” I yell. “He invited me to come bythis morning. I brought him half a gram of hash . Nothing more, nothing less.”

Not a word was uttered. I was certain I was doomed. The yellow carpet soaked inblood harbored a positively gruesome spectacle. The right side of the head hada large hole that looked as if it had been
drilled like a tropical coconut leavingthe rest of the face partially mutilated.

I kept talking to myself. This ain’treal, you’ve done nothing wrong, stay cool, this will all be over soon.

It seemed like an eternity before two uniform officers return. One putsan arm on my shoulder and escorts me from the room and says, “ Look, we mayneed to talk to you later so don’t go anywhere, in fact, have a seat with yourfriends.” I think to myself, I hope he doesn’t expect me to hang with thisspunky gang of slumbering needle jockeys for long. Sorry, that’s just what he planned. I no more thansit down and this freak looks over and says.“ Gotta a smoke?”

I really don’t want to encourage conversation so I ignore him.

“ How’s the hash?” he asks.

I just face ahead, and act like a mute.

“ You got a nice ripe ass.”

“ What ? Don’t fuck with me cadaver breath, I’ll waste what’s left of your deadass.”

“ Did you hear what he called me? Cadaver breath?”

The five nod heads and shoot meten eyeballs of displeasure.

The zombie nearest me turns to brother “ blood mouth” and blows a gustof wind his direction.

“ Smell bad?”

“ Nope, smells like fresh lung.”

I pause and consider what justtranspired. Fresh lung? No way lung, fresh or spoiled ever bare the fragranceof certified mouthwash.

“ You know Ray?”

“ Not really.”

“ You drink?”

“ Alone.”

End of conversation.

A few minutes pass when I get brave enough to yell, “ What’s going onin there.” As soon as I ask, team zombie start giggling and rolling their eyes.At that moment I hear a voice yell, “Haney, write the boy out a ticket for the hash. He can pick the ounce up fromJudge Lockhart.”

Hearing this, I waste no time sounding off..

“ Officer, there was less than a gram in that vial. No way your goingto peg me with an ounce of hash.”

Haney ignores me and keeps on writing, pauses, then looks up at me, “You almost screwed up kid. You know you should pick your friends more wisely.”I didn’t breathe a word.

While the officer continued writing the summons , I take one long glance aroundthe room. The five ghostly figures catch my eye causing me to re-evaluate thesituation, and realize things could have been much worse without the cops. Look, I could have been eating a five coursespam dinner with five ghouls, or maybe they would have preferred dining on ribof Gerald.

As I’m leaving an officer stops me, “ You sure you don’t want to stay forsupper?”

“ Yeah, right ”

“ Don’t you know who these characters are?” he inquires.

“ Seriously officer, I’ve said throughout, those freaks scare the shit out ofme.”

“ Well, they should. You ever heard of a cult called Beggars at a Blood Feast?” he asks.

“ No!”

“ Well, your friend Ray was about to be the main course. “ In fact, theydrilled a hole in the back of his head and were downing Bloody Marys justminutes before we arrived.” I noddedjust like a seasoned vet and asked, “ which one was carrying the Tabascosauce.”

“ You know, a fellow needs a good sense of humor dealing with thisshit.”

“ How the hell did you findthem?”, I ask.

“People been complaining about the smell around here the past six months, so weset up surveillance. A few discarded limbs later, whamo, we pop them. You’reone lucky fellow . With a head the size of yours they could have sipped from itlike a community party mug for the a full week, now get the fuck out of herebefore I arrest you for loitering.”

It took a month watching the Disney Channel to clear my head of persistent reoccurring nightmares.. Ray keptsticking his mug in my face; dancing this bizarre hybrid Texas two-step andshimmy shake, weaving, occasionally laughing. Finally, after three weeks of badcinema, the zombies return,walk centre stage, bow and carry Rayoff. Zap! It was all over. I sit up in a pool of perspiration and glance at thewall clock; time……

.12:10. Now, ain’t that a freaky!

####

JANIS JOPLIN: (Memphis Meltdown)

2012-01-25T09:23:00.000-08:00

I’d been hustling a meager living in the coffee houses and psychedelic joints of Greenwich Village in lower Manhattan when word spread of Janis Joplin’s departure from Big Brother & the Holding Company. I can’t say the announcement held the same aura as the Beatles imminent crack-up or Bob Dylan converting electric, but it did reverberate along Bleecker and McDougall streets attracting greater attention among working musicians than buskers. I for one reacted swiftly to rumor.

Word came Janis was assembling a rhythm & blues band much like the high flying Memphis bands, somewhere between Sam and Dave and Otis Redding. It was a sound originating from Soulsville USA Studios in Memphis, Tennessee and reproduced on vinyl by Stax/Volt records.
I popped in a record store on Eight Avenue, one frequented on many occasions for it’s diversity and scanned the jacket cover of Cheap Thrills, Joplin’s most recent recording. I scanned for clues to management with no success before asking a clerk for assistance. He pointed to a recording by the Electric Flag, a contemporary rhythm & blues band who shared the same management. It turned out to be Albert Grossman, noted for successful campaigns in behalf of Peter, Paul and Mary, Bob Dylan, Paul Butterfield and others.

I dialed Grossman’s office and was directed to associates Vinnie Fusco and Elliot Mazior who were closely involved in Joplin’s affairs. An audition was arranged at A-1 Studios the original home of Atlantic Records. Before the date, I was summoned to an informal meeting with Albert Grossman.
I waited outside his office clutching the one recorded document of my playing, a b-side instrumental to a single by California soul unit, Kent & The Kandidates whose claim to fame was backing band on the million seller "Gimme A Little Sign", recorded by a local dishwasher named Brenton Wood.

Upon entry I catch a glimpse of Grossman through several towering stacks of papers positioned like a fortress rather than work in progress. Speaking in a near whisper Grossman beckoned me forward. While standing there listening to his take on Joplin’s radical plan I couldn’t help ponder how much he looked like Ben Franklin with flowing white locks tied in a ponytail and small wire-framed glasses. As far as I was concerned he could have been one of the original signatures on the Declaration of Independence. Whatever transpired in conversation landed me both duties of keyboardist and music director.

The first audition was little more than a formality geared to access the compatibility of the players. The second audition involved recording the soulful number " Piece of My Heart" at the Hit Factory. A final mix was sent to Janis for approval.

Drummer Roy Markowitz and I landed jobs. Bassist Stu Woods didn’t suffer the loss instead went on to work as sideman and record with Bob Dylan, Don McLean, Pozo Seco Singers, Tony Orlando & Dawn, Janice Ian and others. In many ways his career faired better.

After coming to a financial agreement a flight was arranged for Roy and I to San Francisco. No accommodation had been met other than a few nights arranged at a studio apartment belonging to the road manager’s mother in North Beach. That was fine with me, I pretty much lived the past couple years out of a suitcase.

We met bassist Brad Campbell of the Last Words, the only Canadian in the group, at the temporary digs. Rolling Stone magazine had announced the hiring of both Brad and Skip Prokop from Lighthouse, but the latter player never materialized. It was probably just as well since the three of us had spent our lives in the shadows beyond the glare of spotlights and this was truly Janis’s show.
Janis invited us to her Noe street apartment for a get-to-know-you session.

After dragging our nightclub-trained bodies up a severe slope to Joplin’s door, we were accosted by a snarling dog that dared entry. Joplin’s live-in mate, ex-wife of blues singer Nick Gravenites, collected the dog then directed us to a small sitting room resplendent in Salvation Army home furnishings. A few somber moments pass when Joplin burst from the hallway like a Texas whirlwind. She laughed and joked about a compact stereo Columbia Records had given her, which she checked as baggage during her flight home from New York. Janis watched its fatal plunge from an economy window seat as it bounced along transporting roller pins between cargo and flatbed eventually crashing to the tarmac below. The story was repeated throughout orientation.

Janis was the perfect host, serving shots of Southern Comfort and reefer sticks. When I passed on refreshments she paused and commented, "What did Albert send me, Christ?" I apologized and assured her I wasn’t one of those bible-thumping southerners sent to protect her from a host of demons. She seemed more than comfortable with my assurances, and invited us back for dinner later that evening. Janis said there were a few friends she wanted us to meet.

When we arrived after nearly succumbing to the tortuous climb it was apparent a party was brewing in a nearby room. The soulful voice of Carla Thomas blared amongst the conversation of a few loitering denim clad men. As we reached the doorway to the dining room Janis charged in, steering us to what from a distance appeared to be a white stalagmite rising near an open window. As I moved closer it became evident it was a polished sculpture of a penis, a gift from a local Haight-Ashbury artist. The coveted centerpiece remained the focal point of conversation throughout the ensuing hour.
With each rap at the door another group of tattooed denim jockeys enters, each grimier than the other. My team looked like choirboys at a prison picnic.

Janis journeyed from lap to lap kissing and hugging each man. Eventually, when the room overflowed she introduced us as her new hand-picked band and the men in denim as the Oakland Chapter of the Hell’s Angels.

I was more than a bit uncomfortable especially when the drugs started flowing, music intensified and the booze spilt. The three of us politely excuse ourselves and inform Janis we’ll meet again at rehearsal.

While we awaited the arrival of two horn players who had just completed service in the Electric Flag, Brad, Roy and myself scoured the pool halls of North Beach playing snooker until past midnight. We’d listen to jazz and trade road stories until our guts nearly cripple from laughter, relive the failed dinner party and speculate about the future. Roy and I never took rock music that seriously. Miles and Coltrane were the most talked-about players in our sphere; Joplin was merely a quirky individualist with a wide following. For the two of us it was a better gig than lounging about Grossingers in the Catskills.

Rehearsals began early December 1968 in the old Fillmore Auditorium. The floor below Carlos Santana was working his band through the final preparations for his Columbia recording debut. A floor below him, It’s A Beautiful Day was putting the finishing touches on material for their first recording.

We shared great rapport with Carlos and company. During breaks each band would filter in and listen to one another restructure tunes. Santana was miles ahead of our newly assembled unit. His band loved playing and did it with precision and commitment. We had barely enough time to acquaint ourselves with unfinished and untried material before pressing ahead.

Day one, the band strolls in just past noon and takes their places. My position as leader was to bring order to the proceedings a role I’d played many times before but never on such a grand scale. Janis eventually slips in, introduces herself, and trades hugs with the horn players before drifting my way. She then slides along the organ bench near me and introduces a modest list of tunes hoping to bridge the raw elements of her persona with the classic sound of rhythm & blues. The marriage arranged in her head had yet to be consummated by the band.

First up was "Summertime" her signature wail. Guitarist Sam Andrews plays a fugue like riff leading to the bands entry. I wrote a counterpoint line meant to fatten the sequence. It became apparent organ didn’t carry the same weight as amplified guitar giving Janis cause to rethink the intro. By the time the complete band enters Joplin all but forgets the odd coloring.

During the rehearsal I crafted horn lines for the Bee Gee’s "To Love Somebody", which Joplin quickly transformed into a blues ballad ripe with guttural cries and evangelical testifying. I would convince her to give the old Eddie Floyd soul hit "Raise Your Hand" a try. It was a crack staple from my days with Kent & The Kandidates. The song had the same fat groove prevalent in Wilson Pickett’s, " Midnight Hour and Mustang Sally" with a memorable gospel style shout chorus. The band reveled in the textures before imploding on "Ball and Chain" another squealing testimonial.

Rehearsals began to lose their luster the following week. Gone were the rock celebrities and energized sessions. Trumpeter Marcus Doubleday began showing up late. He made a heroin connection, which eventually took precedent over scheduled rehearsals. Janis was getting agitated spending more time carousing pool halls and nightspots than rehearsing. She was also drinking more. I could see more welts swell beneath her inset eyes. Acne infected nearly every pore of her scarred face. In fact, I was starting to dread daily meetings with her.

By December 18 guitarist Mike Bloomfield, noted for his groundbreaking work with the Blues Project, Paul Butterfield and others, unexpectedly appears. Bloomfield’s turf was Greenwich Village, which led me to question his presence in our house. Janis arrives then introduces Bloomfield and asks us to jam a few tunes. We’d already made the Bloomfield connection through a shuffle blues prior to her entry. The piece lasted some twenty minutes. Janis then instructs us to play " Piece of My Heart’. Bloomfield plugs the holes with stinging blues lines, which seem to last an eternity. Once testing had been completed Janis confers in private with Bloomfield then emerges with the verdict. "Mike really likes the band," she declares.

The momentary reprieve was nearly broken when drummer Levon Helms of The Band fame arrives and Janis instructs us to play once again. Levon listens then awards the band another vote of confidence. I could sense uncertainty in Janis’s body language. This was Janis’ call. With it came vulnerability and responsibility. Gone was the comfort of Big Brother’s blasting amps, plodding rhythms and close relationships.

I remember a conversation with producer John Simon who confided to me it cost him six months editing just to give Cheap Thrills a consistent flow. Steady tempos were foreign to the band.
Janis roared at night. Brad and I would pile into the back seat of her psychedelic Porsche and cruise the seedier pool halls around the bay. She knew every oddball and misfit along the tour. Joplin treated them no differently than the band. If you were a friend you remained a friend.

I accompanied her to the Kaleidoscope Club to hear a local San Francisco group not long after she extorted a fur coat from Southern Comfort, ransom for her personal campaign in behalf of the beverage. Throughout the evening the luxury item dusted floors and served as a seat cushion rather than treasured garment. She eventually dragged me backstage to greet a few musicians before departing.

We arrive late evening at the Fillmore when Janis again pulls me back stage this time to meet Rod Stewart and Ron Wood who were performing with the Small Faces. The reserved Englishmen were no matches for her. Janis tried to warm the reticent musicians with her quick wit and undeniable charm with little success. She walked away commenting on what a bunch of tight asses British bands were.

It soon became imperative after receiving an invite to play the second annual Stax/Volt Yuletide Thing at the Memphis Mid-South Coliseum. Isaac Hayes, Rufus and Carla Thomas, Johnny Taylor, the Bar-Kays, Booker T and the MG’s, Eddie Floyd were just a few of the expected celebrity performers. Janis was eager to introduce the new band in an area rich in folk and blues history. The final rehearsal would have to take place down South.

During the Sunday drive from the airport the limousine driver makes an unusual turn and charts a path towards Jackson, Mississippi. Janis was in severe need of a drink. As the drive gets more confusing the urgency in her voice resonates throughout. A few terse words nearly turn into an explosive confrontation. A deal was eventually struck to let the band off at the hotel while the search continued.

We were booked into the Lorraine Motel the same structure that Martin Luther King was gunned down only months before. In fact, we were booked in adjacent rooms on the same landing.
Little fanfare greeted our arrival leaving Janis to her vices. As we stroll back to our rooms, Mike Bloomfield lumbers past toting a garbage bag full of pot. Roy stops him and asks for a joint. Bloomfield looks on with contempt and says, " I don’t have enough". A startled Roy looks back at me then busts loose with laughter.

A rehearsal was set for mid-afternoon December 20th at Soulsville USA Studios. First sight of the shattered movie marquee made me question if we’d been driven to the wrong location. I would eventually learn the broken panes of glass were fronting an immensely successful, sophisticated operation.

As the doors spring open a cacophony of sounds unleash while several bands put the final touches to performance material. We wait until Booker T & The MGs complete a run through of prepared concert material then take positions behind our respective instruments. It was truly one of the most awkward situations I’d ever been in. First, the studio floor was on a slope due to its previous incarnation as a public cinema. Secondly, the number of certified super stars walking about not only excited but also added a level of intimidation. I mean these were my big heroes.

After a complete run through we drove on to the coliseum for set up. The sound check was a disaster. With an event the magnitude as this you would have assumed the promoters would have spent decent coin to rent adequate amplification. Instead, they propped up a couple column speakers found mostly in rural churches at the time. Enough wattage for a sermon but not reliable enough to carry the power of a raucous singer. Janis was flabbergasted. To compound matters, she spotted a poster of the event with her image and name posted larger than the other participants. The thought of headlining amongst such prestigious talent sent her into an apologetic rant.

All of the goodwill we received jamming at Soulsville USA Studio a day earlier would now be tested as the concert drew near. The many extraordinary people whose music made Stax Records the preeminent rhythm & blues record label of the day and whose hands we shook were relegated to minor status in their own community all because of a power play between booker and manager. In the end, Janis would be the big loser.

The evening crowd, mostly adoring women cheered for their idols, which seemed more like a fashion show for both the wealthy and poor. Rufus and Carla Thomas sang and cajoled the crowd with one-liners and jabs to an approving audience, phrases that seemed memorized from previous concerts. Booker T did the MG thing in a cool almost self-effacing manner. The Bar-Kays stole the night with an upbeat rhythm set dressed in zebra-stripped flannel jumpsuits.

As we took our places I soon discover the organ sound cutting in and out and Janis’s mike distorting. I try in vain to get help but no one seemed particularly interested. The crowd offered minimal support. We were only a distraction, a brief interlude.

Janis tried her best to involve the audience but her music never caught fire. Even with the best soul intention, a bunch of white pretenders in psychedelic gear were no competition for the clean manicured presence of a Johnny Taylor and Eddie Floyd.

The set ended as it began without much consideration.

I felt sorry for Janis. She reviewed the brief time on stage and cool response as an indictment of her vision.

Janis’s spirit was renewed later that evening at a party hosted by Stax/Volt president Jimmy Stewart. The sprawling ranch style house situated amongst lush tree-lined surroundings was the social center for invited guests from both the black and white communities. Behind these doors people could mingle without prejudice.

All of the great Memphis singers and musicians were there.

Stewart had rigged various rooms with monstrous-sized Voice of the Theater speakers. Through the night he played unreleased tapes of Otis Redding, who had perished in a plane crash along with four of the original Bar-Kays December 10, 1967. There were many tears. As much as it was an occasion to celebrate it was nearing Christmas Eve, one in which all knew the great singer would be unable to attend. The music seemed to pierce the hearts of the most reluctant making the night both a somber and tender occasion.

We gathered around the main dining room table and aquatinted ourselves with Booker T, Steve Cropper, Duck Dunn, Isaac Hayes and company. Janis was in an effervescent mood. She joked, laughed, poured drinks and talked music. All of us were swept away by her sincerity. Janis had a great heart, great sense of humor and quick tongue. She could banter with the best or confide on a personal level.

The following morning we meet for a final occasion. It was truly one of the saddest moments for me. Janis and Marcus Doubleday had passed out after returning from the concert. The both had shot up heroin. Janis had landed in Dallas a few days earlier to meet a young band she had befriended and was given a gift box of twelve syringes. Marcus and her would fight over the distribution that night. The thought sickened me.

I returned home for Christmas the winter of 1968 and was immediately detained by the FBI for draft-evasion then given a choice between jail time or the army. Army!

After basic training, I watched the Ed Sullivan show one Sunday evening from the Day Room in my barracks and witnessed my former band-mates and Janis play the arrangement of " Raise Your Hand’ I had scripted only a six weeks earlier and nearly collapse into depression. I dare mention to those around I had anything to do with the band or the sound emanating through the old Sylvania.

A year passes when Janis arrives in Toronto to play the Festival Express June 29, 1970. I had left the army behind and began a new life in Canada. My band Homestead just happened to be opening act that day. I stuck around to see Janis, who was to play late afternoon. The first person I recognize is Brad, then the road manager who eventually escorts Janis over. There were hugs and kisses and genuine feelings exchanged. Janis remarked that she had quit hard liquor and had switched to wine. Heroin was also a memory and there was now a serious love interest in her life. She appeared happier than I’d ever believe possible. Her new ensemble, The Full Tilt Boogie Band, was her best. All of the blues, folk, rock and soul music concealed in her heart found a genuine medium for expression. The band was the perfect conduit.

My time with Janis was brief, only a month in length. During that eventful period much transpired. Her kindness and insecurities will always linger in my mind, but above all the sincerity and joy she brought to the music she loved will never be forgotten.

February 25, 2001

Zulu Time

2012-01-23T16:04:00.000-08:00

by William King

Beyond theground floor window of my new digs nestled somewhere between a hundredrectangular buildings all the same character and size, I count forty horizontalwhite planks all similar width and distance. At least that’s how they appearthrough the modest size window angled a few feet above my bunk bed. Whenpossible I prefer sleeping with my head near an open window. The view harbors escape and breeze tempers mysometimes feverish body. In fact, I’drather Arctic wind strike my face than dry suffocating heat.

Here I toil, day three, week one ofbasic training seven hundred miles from home and another thousand from where Ishould be and destined to be molded a ground soldier. At least that’s what theykeep preaching to me.

I’ve never really felt any conflict withmilitary in fact every eligible male clinging to the family tree servedhonorably. My problem with this scenario is Vietnam. (Neither I nor thePentagon see matters in the same light.) I certainly celebrate those who foughtthe Nazi occupation of Europe and understand sacrifice made in the name offreedom, but Vietnam?

From the Claymount Public library Iborrow what seems a seventy-pound world atlas. As I skim pages of fading mapsdetailing the Persian Empire, Belgian Congo, Ceylon - remote areas of theworld that conjure images beyond imagination. I thumb across China, Mongolia andIndonesia with little fuss. Damn! These are much more visible countries to calla war with than Vietnam?

Eventually my fingers locate a smallcountry bordered by two other equally obscure nations; Cambodia and Laos nearthat earnest bastion of communism, China. First thought? What a great place to take a camera and several rolls offilm. The area looks like uncharted territory probably one of those wildadventures where Marlin Perkin’s wrestles a lethal boa or someplace where agoat trades for a two-bedroom bungalow.

Vietnam, Vietnam, I wondered who thehell lives there? I’d seen Dan Rather’s news reports from the trenches - hipwaders up around the neck stuck in five feet of freshly planted rice stalks anddeep mud - army grunts slithering on bellies nearby.

     No one seems capable of delivering aclear message, nothing clarifying the purpose of such a costly campaign, otherthan the politics of slogans; “ I’m proud to be an American.” I guess that’sgot to count for something. I was proud to be an American or an Armenian ifthat’s what it takes to solve this crisis, but in reality, a simplistic catchphrase could never address the complexity of a situation with such fatalconsequence.

      Fort Knox, deep in the heartland ofKentucky looks like any other bleak winter retreat except for the massive seaof green uniforms and endless flow of tanks. I thought I’d get a few laughswhen I ask the bus driver to drop me off at the mint which by all accounts isjust as fortified as the army base. Momentary silence lapses before busmanturns and says, “ Get a hair cut asshole.” Get a haircut? Come on,Ithought. Hit me with your best materialnot one of those weak Lucy Arnez one-liners absent profanity.

As I’m deposited in my assigned companyarea this runt of corporal begins screaming in my face. Now, to a well-adjustedcivilian such nonsense comes unexpected. With mouth sealed I listen while he triesto pound fear in me but daily life on the streets of Los Angeles andManhattan’s lower east side were much more intimidating than some country punkin a rumpled uniform poking the face. I let it slide.

We’ll call him the man ‘Biscuit’for now. Why? Well, he had this strange habit of calling all of young recruits–“ Sour dough.’. Don’t even ask why!

It was his lessons in time that mostfascinated me. Corporal Biscuit divided all newcomers into two rows then begantossing a few digits around. “You will be up at zero four-hundred, eat at zerofour-fifteen and on the training field by zero four-thirty.” At first, Ithought he meant I could sleep all day and play soldier late afternoon. Not achance. I’m used to crashing at five in the morning after a robust night ofcarousing. I soon realize how different night felt when rising instead of flatlining at such an ungrateful hour.

“You won’t need a watch or anythingclinging to your body ‘cause I have perfect time,” Biscuit says with tiny lipscurled upward nearly sticking to his nose. “Military time is perfect time,” hewould go on to state.

Perfect time? Who determines perfect timeand what is it based on, I wondered.

“You got to keep perfect time in order foreverything flow right. Understand,?” he says while marching a circle around usrecruits. I understood that much but still wondered about such a thing asperfect time. Did Vietnam run on perfect time?

      I didn’t take long for life toblossom along this time line. My favorite was twenty-three hundred. Amazing,twenty-three hundred hours in a day I thought. At least that’s how it feltthree days into my incarceration.

      I was caged in a barracks with anodd assortment of displaced individuals. There was “Clay County’; sporting amouthful of decaying teeth, “Private Daly”; two hundred pounds of danglingflesh, head as big as a prized melon. “Penn State”; a college draftee with nolife to give. “ Montgomery Alabama”, the singing brother who believed the FourTops would sound a lot better if they added a fifth on Top and “Trouble from Motown” - Detroit; otherthan being the largest fellow in the community and a glare as intense as Gammaray burst, seemed peaceful enough.

      At first I kept my distance rarelyspeaking. There were to many clean-shaven heads honking vowels near my earsthat might be charter members of the KKK. A young man must watch what he saysin these circumstances.

Upstairs and downstairs and throughout the oldwood frame barracks grunts were staking territory. I was fortunate to arrivelater than the rest. My bunk was waiting. I understood this was to beshort-lived at least until basic training officially began - I remained aloof.When someone would ask where I was from I’d just nod and half smile. I figuredif trouble where to erupt I’d be between guys who had chose to know each otherto soon. Man, would I be wrong.

It took about thirty minutes beforethe first altercation flared. It started when ‘Trouble in Motown’ decides heneeds a change of scenery and moves his duffel bag loaded with personal effectsto a bed presently occupied by some poor clucking farm boy. I hear, “ What chu doin’ nigger”, a pausethen “Whack!” Body meets floor. I’m serious; “ Farm boy” ate wood so fast Ithought he did a half gainer off an imaginary diving board.

Most recruits responded by quietlycircling the victim and staring. The incident came so fast no words werespoken. ‘Trouble’ flings himself on the bunk then confidently clasps hands backof head while evil - eyeing the rest of us. A couple guys slowly lift farm boyupright then escort to his new digs.

     A surreal hush temporarilypenetrates the room until another farm boy plugs in a radio. We were forbiddenany convenience, certainly no entertainment during the upcoming weeks oftraining. I wondered what the hell the guy was thinking. You could hear thefrantic sound of someone intent on locating the familiar. Suddenly, up comesthe sound of fiddle, steel guitar and the melancholy voice of Eddie Arnold singing,“ Make The World Go Away.” I wasn’t ready for this. Maybe Bob Wills and alittle Texas swing but not one of those sobbing middle of the road hillbillyballads. The thought no more than crossed the brain when I spot ‘Trouble’ risethe size of a tall redwood walk over and rip the cord from the wall. He thenabsconds with the radio, drags along floor to bedside and plugs in. I assumed‘Trouble’ was inviting punishment for this.

      ‘Trouble’ fumbles the dial longenough to find this rhythm and blues station out of Louisville. Farm boy twomakes a play at retrieving the stolen item when ‘Trouble’ explodes fromcrouched position and smacks him dead center the face causing farm boy totopple and kiss a half dozen dirt-soiled planks.
While the situation spins out of hand, a crowd gathers and passively watches,mostly whispers until one brave soul declares, “ I’ll get the MPs.”

“ Fuck you whore bring me your sorry ass over here.,” bellows ‘Trouble’

I couldn’t believe I heard the remark, notthat I wasn’t accustomed to that kind of trash talk on most basketball courts.“Trouble’ simply didn’t care. I couldn’t figure for the life of me why anyonewould put himself in such a tenuous position with what I perceive a genuinelypunitive military system. We were just numbers to be memorized no more, noless. Why serve anymore time than necessary was my mantra.

“No motherfucker ever sending me toVietnam so fuck all of you,” a voice comes booming off the walls. The ominousdeclaration freezes activity silencing all conversation. Moments pass beforetwo MPs and a drill Sergeant arrive then work their way into “Trouble’s’company.

      “Get up soldier and come with us,”the Sergeant commands.

“Fuck you motherfuckers! They should send every one of you cracker-asshillbillies to Vietnam where you belong.” About a thirty - second intervalpasses when I hear “ Get up soldier!” By this time we’d all left the securityof our bunks to witness the stand off.

“I told you corn-husking goat fuckers there ain’t any way you send me toVietnam. It’s a white boy fight nothing to do with us black folk. I told themwhen they picked me up and forced me here you weren’t sending me that shithole.”

‘Trouble’ reclines and stares back at themwhen suddenly all three lunge forward overpower and cuff him. He offeredlittle resistance.

I watch as they drag him away trying to makesense of the ordeal. You’d never mistake the guy for an anti-war protester orMartin Luther King disciple. The guy reeked of street.

     With only two blacks out of twohundred men in our company a few southern recruits start spouting racialremarks. Guys can really tough talk miles from a private street corner, poolhall or girl friend, absent any threat to themselves. That’s sort of the waythe barracks transformed itself in ‘Troubles’ absence.

     Just as calm was about to set in amouth spoke from behind a bunk.“You should have taken that guy, farm boy. Yousome kind of coward?” Here it comes friends of John Wayne riding tall in thesaddle. I’d heard that line a thousand times before and need not be reminded ofmy own bringing. I knew it’d be only moments before the taunting would escalateand felt sorry for any man who actually convinced himself he could last a roundwith Trouble. There wasn’t such a thing.

   “I didn’t see you big pecker headstand up for either one of us so-called farm boys,” says the second victimwhose nose by now had swollen the size of a pig’s snout.

“So what it’s your radio, your fight. Punks like that back down when you showsome spine,” spouts another.

Right! I thought about those rather naive remarksand the kind of men they facedin rough urban neighborhoods. I know for afact nine out of ten times none ever back down in fact they’ll crackyou upside the head with any available implement or cut your ass for casting anuninvited glance.

     Three days pass and we’re justgetting back from a second day of physicals when I see ‘Trouble’ stretchedhorizontal on his bunk. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

   “What the fuck you looking atfish-eyed fool?, he says with a menacing tone.”

I quickly drop my head and tendto personal matters before the room fills with trainees each pausing in view ofthe company bully.

“I told you motherfuckers, I ain’tgoing to no Vietnam. That’s a tourist destination for dumb ass white boys.Where’s that boy that sent the police on me? I’ve got to fuck him up good.”Everybody froze in position.

“Where’s the little shit who called the cops?’ No one muttered a sound untilone large white boy says, ‘Nobodyholding you here, why don’t you just take off?’
“Trouble” pauses thenreplies, “ If I leave here they come for me. If I stay I get to fuck you up.Which do you prefer?” (I’ve been around situations where terribly frighteningindividuals inflict serious physical damage and recognize the negative energy.)‘Trouble’ was wired to the same current, the one that conducts undue pain.

“I’ll tell you what - you bring five ofyour baddest white boys and I’ll fightyou here and now. I swear I‘ll stuff your lungs up in your brains before youland a punch. Any of you pussies ever see Sonny Liston fight before?” The roomfalls silent. “No, I guess not. You white boys been waiting to see Roy Roger’sslug it out with Tonto haven’t you? I trained with Sonny’s cousins Bryce andMackie in Detroit. I bet you white boys train with fucking goats and chickens.Don’t you. The hell with all of you pussies.”

Just as I thought, there were notakers. The room froze. ‘Trouble’ then drifts to sleep.

    It was now nineteen hundred andlights out. I’ve never in my life climbed in bed at seven in the evening. Eventhe thought seemed preposterous. Thesame could be said for the rest of the room. Lights were dimmed but sexualfantasies spread mostly about fondling a pair of large orgasmic female breastsand the ever-popular elusive snapping pussy, described in gruesome detail. Thedescription evoked this visual image of a large turtle’s head covered in a thinmembrane lurking about in search of piping hot male genitalia.

     Twenty minutes pass when in I hear,“ Fuck this shit I’m getting a beer and something to eat. Which one of youfools going with me to the PX?” At this stage we weren’t allowed to evenpossess a candy bar let alone leave the barracks in pursuit of sustenance.

“Anyone with me? Come on white boys, I’ll buy a couple of you chicken-humpers abeer. “
I look up and see ‘Troubles’ immenseblack silhouette blocking the fire light.

“Yeah, I’ll go”, shouts a voice end of the hall. “Hey, me too just as long asyou buy me a cold Budweiser and not any of that ‘Near beer piss’ they try topass off as German lager.” I liked the cockiness in the room, the disregard forauthority.

     As the party leaves the room startsbuzzing. “Who’s got the balls to do the same? I’ve got five dollars for anyonewho’ll buy me a chocolate bar and a beer. I’ll match that,” yells this gruntthey call “Mishap’.” Don’t ask me why.

   A bidding war ensues. I thought aboutit and made a play. “Over here. I’ll do it.”

Suddenly, I was swamped with orders. “Two Baby Ruths, a bag of salted pretzels.Over here. I’ll have five Clark Bars and some licorice twists.” On and on andon. By the time I was prepared to leave I’d collected over fifty dollars andhalf was profit. Since we only made fifty-two dollars a month I had myself twoweeks pay.

    While everyone kept lookout I slipout the back door then stumble past a few barracks making sure I remember wheremy tracks lay. Unfortunately, the PX was located in an area a great distancefrom our quarters out of our designated zone.

Trembling all over I rehearse a safetyline - ready to bluff my way past security.. “Yes sir, I’m just out of basictraining and have been awaiting my assignment to my next company. Just droppedin for a night cap and a couple apples.” Fortunately, I never had to deliverthe speech.

Once I cracked open the PX doors I couldn’thelp notice ‘Trouble’ and the two farm recruits inhaling beers and downing hotdogs.

“Fuck, look who’s here? It’s motherfucking ‘Fish-eyes. Let me buy you a beerbefore I toss you smelly ass back in the pond.”

Knowing full well something unexpectedcould erupt in ‘Trouble’s’presence I pass on the offer and go about thebusiness of collecting samples. While cashing out I notice this MP face up to“Trouble’, then words fly. I quickly secure the goods and slip pastconversation. A moment passes when I see the both shoving each other and the MPcome falling towards me. I speed through the exit ahead of both.

    Only a small glowing bulb above thedoorway cast much light on the darkness outside. The two antagonists resumecalling each names when out of nowhere a thunderous blow arrives flattening theMP. Down he falls a flight of uneven stairs onto the wet grass hitting his headon the corner of a patio stone. ‘Trouble’ steps aside and eases his massiveframe into darkness. A second MP follows in pursuit. A scuffle soon arises andthen Bam! Another body hits the ground. (The scene was almost comical.) I keptthinking about Sonny Liston’s cousins and how many of them ever administeredthis much any pain on ‘Trouble’.

     Avoiding all conflict with 'Trouble' I decide to take an alternate route back to the barracks. Two blocksout I hear this voice yell from behind, “Trainee, what the hell you doing in myneighborhood?”

I slow down and face this broad rim hat.

“I asked you, what are you doing in myneighborhood?”

I hesitate then reply. “Sir, I think I’m lost.” Proper decorum was expected of all soldiers addressing anyone in acreased uniform or superior position.

    “I’ll ask you again soldier. What areyou doing on my property?” I quickly straighten then reply.

“Sir! Just waiting for my new assignment.” With a keen eye the man inspectsthen squeezes his chin. “It looks to me like you haven’t learned much in basictraining. I can’t for the life of me see how they’d pass such a patheticlooking goof as you.’ He pauses, looks downward then tilts the brim of his hat.“You know, they’ll take anyone in army. Fucking Westmoreland!”
With heart beating I prayed the sergeant wouldn’t insist on peeking into my laundry bag. Theguy stood there massaging a of patch of morning growth before looking up. “I ought tostick a boot right up your ass...now get the hell out of here.” I turn towardsthe path and hear, “ Hold it!”

“ Tell them when theymeasure you for your next uniform to fit you with a extra large body bag, he laughs”

I sigh and then quickly sprint past row after row of undistinguished buildingsbathed in exactly the same quality of light until I see a familiar face hangingout a side window. “Over here Daniels. You’ve got to climb through the windowthe sergeant’s awake. You know the MP’s are out looking for that back dude fromDetroit.”

I climb through with all the goods and am greeted like a butcher in a lion’sden.

While savoring the catch the barracks door flies open and two MP’s bustthrough. “Have any of you seen Robert James?” No one recognized the name RobertJames until one of the farm boys stands forward and asks, “ You mean that blacktroublemaker from Detroit?”

“That’s right. Where is he? “

“Sorry sir none of us seen him all night we’ve been sleeping.”

The reply was unacceptable. “My ass you haven’t been sleeping. Look at allthose candy wrappers around
your bed and chocolate smeared about your nose?” The time of reckoning hadarrived.

“You know I could pop yourass for all that contraband. I could search everyone of you piss ants and lockyour queer ass behind bars.” That's when insanity begins.

“Every one of you could do five years in Leavenworth for disobeying a company
ordinance. Do I smell beer farts?”

Five years in Leavenworth, Ithought. You’ve got to kill another soldier, steal a tank or drown someone inthe kitchen grease pit to earn that severe amount of time. As things were aboutto get more heated two additional MP’s bust in the room and order the othertwo upstairs. The next moment I see 'Trouble' being drug away in cuffs. It wasspooky, totally disturbing. I was anticipating another tirade about black menin Vietnam but not a sound. ‘Trouble’ went gently like someone who’d been injected with morphine or clubbed over the head.

      The next two weeks were spentsloshing about in snow with rifle and pack. My hands were numb from mud andsleet. My brain, numb with instruction and ridicule.

“Trainee, if your girlfriend saw you now she’d think you was a circus clown.”At first the words were a bit demoralizing but once you got a feel for the gameyou put your life on remote and count the days and forget the nonsense.

      Rumors flourished about 'Trouble'.He was accused of beating a half dozen MP’s, a couple drill sergeants, and afull bird colonel. I suspected they had packed him a way in a solitary dingycell hoping he pleads for mercy.

      It was the third week of Februaryand we were returning from a day on scouting patrol I marched my squad into anarea where two tree lines converged forming this V like shape. All hell brokeloose. Machine gun fire and tanks blasted rounds of tracer shells over ourheads. It sounded like the end of civilization. There were seven of us onpatrol. All we could do was lay horizontal until the crisis subsided.Eventually, this second lieutenant comes stomping forward screamingobscenities. All I could hear was a muffled voice and roar of a nearby tanksplitting a small hill. My clothing, from heavy overcoat to wool pants was soakedin ground water. I envisioned a hot shower and warm barracks waiting in the notto distant future.

During the march back seven of us were heckled about the embarrassing incident.We’d been instructed to avoid such geometrical patterns but who sees that wellin the woods I wondered. I’ve always lived in large cities. I know the layoutand what to expect. Hell, I’ve never even seen a fucking ground hog. This mighthas well been Vietnam as far as I was concerned.

    It’s ‘sixteen hundred’ when we safelyarrive back in the barracks. I notice a tight group of about fifteen soldiershuddled in conversation. One soldier spots me then gestures me over.

“Did you hear? Detroit’s coming back to our unit tomorrow.” I thought to myselfsomeone’s got to be bullshitting.

“They want him to finish up so they can dump his black ass in Vietnam,” one ofthe farm boys proudly states. “Aw…the shits gonna get wild.”

      Farm boy was on the money. ‘O Eighthundred Robert James strolls in a free man.

     “Fuck all of you whitemotherfuckers. Nobody can keep me down a hole for long.” That moment I sensedthings were going to get even more unpredictable. I could read fearsome angerin his eyes leading all the way to his heart. 'Trouble', I surmised, had norecourse but commit a major act of defiance or worse to save his ass fromVietnam.

      This tall jerk from Arkansas makessome remark about cowardly blacks hiding in caves during combat earning him asurprise night visit from News.

It was nearing ‘O Threehundred’ when I hear this loud smack, blood curdling scream then crashingsound. I spring to the edge of the bed and spy someone fleeing the room. Icould hear the shrill voice pleas for help - cries of agonizing pain the lengthof the building. Someone then switches the overhead light on and I recognizeArkansas spurting blood through cupped fingers while trying to protect eyes andnose. At first I thought he’d been cut but on close inspection I could see itwas mostly flowing from the nose. It became obvious Arkansas had fallen fromtop bunk to ground floor. Boot to theface is a popular army scheme for settling scores. Catch a guy napping andwhack dead center the nose with the heel then it’s a quick trip to the postemergency room. Vision doesn’t return twenty minutes or more and the noseswells the size of a ripe pear. Scores get settled this way. No charges wereever laid.

'Trouble' hung around the barrackslike a foul odor refusing to participate in any formal instruction. Orders wereleave him alone and let war comfort him. Every time we return from traininggrounds he’d be yelling,

“Look at the white boys, gonna kill some yellow boyswhile I’ll be here fucking their white girlfriends. Now ain’t that a bitch.”Those weren’t exactly the most encouraging words but we’d gotten used to hisprofanity and daily pronouncements.

      Week five began with me submergedin a foxhole firing my M1 locked on a target a hundred or so yards away. Theycould have pasted a fifty-foot bull’s-eye on a nearby building and I’d stillhave planted more slugs in a nearby tree. I have no talent for marksmanship. Every time I’d hoist the clumsyfirearm near my head condensation would swiftly cloud my glasses. I tryclearing with the cloth part of a glove but it only made matters worse. I can’tseem to get my concentration focused so I fire at a couple targets three rowsover for the hell of it.
By now, I still hadn’t made up my mindabout Vietnam or the army other than cracking up at these buffed drillsergeants swaggering around like five star generals. The army was the army, warwas a different matter.

I thought a lot about what'Trouble' was testifying about and watched a lot of nightly news reporting allthose casualties we’d been suffering and those fucked up hippies out thereacting like we could win the war with a pot of daffodils and two hits of acid.I couldn’t make up my mind. Some days I think I might have a career here,others I think my brain may be too large.

We were just returning to thebarracks when I spot an ambulance and several military policemen rushing about.The area had to be cordoned off leaving us spectators. A few minutes pass whenI see the big frame of 'Trouble' being pulled through the doorway. He wasscreaming fuck you this, fuck you that at everyone. One MP shouted loud enoughfor all of us to hear “ Where you’re going nobody will ever care to see youagain so go ahead and curse the world. You think Vietnam will kill you?You’re going to die in Leavenworth without a fight.”

They wouldn’t let us near thebarracks even with 'Trouble' caged. Some fifteen minutes pass before I see thisstretcher come out with six men in white holding bottles and tubing all around.I see what looks like a tourniquet around this soldier’s neck, all passed out.There was blood spilt all over. Everyone was frantically trying to maneuver thewounded soldier back of the ambulance. I had this morbid sense that death hadalready spoken.

My intuition was right. There was too muchblood shed inside to recoup the young man’s life. It was a sickening moment,one forever etched in the soul. It was a prelude to war and possibly my future.

I guess he realized it would take nothing short of murder to save him from Vietnam. I couldn’t for the life of meget a handle on his reasoning. Why he cut this young man’s throat, no one knewfor sure. The two were alone together while the rest of us were on the firingrange. One sick with flu the other nearly insane. For that matter he couldhave just slipped off the post and disappear for a couple years. The memorywill always haunt me.

Graduation day the army awarded one ofthe farm boys a medal for assisting the wounded soldier and we paused a momentin silence. Later, we heard that 'Trouble' was being shipped out of Leavenworthinto a facility for dangerous offenders. He received a life sentencewith no chance of parole for twenty-five years.

I just got my new assignment to FortBenning, Georgia. I get two weeks leave before I have to report. I’m thinkingabout visiting a cousin of mine who says he’s got a way to get me a good jobwith this division in Stuttgart, Germany. It’s o eight hundred and the bus ison time. Vietnam? Haven’t made up my mind. From what I hear we’re making apiecemeal commitment guided by a bankrupt strategy. There’s the good soldier inme - the other - hopefully - a smart soldier. I sure hope I don’t have to choose. Perhaps the goodlord will end this thing before they dial my name up.

The Whipping Boy

2012-01-22T12:33:00.000-08:00

by William King

“Young people aren’t meant to suffer the vengeful hand of those whodeliver them to this world,” was the message pastor Butler delivered inhis Sunday sermon the morning brother Henry was born.

I was already three years old when Henry arrived. I‘d been around long enough to sense allwas not right within the walls of the Gladstone house. Initially, it was the toneof language piercing the wooden slats of my small crib . It wasn’tsomething a boy could fully grasp as threatening but a synthesisof vocal agitation and unpredictable movement as if preparations for agrander conflict was being formulated by someone or something livingwithin our home. Henry arrived just when the source of all the tensionwas about to shed its skin.

Year one passed, mostly uneventful. There was the usualshouting, broken plates and slammed doors all a careful distance from Henry’s room. Then one afternoon father, “Mr. Eugene,” asneighbors would address returned with a newly purchased antique smokingcenterpiece cut from plate glass with a bronze statue of an angel risingup the middle. A small brass ashtray placed above the glass surfacenext to an open pack of Winstons served purpose.

Eugene proudly showcased the recent acquisition to members of theChester Avenue Methodist Church of which he had recently beenappointed deacon. Rarely, would mother, Olene or Eugene invite visitors without advantage. Neither were bred for small talk - speakingmostly to folks who could advance their ideals or those privy towealth.

Eugene was a proud man short on compassion andlong on punishment for those who crossed him. He saw the world in strictblack and white, no grey areas or regions of compromise. Money servedpurpose not the idle whims of frivolous play. Retribution came swiftwithout investigation or judicious hearing. There would be no defense no pleasfor mercy or lesser discipline. Eugene sanctioned whippings usuallywith a hand-me-down razor strap like the one his father administered to appropriate punishment for less than obedient children.

Brother Henry’s first year was spent mostly in the protective company of motherOlene who at times could be affectionate at others unusuallydistant. Olene’s disagreements with Eugene stemmed mostly from her mother’s dissatisfaction with her conversion to Protestant teachingover Catholicism, understood as a crime against her ancestors. Eugene would neverphysically abuse her,but his presence brought an unfair level oftension to her life.

Olene’s mother Velma despised Eugene and never forgave him for moving her first born hundreds of miles west of her birthplace. I had a special bond with grandma unlike that between mother and I. Grandma would always be bragging,” Daniel can do this, Daniel cando that.” Mother never knew much what I could do other than cleanthings and wait on dad and plea for Henry.

One morning Eugene sprung from bed in a rare cheerful mood and called for two-year old Henry. He lifted brother, kissed about theforehead leaving him fly upward, release, then catch him as he fallswithin quick grasp. Their laughter would dissolve into joyfulcelebration a magic union between father and son.

Eugene backslid down the worn red brocade couch with Henry bundled in his arms. Themoment so thrilled brother he broke caution then lovingly hugged father about the neck. Eugene began tickling Henry’s feet all the way up underthe armpits. Suddenly, Henry’s right leg makes an involuntary swingdownward through the middle of father’s prized centerpiece shatteringthe delicate surface into a thousand charred bits of glass. As ifsummoned from the bowels of Hades, Eugene lungs exhale the mostterrifying cry of anguish. Father springs to his feet and declares anunconscionable act has been wrought against his prized possession.He quickly tosses Henry aside, gathers two large sheets of brokenglass, walks determinedly to a back porch receptacle and heaves thefragments inside the aluminum container. With dust pail in hand,Eugene collects every sliver until the area is clean of all evidence.Henry quietly observes wishing father would return and embrace him asbefore. But Eugene had other plans. While ridding the floor of shardfragments he secretly plots a degree of punishment. Fatherdetermines, after all it was Henry’s careless leg kick that destroyedhis angelic centerpiece, not the actions of a somewhat careless parent, someone should accept the consequences.

Eugene coldly lifts young Henry and carries him to his bedroom thentosses on the mattress as if discarding an unwanted article. Eugenesearches for the underside hook of his buckle, unsnaps then slowlypulls the thick leather belt through the shredded loops of his workpants. While clutching the belt ends in his fist he reaches down androlls the young boy on his stomach then lashes his backside with tenunsparing strokes. Henry unfurls an agonizing scream - one mixed withterror and few muted words then begs father to cease and explain whysuch pain be declared upon him. Eugene breaks silence.

“ This will teach you to be careful, you clumsy shit. The angel washere no more than a week and you destroyed it. You know how much thatcost me don’t you? Don’t leave this room until you hear from me.”

Witnessing such a horrific encounter sickened me. For most the next weekI spoke few words. Father tried to lighten conversation with me but Irefused to oblige him. He’d never laid a hand on me but I saw adifferent hand strike at Henry.

Time would advance and Henry quickly learned not trespass father’s mecurical temperament. Instead, he designed a system of laneswell below chairs and tables, along walls behind the living roomcouch transporting him dafely beyond the old man’s inspecting eye.

Eugene was an enormous man just past six feet seven in height andweighing less than two hundred pounds. Everywhere he walked he cast along shadow. To Henry he resembled an imaginary creature dwelling atnight below the floorboards of the bed who’d unexpectedly enter his dreams.

There would be the usual bouts of temperament, explosive fits ofanger between Eugene and Olene but nothing too serious until Henrybegan regular schooling.

Eugene found himself locked in battle with the plant labor union.He was vehemently opposed to any organised intrusion into the workplaceeven if it meant wage guarantee and job benefits. Father was not a manof vision. He was an arrogant, petty backstabbing opportunist whoengaged in race mongering and pontifical self-righteous exhortation.I never understood that when I was a kid but who knows what parents are truly made of until experience and wisdom clear your field vision.

“Why we need this scum from Washington all they want is our money.We do the workin’ - they do the takin”, he’d say.

Father would repeat the mantra person to person like a firebreathing Pentecostal minister. He was like a one man wrecking crew outto to rid the world of so-called “Big government”. His actions wouldonly alienate fellow co-workers who already harbored a less thancomplimentary opinion of the “ Screamin’ ass “ as they would privatelyaddress him.

Father was a security guard whose duty was either turn lights onor flip them off - lock and unlock doors or chase “Thieving Negroes, “offthe company dump. He excelled in the latter. Why he picked a fight withan organization who’s objective could only benefit a lowly “Watch boy”,no one rightly understood. Everybody swore the big farm boy had beenkicked in the head by a less than domestic jackass.

Poor Henry never had a friend until elementary school. We lived anoppressive existence detached from relatives and neighbors preferringto insulate him from outside influence staying mostly indoors.

Sundays, Henry and I would slide are small frames down the front porchsteps out of Eugene’s view but the old man never let us out of thecross-hairs.

“ Son, get your skinny ass back up here where I can see you. Danielwhere you think your going? I know the both of you are up to something.”

Henry and I watched the other children race by pedaling theirbright red bicycles or hike to the dime store as a group. I was alwayscurious what I’d be like to walk the walk. Olene would be there to scold - the perfect watchdog for commander Gladstone.

“I know what you thinking Henry. You think we’re being special hardon Daniel and you because you two are our only children but that ain’tso. You gotta grow up right like your father and mother. We ain’t gonnahave any hoodlums in this family."

Henry would listen then turn his attention back to the street. Whathe really desired were a few kind words of encouragement, some act ofaffection that would assure him he was truly a worthy boy.

Olene insisted on sending Henry to Catholic school causing a fierceconfrontation with Eugene.

They knew better than send me there. Every time those witches in black came around grandma I’d cry hysterically.That gave father reason enough to send me to public school. No such luckfor Henry.

“ Catholics just poison the boy’s mind with all them alcoholicpriests and pedophiles Olene,” father would say. “ I’d just have tostraighten him out all that much more. They'll turn that boy queer, I'm telling you." This would be one of theuncommon arguments he’d loose to mother.

"You can rest assured mother hates you for taking me away from thechurch and I promised her Henry would be baptized Catholic and he willalways be Catholic, you hearing me good Eugene Gladstone?” Olene had the last word on that subject.

Henry proved to be a reluctant student distracted by thesimplest things. Children would contort their faces, stretch lips,causing Henry to laugh aloud. “Sisters of No Mercy” would order himextend palms then whack about the soft lines with a twelve inch ruler.The poor boy would nearly cry then quickly suppress the urge. For Henry this stuff was child’s play. Eventually, he became a disruptivepresence forcing school officials to send for our parents. Eugene wasappalled by his brother’s behavior while Olene swore up and downHenry would never commit such ungodly acts against the church.During the drive home a deaf silence stilled the car. I sensed major consequence. “ Nasty people those old nuns, I hate them,” Henry mumbled.

“ Shut up Henry, we’ll talk when I get you home, “ respondedfather. “ But dad! Shut up Henry, I’ll take care of you when I gethome.”

Poor Henry’s mind replayed past infractions, errant bursts oflaughter, gum chewing, a few naughty words, but somehow they didn’t addup to the impending discipline. Besides, the nuns had already strappedand humiliated .

“ Come with me boy, “ elder Gladstone commands, then grabs Henry’sarm lifting him half distance above ground. His knees bounce side toside off the wooden steps as father carries him up the stairs . Eugenereaches inside an old storage trunk extracts a tattered strip ofleather.

“ I told you boy someday you’d get a whipping like the one’s myold man gave me.”

Father commences beating Henry about the legs , alongthe back, anywhere there were patches of exposed skin, by-passing theface. Exhausted and drained by anger Eugene abandons a screaming Henry who’s now fallen into a near state of shock.

“There will beno next time, I’m taking you out of Catholic school. I’ll find you aplace where you better behave.”

Eugene then retreats from the room. Henry can barely unfold hisstricken legs. We both watch these red/blue welts rise above thediscolored surface of his tender skin surrounded by few smooth areas . Suddenly, the crying stops and Henry into this trance like state. Thiswould be the last moment I ever saw him carry one grain of love for father.

Olene never entered the room until morning. Her only words, “ I warnedyou.”

In general, things would improve in public school. Eugene wasspending months convalescing in VA hospitals where it was determinedinjuries he suffered in World War ll were improperly treated not tomention the special counseling they were giving him. Father hadabsorbed a large hit of shrapnel in the abdomen sending him statesidefor long term convalescence during the early stages of the war. Aftersix months he was declared fit for duty then parachuted behind enemylines. A barrage of artillery shells exploded in the vicinity of his foxhole killing several fellow infantrymen somehow sparing him . Thiswould further empty his heart. Eventually, he would receive a medicaldischarge after evidence of an impending nervous breakdown. Afterreturning home father chose to heal himself rather than seek properhelp.

Henry was an average student better suited to social sciences thanmath.Eugene followed brother’s progress with a keen sense of responsibility.When his math scores began to sag he decided to “ Put some knowledge inthe boy’s head.”

Class began one evening after dinner when Olene placed a freshlybaked pumpkin pie next to the fried okra. Eugene gripped the long breadknife then began carving equal portions and asked.

“ What are you studying in math that you find so hard?

“ Fractions sir," a confused Henry responds.

“ What do you find hard about fractions?, father inquires.

“ It’s all new to us dad we just started learning about them lastweek.”

“Come here son and have a seat. Watch me. I’m going to slice this piein four sections. Now , if it’s whole without me cutting anything whatfraction represents one slice.

“ Henry hesitates , then responds. “ One.”

“ What? I thought you were learning something in school. If this pieequals one and I slice it into four pieces what’ll you call one slice?“ Henry thinks but can’t draw a clear thought after hearing theominous tone of Eugene’s exasperated voice. Instead, he says nothing. “ I haven’t heard you answer boy?

“ Aaaa__two.” Eugene whips the bone knuckle of his broad fist across the table smacking the boy across the cheek.

”I said, if the pie is whole and I take one slice how many isleft.” Henry says, “ Three.”

“ See there son you ain’t as dumb as you make me think, eat yourpie then go to you room and do some math.”

Olene would appear like an inspecting guard in the doorway ofHenry’s bedroom.

“ Your dad said you can turn your light out now and go to sleep.”

Henry never questioned Olene’s lack of empathy. She was cold, for themost part indifferent to Eugene’s cruelty. She had a rigid moral codeone short on compassion for her son yet concerned for the well being ofless fortunate church sponsored orphans. Although Henry suffered inprivate mother’s cruel detachment and the occasional beating fromEugene she accepted things as the were. We had no point of referenceor clue how other families lived. It would be our high school friendswho’d shed light on this precarious situation.

Several of Henry’s friends played a game of sandlot baseball afterschool hours. Henry was invited to participate. Baseball fascinated him.In fact, he collected the most impossible cards using shrewd trades withother like minded boys. Mickey Mantle was his idol. Amongst his rarecollection, Mantle’s rookie card. At night he’d place the card next tohis bed climb into an imaginary batter’s box and with his bat strike apose like the once great Yankee hitter.

He’d level the heavy wood ,heave a few test strokes then swing at full speed splitting stilled airacross the bed’s midsection . More than anything he wanted to try hisswing against real pitching. I had no idol only Henry .Up to now father ran the house like military boot camp, no roomfor sport or art.

Henry approached mother requesting to play organizedbaseball. At first she deferred the request to Eugene. After realizinghe’d departed for a two day hunting trip with army pal Bud Norman shegave the ok.

Boys, baseball, sweltering afternoons is about a perfect combinationever realized. Henry wasn’t much at handling fly balls most sailed overhis head but at the plate he could make fair contact. At fourteen hewas a growing boy almost six feet tall and hundred forty pounds. Hecould take your head off if you got near of one of his speed pitches. Henrythrew straight up heat. His buddies wanted a piece of the overhand fastball but none could catch the velocity. Henry soon became legend.Word got out around school he had a couple pitches as challenging asDodger ace Sandy Koufax.

Mother witnessed change in Henry's overall morale.Brother was still a C student but their was a spirit to him that wouldlinger long after returning from nine innings of baseball. She beggedEugene to let the him play more sports after school.

“ He’s fourteen, well versed in good and bad,” she would argue.Eugene thought about it, then said;

“ I’ll let the boy play but he better not screw up on the diamondlike he does in school.”

When Olene delivered the good news, Henrythough thankful was more than suspicious of the old man’s appeasingbehavior.

The living room of the our house was converted into a warmemorial/gun rack for all visitors to see. Father displayed his purpleheart, citations, rifle pin, division patches and letter ofaccommodation from World Wat II. Next to them a mahogany case armed withrare French and Italian shotguns, rifles , pistols all smuggled in abody bag by Eugene and his friends out of France after liberation. Thedetailed silver work carved along the gun stalks was evidence ofbreathtaking artistry. Father knew exactly what he had stolen and tookevery opportunity to exhibit them to like minded hunting pals. He alsokept a loaded Winchester rifle ready just in case ”One of those thieving Negroeschoose to commit harm on him.”

Whatever possessed father to force Henry and me along for a duckhunting trip is near unexplainable. He knew the both of us detestedfirearms, the killing of innocent beings. Henry concerned himself morewith repairing the broken limbs of fallen bird. I never fullycomprehended why men blast seemingly defenseless mammals senseless.

Eugene marched through high weeds and marsh like a man intent onrevenge. As the ducks scattered and took flight he’d blast wildlyleaving pot marks about the soil and trees occasionally maiming a birdor two. Eventually it came time for Henry to step up. Eugene handed himhis favorite pump action rifle. At first brother reluctantly held theweapon down his side. Father scolded him for not paying closer attentionto the rules of safety. Henry assumed he could outwit the old man firing at an imaginarytarget , shrug it off then walk away. But something unexpectedoccurred. A young buck showed himself in a thicket of trees no more thanfifty yards in front of his weapon. Father was ecstatic.

“Be quiet boy don’t let him see your motion just move real slow.”

Suddenly, Henry’s knee’s weaken. He then lowers the barrel.

“ What the hell you doing, shoot the bastard, “ the old man whispers.

“ Dad, I can’t do it.”

“ What you mean you can’t do it, hell he’s standing there waitingfor you.”

“I won't do it.”

“ Boy if you don’t shoot this buck, I’m going to kick your ass allup and down Main Street until everyone laughs in your face.”

Henry lowers his head and stoically faces the ground. Father grabsthe rifle points in the direction of the deer, assumes a shooter’sposition then quickly discovers the buck has disappeared from sight. Hespins around fires two shots killing a chipmunk fleeing this side an oldspruce tree.

“ You know something, I think you're queer. A queer would get all weakin the woods like one of those tree huggers. Get the hell out of here.”

The ride back was a moribund affair. Father revived the immortalinstant the young buck belonged to Henry and his refusal to doproper work on the animal. Henry looked away far beyond the ash pineand blacken ridge of Hope mountain. In his heart he knew he hadn’treach the point of full blown hatred for father but was increasingly incensed with the belittling comments.

As soon as Henry stepped inside the doorway Eugene sucker punchedbrother in the face. The blow sent Henry coiling to the floor.

“ Get up and fight like a man. Take your punishment like a real man not like your queer friends.”

Henry refused to stand up. Eugene reached down then grabs him underthe right armpit yanks him lengthwise upright. Smack! Another blow tothe nose and face. Blood sprays all directions staining the wovencircular carpet. Mother dashes from the kitchen and intervenes all thewhile I’m screaming in terror.

“ Get away from him Eugene. Don’t hit the boy again,” mother orders.

Meanwhile, Henry’s tear-drenched face is smeared in blood .Father breaks Olene’s grip drags the boy by the collar to a largeutility closet then shoves him inside and locks the door then leavesthe room.I run to mother begging her to rescue Henry from this nightmare. Shejust stands nearby like a pillar of salt. Again I plead with her to takeHenry to the hospital, call an ambulance, police, just do something. Shecalmly pushes me aside and walks out the kitchen door to a rusted swing set inthe backyard.I watch her sit down then kick forward, rock back in forth asif to disassociate herself from all that has happened.

For the better part of four hours Henry profusely wept. I’dhear his weakened voice plead,

“ Where are you mother? Why do you allowhim do such horrible things to me?”

Once again I ran to mother hopingshe’d change her mind to know avail. Olene did eventually return, unlock the door then walk away leavingthe brother free to exit on his own.

From that day Henry’s anger never wavered. He decided in time theold man would pay dearly. He hadn’t decided how or when but was certainit would be a grand display.

Baseball and sociology would consume Henry’s waking hours. When hewasn’t volunteering in the community center or working weekends at St.Joe’s, he honed his skills on the ball diamond.

Eugene rarely spoke tobrother. Something had snapped in the man. He no longer attempted tocontrol every movement in the young man’s life. Besides, brother wasmaking above average grades.

It was fall, the eighteenth year of Henry’s life. He’d won twelvegames as starting pitcher for the Campellville Jayhawks leading theteam to the sectional. Around the plate he still wasn’t much a threatwith his bat but his fast ball clocked in at over ninety miles anhour. He would be the subject of conversation throughout Putnam Countyand scouts as far east as Boston.

The Jayhawks were facing their old nemesis the Providence BlueDevils under coach Dan Berryman who always found a unique way to stealvictory from the best of teams.

Henry realized the significance of thegame and prepared like a prizefighter battling for a rare worldchampionship belt. Father never attended brother’s games but decided to make the tripout of town .

Henry was the talk of Larcott Products the plant where Eugeneworked for more than twenty-two years. Eugene’s boss, Haplern Ashcroftwould recite all brother’s statistics, the speed of every pitch in hisarsenal. Eugene acted like he was more than proud of brother’sachievements going so far as to take credit for his pitching style.

“ You know I always taught the boy to throw over the top and followthrough. I’d never let him throw that sidearm stuff. That’ll destroyyour elbow quicker than a motorcycle fall, “ he’d say.

Over a thousand folks showed for Henry’s big game, most to witnessthe blazing fast ball.

The Jayhawk’s batted first getting two men onwith a walk and single. A force out at third, pop up above second andstrikeout would stymie any chance of scoring. It was Henry’s turn.Before he unleashed the first pitch his eyes scanned the sizablecrowd. A trace of stage fright rippled through his veins but Henry wasto pumped to acknowledge it.

First pitch, “ strike!”, a smokin’ fast ball somewhere neareighty-seven miles at the knees. Second pitch, inside sinker that justgrazes the batter’s elbow. “Hit batter, take first,” yells the ump. Henry looks away unfazed.The next batter would level an outside curve beyond the centre fielder’sreach all the way to the back fence. A run would score. Again Henry’spitches, nips a batter; runners first and third. Whack! the ball sailspast the first baseman down the line. Two runs in.

A dejected Henryturns to wipe his brow and clear his eyes. As he turns he spots Eugeneclinging to wire mesh along first base, face red spouting obscenities.

“ The damn boy is queer I tell you he couldn’t plug a big ass buckat ten yards let alone throw a fast ball over the plate.”

Henry coldly shoots the old man a menacing look. Eugene turnstowards the stands then yells.

“Hey everybody I’m telling right now he ain’t got the guts tofinish the job. Don’t bet no money on the wimp.”

With that remark, Henry pulls himself from the game exits back of theclubhouse. I catch him running out the back gate. Brother was in no moodfor conversation. I keep asking him what’s he going to do but he ignoresme. Henry then speeds the ten mile distance home walks to Eugene’s prizedgun rack, grabs the Winchester, a few shells and lifts another itembarely visible from a wooden basket.

Henry bled with anger, an anger noman should carry.

I grab him by the jacket, swing around and beg himto answer me.

“ What have I done to him? Why does he hate and humiliate me?” he asks,then turns for the door.

When we return Henry watches both teams exchange positions withCampellville coming to bat. With the rifle near his side he walks behinda high row of bleachers to first base side spots Eugene laughing nearthe fence. Without hesitation he raises the Winchester jabs into thecrevice of Eugene’s neck and orders him to walk ahead. Father laughsthen threatens to beat brother worse than he’d ever been beaten intenton playing for the crowd’s sympathy. Henry in no mood for back talkcocks the rifle then speaks.

“ Move your stinken ass around the other side of the fence. Now!”

Astunned silence hits the field leaving everyone focused on Henry.Eugene emits a nervous giggle.

“ Put the gun down Henry before I whip your ass.”

Henry thumbs the trigger jabs the barrel deeper into his neck thenrepeats the order.

“ Move ‘round to home plate you evil shit!” Eugene glances beyond the back stop at a somber row of faces staringfrom above.

No one flinches. Slowly he steps around the curved spine offencing onto the playing field.

“ To the back fence Eugene.”Father obliges.

“ Turn around face the crowd, “ Henry demands.

As he begins the reversal Henry reaches in a cloth sack pulls from itthe worn leather strap the one Eugene’s dad had whipped his less than obedientson with. Out of view Henry delivers a blistering stroke across the oldman’s back. Then one back the neck.

“ How does it feel you rotten bastard? Remember how you enjoywhipping baby boys or have you forgotten.”

Henry pauses then slings two more long strokes dead center of Eugene’sback.

“I hope you feel every slash of leather, the bloody welts, thebroken patches of skin, my tears left to dry on the floor. You’ll neverever lay a hand on me again or will you ever humiliate me in front ofmy friends.”

The rifle falls drops beneath a half foot of soil in the batters box. Henry then places the leather strap on top the small wooden butt,turns and walks away. Eugene collapses, his long fingers cover the headand eyes. He then discharges an eerie tone not unlike the plea of awounded animal .

Throughout the hushed playground, few speak choosinginstead to stare like distant relatives attending the funeral of an allbut forgotten uncle. No one dared consider punishing the boy knowing towell the pain that he endured most his childhood.

There was no reason toresume the game the night belonged to Henry.Olene cried out for Henry, even begged forgiveness but Henrybrushed her aside and left the park alone. I tried catching up but hewas in no mood for comfort. Eventually, he turned and hugged me.

“You can go back home brother he’ll never hit another child. If he does you justcall me, I assure it will be his last act of cowardliness.”

With thatremark, Henry went home and packed a few things then left. It was monthsbefore I hear from him. He’d taken a full scholarship offer to playbaseball down in Georgia. A year after the birth of his first child Henry hung a plague in theliving room with a passage someone mailed anonymously from church, “Young people aren’t meant to suffer the vengeful hand of those whodeliver them to this world.” * * * * *

Bill King Trio - Five Aces - 7Arts

2011-12-20T20:08:00.001-08:00

It was the summer of 1963 when I earned my first lesson in the blues from piano giant Oscar Peterson.

I was sitting nervously in Mr. Peterson’s office at 21 Park Road in Toronto with a head full of questions. “Mr. Peterson – what should I be listening too.” I do remember a slight tremble in my voice. This was my musical hero - one big imposing presence. “Bill, you’ve got to learn how to play the blues – it’s in everything.” Peterson paused for a moment then reached behind and pulled two LPs. “This one is about the blues – Junior Mance at the Village Vanguard and this one is about things to come – Claire Fischer - Surging Ahead. Peterson then points to the Vanguard album and says, “If you want to play blues piano – it’s all there. Just listen!”

When I returned to Louisville, Kentucky after six weeks studying with the master at the Advanced School of Contemporary Music, I went on a serious hunt for both recordings. Magically, I found both.

As soon as I was safe at home I dropped the needle on the first track of Mance’s blues declaration - ‘Looptown,’ nice - but way too fast to comprehend – then ‘Letter From Home,’ now we’re talking, and finally ‘Smokey Blues’ - a blues that builds from an ember to a firestorm – something I could transcribe. I heard it - every phrase; the storied territory between the notes - the place where the blues takes shelter – and fell madly in love.

As the years passed I would discover Booker T. and the MGs on a jukebox at Indiana University in Bloomington, Indiana sounding ‘Green Onions’ – Little Anthony and the Imperials ‘ Hurt so Bad’ on the radio. I couldn’t get enough. Then it was the bands I played with -The Shadows and the Chateaus and Cosmo and the Counts – nothing but the blues – Bobby Bland, James Brown, Travis Womack and Lonny Mack.

Then one day I was on the road like the old guys – Southern California, Greenwich Village, Jersey Shores, and San Francisco. “Hold on I’m Comin’, Midnight Hour, 634-5789, I Can’t Turn You Loose.” Otis, Ray, Carla, Aretha, The Four Tops, Vanilla Fudge, Free, the Rolling Stones- the greatest era to be a living musician and I was a traveling student.

‘Five Aces’ is my recollection of that time and a tribute to every keyboard player who memorized those ubiquitous parts. With bassist Collin Barrett and drummer Mark Kelso at my side I feel we capture a sense of what it was like to be emboldened by a sound that claimed the best of soul, gospel and rhythm and blues with a sprinkling of jazz that empowered a cadre of talented players to invent something so incredibly powerful it spilled over decades later to the young players of today.

Oscar got me rolling; Junior made me sound good, the bands gave me experience and late great Canadian keyboardist Richard Bell defined gospel piano playing for me. Love and respect you all!

Bill King.
Contact: billkingpiano@gmail.com Available at iTunes www.7artsmusic.com 416 530-2524

Interview with Otis Blackwell (1987) Great Balls of Fire!

2011-02-05T06:49:00.000-08:00

When you piece together the history of contemporary North American music, you discover composer/pianist Otis Blackwell is the rightful owner of the title, King of Rock 'n 'Roll. Throughout the past 30 years, Blackwell's hit songs have been recorded by Elvis Presley - 'All Shook Up, Don't Be Cruel, Paralyzed, Return To Sender, Please Don't Drag That String (Around), One Broken Heart For Sale', Jerry Lee Lewis 'Great Balls Of Fire, Breathless, Let's Talk About Us', Little Willie John and Peggy Lee 'Fever', Dee Clark 'Just Keep It Up' and Jimmy Jones, Del Shannon and James Taylor 'Handyman'.

Bill King: You've been in the studio working on some new projects. What type of sounds are you recording?

Otis Blackwell: Actually, I've been finishing up three albums. I'd been in Nashville recording and a fellow in Baltimore is helping me start a little record label. How is it up there?

B.K: Warm and rainy.

O.B: It's been raining like crazy here.

B.K: It can be a problem year after year in southern Kentucky and northern Tennessee. After the drought of '88, this must come as a surprise.

O.B: It's definitely a wet one.

B.K: I first met you at a club in the early '80s, when I was playing with Ronnie Hawkins and the Hawks. I managed to get one of your promotion leaflets and was astonished at the number of hit rock 'n' roll songs you have written. Where did all this music come from?

O.B: I really don't know. When I was young, I just sat down and started playing Chopsticks at the piano. I got so far and then lost interest. Eventually, I regained it and started writing songs.

B.K: Was there music you heard when you were young that helped you develop a style of writing?

O.B: I didn't play much early on. What I really liked was cowboy movies. I was a big cowboy fan and liked western music. You couldn't get that stuff where I lived, so I hung out at a little theater that played Gene Autrey and Tex Ritter movies. Tex Ritter is still my favourite singer.

B.K: Did you listen to a lot of radio?

O.B: Yeah, but I didn't get to listen to country music. When the radio was turned on in my house, you had either spirituals, the news or Chuck Willis and Larry Darnell.

B.K: Was it difficult to get people interested in your songs?

O.B: When I started writing it was kind of hard getting people to do my stuff. They say they couldn't do my style. At one point I decided to open an office at 1650 The Brill Building, which is supposedly where all the great music writers have theirs. I opened it and down the hall was a business school. Students would pass by my door, and, eventually, some came in. They looked around and asked, " Are you a songwriter?" I said, "Yeah." " You wrote such and such.Yeah, I did." On my wall I had people like Elvis Presley, Peggy Lee, James Taylor and six or seven other white artists and the kids said, " How come you don't have any black artists on your all?' I told them. "That's my gold wall, and they're the ones who sold millions. I've never had a black artist do that with my songs.

B.K: Were black artists recording your songs?

O.B: No, I was getting a lot of covers, but either they weren't getting out or just weren't clicking. I think the one that really happened was Fever with Little Willie John. But, it only went so far because Peggy Lee jumped on it.

B.K: Was there more interest from black producers and artists after your first successes?

O.B: There were two gentlemen. One was Henry Glover, he dug what I did. I got a bunch of records through him. The other fellow, Calvin Carter, was from Vee Jay Records and he recorded a lot of my material. Other than those two, I didn't get much interest.

B.K: How were you able to get you songs to Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis and Peggy?

O.B: A writer by the name of Leroy Kirkland took me to a publishing house called Shalamar Music. A fellow there by the name of Al Stanton was a friend of another fellow named Paul Cates, who was with the Elvis Presley people. He got my songs through. When Moe Gail, who owned Shalamar Music, passed away, I moved over to another publishing company.

B.K: Did they treat you right?

O.B: Oh, you better believe it. It was slow at first. You had a lot of late hours, but that's all part of it. Now, you don't have to wait to record. You can spend five to eight dollars on a cassette and they don't even listen to it. I'd hate to be a songwriter starting a career today. So many independent publishers and they're all important. They've done a lot of wrong things, but some good as well.

B.K: When the movie 'Breathless' came out, did things begin to turn around again?

O.B: Oh yeah, I've noticed it usually turns around every nine or ten years.

B.K: Years ago, I met Don Covey, Tommy Tucker and Johnny Nash in a New York studio called A-1 Sounds. They were all selling songs to the owner, Herb Abramson, who held the publishing on 'High Heel Sneakers'. It seemed every few years his fortune would increase when Elvis or Jose Feliciano would record the tune.

O.B: I talk to Herb every time I go to California. We hung out a lot and had many a good time. He's still driving, but he can't see right; he drives that car like he's crazy.

B.K: He's the first producer I met in new York when I was there in 1967. I was down and out, had a couple of songs and he bought them.

O.B: He was the original partner and founder of Atlantic along with Jerry Wexler and Ahmet Ertegun. They all started it together.

B.K: I always wondered why Herb and the others parted ways.

O.B: I think he went into the service and, by the time he got out, things had changed. I really like doing that old stuff and he's got a good ear for that. That's the way he wants to record. His thing is rhythm 'n' blues.

B.K: His door was always open to black artists.

O.B: He understood the music. We're all in it to make money, but hew really loved it. He talks it all the time.

B.K: How did Peggy Lee get hold of 'Fever'?

O.B: I used to be with a publishing house called Roosevelt Music. A gentleman there told me he had seen Peggy Lee perform Fever in Las Vegas and I found out later she wanted to record it.

B.K: Did you ever meet her?

O.B: No, I didn't meet her, but came close about three years ago - it was too crowded. I was to meet her after the show, bit I didn't want to hang around and deal with the crowd.

B.K: Did you ever attempt to talk to any of the artists that had considerable success with your songs?

O.B: I never really wanted to meet them because there's the problem of getting between the artist and the manager. It can get kind of funny at times. I always figured it was best if I write my songs, take them to my publisher and just lay back. There used to be so many things going on - getting to the artist, getting to the publishers - you know, politics. I just didn't want to get mixed up in all of that.

B.K: Did you ever do anything with Sun Records?

O.B: I met what's his name.

B.K: Sam Phillips?

O.B: Yeah, I met him a couple of times when I went down to Memphis. That's as far as it goes. I used to go down every year for the remembrance of Elvis' birthday. Memphis State College invited me to sit in the auditorium and speak to the people for one of those Elvis days.

B.K: When are they going to have an Otis Blackwell Day?

O.B: I don't know - it might be nice. I'm very low-keyed. There have been many times when I've been asked to appear and I'd say to myself, "What am I going to talk about?' Early on, when I did interviews, I'd tell everyone, "Don't ask me about dates. I don't even remember what I did yesterday."

B.K: How did you come up with those wonderful bass lines that were at the core of the music?

O.B: I started as one of those two-fingered players, then graduated to three and four fingers and, eventually five. I played a little boogie-woogie and the shuffle, so I wrote over that. Then the Beatles came over and knocked that out.

B.K: Where did you grow up?

O.B: I was born in Brooklyn and still live right around the corner from where I was born. Everybody used to tell me to go to Nashville, and I'd say, "OK, where is it?" I started coming here years ago to hang out, and now I love it.

B.K: Any plans for the future?

O.B: I've decided to run back in forth between Brooklyn and Nashville. I like this town, it's really great. They've put me in The Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame. This town is about music. It's about the kind of music I like. I've also started a small record label, so I've done an album. People always talk about what I've done, but this is what I'm doing now. I got behind that pencil and nothing happened for many years, but since they put me in the Songwriters Hall of Fame, I've turned around. I took a good look at myself and said, " I think it's time to get back at work."

B.K: How has your writing changed?

O.B: You know my thing was always about I Love You. Your Feets Too Big and that kind of stuff, so I figured I'd sit down and write something different. One of the new songs deals with the situation with guns, and another one deals with the homeless. I've got two or three rock 'n' roll tunes. It's the best stuff I've done in a long time. I've taken my time and worked on them for a couple of years.

High on Hoops in L.A! (1976)

2011-02-02T16:27:00.000-08:00

Bill King

I met Devon Haines on the basketball court in Poinsettia Park one warm sun-drenched California afternoon in 1976 . He’d been waiting patiently to enter the next game and needed one more player to complete his team. I was new to the court and a bit leery of invading the fracas without a semi-formal introduction. Rather than eagerly volunteer I decided to watch before joining the battle.

My mate and I, drove from Toronto to L.A. stopping briefly in Arizona for a round of clay court basketball at the home of the Arizona Wildcats. After a couple thousand miles of sleet and frigid temperatures the dense blue sky and soothing heat proved most inviting. A few games of two on two were a blissful prelude to the months ahead.

As beautiful as it was in Arizona, L.A. was where the real basketball action was. There was an air of coolness on and off the court that made hands sweat and mind sharp. The brothers in the park regarded Devon “The little man from Detroit”. Somebody always knew someone who had a cousin related to a neighbor living near a basketball court.

The brothers in L.A. came from every playground in America, and were somehow interconnected. The object to this scene was to maintain cool and float in and out like a near visible slab of Greenlandic ice. Only then would one be invited to join in conversation. The best introduction was made by making a modest showing on the court. This meant don’t throw the ball away. Don’t pass to the other team; which I must admit was my first mistake, and feed the ball to the guys who earn their reputation jamming the ball through the hole daily. If at some point you found yourself open with the ball and shot it cleanly through the cylinder you were rewarded a small amount of respect, usually in the form of a passing slap at a sweaty palm or an opportunity to touch the ball on another occasion.

As I awaited my call to glory, Devon gave me one of those black men, white man intros. Eyebrows spread, voice deepened, triceps pumped, then the words. “Where you from big man”? When I said Toronto, he thought I said Tonto. In my broken southern and partial Canadian dialect I guess it must have sounded like the Lone Ranger’s sidekick. Devon soon warmed to our regional commonality and ran off a list of homeboys he thought I may have had occasion to meet. Suddenly the game ended and it was our turn to burn the pavement.

When teams were divided and play ready to resume I made a mental note of those players assigned to my team. One white dude - nine brothers. Faces I’d never seen in my life. Fortunately, Devon was on my side so I knew one person I could pass to without throwing the ball away.

As soon as the ball was inbound I gripped it and a voice bellowed,” Over here”. That’s when I quickly reacted with a well - timed pass in the hands of the opposition. This brought a wild chorus of laughter. Devon was no help with his size and awkwardness. With Afro Devon measured a tall 5’11”. But in actual body distance he was more like 5’6”.

As he dribbled the ball his legs spread like a figure skater in a side to side glide making any forward progress implausible. The other players were well-conditioned athletes used to the fast pace and hungry for a struggle under the boards.

The game passed quickly, which didn’t disappoint me. Besides this was my first time in this climate and I knew my body would eventually thaw. I’d just made my first conversation with another ball hound and nothing could have been sweeter.

After the wipeout, Devon and I shared our first laughs. He had a broad smile, infectious laugh and desire to know more about me. During our exchange we discovered common ground, our love of music and sports. He spoke of Lou Rawls, Sarah Vaughan, Little Richard, Ray Leonard, Ali, Kenny Norton, Eddy “the Animal” Lopez, Carlos Palomino. Singers and fighters! He lived to be outdoors. Detroit winters robbed him of precious moments in warm sunshine. Devon dreamed of being on stage traveling the world like his heroes.

Haines was handsome with light brown skin partially dotted with small freckles. He was momma’s boy away from home with too much pride to call and confess things weren’t progressing in Hollywood as he’d envisioned. In fact it was the environment that impeded his maturing into the entertainer he’d hope to be. He loved the taste of cheap weed. Shunned all alcohol, and loved playing family man with his adopted wife and son. This was a family at ease with the lifestyle and under a lot of pressure to stay afloat. Their apartment was always heated to the point of inducing drowsiness in all visitors. The kitchen counter was the entertainment centre stabilizing the super- super eight projector, making daily viewing of boxing’s great moments, the main event.

Devon owned an upright piano located at the apartment’s entrance. From there he gave the occasional singing lesson to aspiring young singers. The pocket change afforded him the luxury of buying a dime bag of twigs, seeds and a bit of dust for a short high.

There were about six of us from the court who would pile in the tiny living room and whoop it up. We’d be on our feet for every “Sugar Ray” blow and on the carpet for every DarrylDawkins slam. On the ceiling for every Dr. J. skydive, pumped and ready for a return confrontation in the park. We traveled as a group, Bruce, Ron, Devon, myself, and two other brothers not as tightly wound to our scene.

We hit Cahaunega Park every day at 4:00 p.m. and at least once a week the midnight game at San Vincente Park. Each playground had its own cast of superstars and hacks. The right combination of personalities took the afternoon to euphoric proportions. One bad seed brought out the pre-evolution traits all males should aspire to exorcise from the body.

I booked Devon a few cameo-singing interludes at a weekly amateur night called Skippy Lowe’s Showcase ‘76, of which I was the house replacement pianist. For awhile it offered him an opportunity to perform in front of a neutral audience. He was received enthusiastically until Lowe decided to fill the position with white boys he thought he could prey on. The brothers from the court encouraged Scott, but after awhile it alienated both of us from the pasty-faced predator. I was fired and Devon's limitations as a vocalist became more apparent. He relied too much on the gospel thumping mannerisms and vocal inflections of Little Richard. He never ventured far from the tradition. It was like his potential had been straight-jacketed.

Remember me mentioning the heat in Scott’s apartment? When we’d visit, Susan, Devon and young John, would nod-out simultaneously as if someone had asked them to participate in group hypnosis. The same would happen when they’d visit our cottage. My wife and I played a little game with Devon’s car keys. He’d usually slope unconscious upright in a wooden chair. We’d dangle the car keys around his ears inducing a smile and a few garbled sentences. Eventually the neck would weaken and the head would collapse. We’d repeat the sequence until we’d almost bruise a gut muscle. Susan and John were usually pronounced dead. No pulse, no party. After a couple hours of unconscious merriment we’d gently awaken and deliver them to the van.

The two years spent in this environment made me believe life would stretch into one endless series of jump shots and aerial moves. My work took me beyond the neighborhood for months at a time. When I returned, my friends were all there, as if time had held them in place.

Devon cruised his way around Hollywood smiling like a Cheshire cat, with Afro comb in hand and body perfectly toned from hours spent pumping iron courtesy parks department.

Towards the end of our hang we made one last drive for the elusive Colombian Ganga. SDevon had a friend who knew someone on Sunset Boulevard who possessed the real buzz -less twig and more smoke.

We drove around in Devon’s white and red pinstriped van eventually locating a number which corresponded with some homeboy’s instructions. A rap on the door brought one of the meanest looking dudes I’ve ever come face to face with. Devon used the cousin from Detroit bullshit line gaining entry to the playpen. While Scott quietly looked over the shoulder of the dealer who had a revolver placed strategically on the table, I was interrogated by a PCP addict who informed me of his desire to kill someone. Killer was recently released from an L.A. jail, barely capable of restraining an urge to extract retribution. Devon contained the room by assuring everyone I was cool. I felt like Woody Allen in one of those implausible situations only an unsuspecting idiot would invade. Fortunately, for the both of us the headman’s old lady lost her patience with the whole situation and began arguing with her lover/dealer. That allowed the both of us an escape route past PCP man, out of a potentially dangerous situation.

While the twosome fought on the street we sped off to Watts and an extended night of adventure. Devon had a friend who knew some guy who was, ‘The man’ in Watts . He liked music, in fact owned expensive high-end recording equipment. The whole proposition seemed risky to me. But off we drove intent on buying a dime of herbal bliss.

As we approached our destination, police helicopters circled above us. The moment we park a penetrating beam strikes a pedestrian shuffling along the street. From the clouds above comes a commanding voice demanding to know the name, reason, and travel details of the old gentleman. After viewing the suspect for a few moments, the copter quickly disappears on a mission more eventful than this. We froze with fear in Scott’s van, but the thought of smoking the real ganja kept us focused on our mission.

Surprisingly, the old man was heading to same address. The young man who answered the door was like one of the young black militants I had met in the Fillmore district of San Francisco a decade earlier and with hair was wound tightly in corn-rows. He was cautious, yet sharp enough to read us as no threat. Besides we had to be crazy driving down here together.

The three of us sat around the living room as he stood over a baby’s crib, reached under the mattress, and pulled out a plastic bag. He gave us a handful of joints each a different
color, labeled with some kind of inscription. He then asked how high we wanted to go - From Mexico to PCP land. We settled on Colombia. The old man wanted to fry his brain on PCP, way out of our league.

The young brother had a beautiful upright piano resting peacefully in a corner. Devon introduced me as a bad-assed blues and jazz pianist. This got me a place situated behind the keys. I played and played and played. Each piece sounded better than the previous. The room resonated with the rhythm of the vibrating strings. When I figured I’d exhausted the moment, the fellows keep encouraging me to play on. We laugh, sing, we listen. We share one of the most special moments in our lives. There was no uneasiness over color. No fear of being in the wrong neighborhood. No need to compete with each other - just magic.

When Devon and I drove away that night we sensed we’d never spend another evening together as precious as this. There was a quiet calm during the ride back to Hollywood.

Devon and I went mountain climbing, more driving and found ourselves in many hilarious situations, but time on the loose was running out. I needed to move on with my family and Scott had to come to grips with his.

Seven years later I returned to L.A. and located Devon. He had changed dramatically. The family was gone and laughter missing from his eyes. Con man had entered his soul along with addictive Asian powder. His pants were stained and pride diminished. His dreams were more a distant excuse for living a life he had never intended. I loved him as a true friend and was shattered by what I had witnessed. I was now the intruder with little time to bring him back.

I ran into Bruce near a liquor store. His life had succumbed to begging quarters for another pint. The basketball court where we earned one another’s respect was now vacant. The neighborhood was all the more dangerous. Our game had become a ghostly memory. None of us were pro material or a threat to unseat the street legends. We were guys who found a world of friendship, shared interests, and a whole lot of laughter, at a crossroads in our lives.

An Interview with Tony Bennett – The Streets of Astoria (December 1993)

2011-02-01T12:19:00.000-08:00

New York-born Tony Bennett is one of the most respected vocalists in the world today. With a 56 year musical career that includes performing with the Count Basie Orchestra in the 50s, classic recordings with Bill Evans in the ‘60s and an incredible solo performing and recording career spanning five decades, Bennett has always been accompanied by an impeccable collection of jazz musicians. His passion for music is equaled only by his love of art. As a painter, he continues to study and show his work at galleries throughout the U.S. Bennett was open and giving during this interview. In 2009, I had the privilege of photographing him live in concert at the Festival du Jazz de Montreal. At 84, he’s still a powerhouse.

Bill King: You’ve had a remarkable year, beginning with a Grammy for your tribute to Frank Sinatra, ‘Perfectly Frank’, and now the release of ‘Steppin’ Out’, a tribute to Fred Astaire. Is this one of the most fulfilling periods of your life?

Tony Bennett: Yes, it is. Producers often try to change the creative instincts of performers instead of trusting them. They’ll want you to do a quick novelty song or something silly to sell records immediately. A good artist avoids that.

We did ‘Steppin’ Out’ and ‘Perfectly Frank’ as they say “unplugged”. Actually, I’ve been “unplugged” for years. We just did it the way we know how to do things; very naturally.

Winning the Grammy was a very gratifying experience because no producers interfered with this project. The fact that we were able to do the album in an uncompromising way win in an age of heavy metal, rap and hip-hop, is very exciting.

B.K.: How important was it for great composers like George Gershwin, Jerome Kern Cole Porter, Irving Berlin and others to have Fred Astaire introduce their songs?

T.B.: From what I understand, they wouldn’t make a move without Fred. His colleagues mention it and so do the history books. He was part of the Golden Era. They respected him so much. He would bring shows in, not just songs. This was way before he did films and was on Broadway.

It’s interesting that not one of those songs hit the charts, yet they are heard internationally and have become our ambassadors all over the world. If I sing ‘Dancing in the Dark’ in Japan or ’A Foggy Day in London Town’ in Italy, everybody knows those songs as American songs. Like jazz itself, the cream rises to the top.

B.K.: it’s been the jazz players who have kept these songs alive through all the changes that have occurred in popular music.

T.B.: Yeah. All the famous - Charlie Parker, John Coltrane and Coleman Hawkins records, -Billie Holiday, Miles Davis and now Wynton Marsalis keep the music fresh. There are so many artists, I could go on. Sarah Vaughan, Billy Eckstine, Duke Ellington. All of them interpreted those songs.

B.K.: it speaks a lot for the dynamics of an inspired composition.

T.B.: They are our tradition. We are such a young country and don’t realize it. We’re always craving for something new, something that will be bigger than the Beatles or Elvis Presley. The industry just wants the big cash. Businessmen are blinded by that, all they want is more.

Jazz deals with the truth, with honesty and sincerity. Sooner or later, when people hear it down the line, even 2000 years, we’ll be hailed for giving the world some of the most beautiful music it’s ever heard.

B.K.: Do you think any of the songs in the last 15 to 20 years will have the same kind of longevity?

T.B.: I’m positive they won’t. There are just a few by people like Stevie Wonder, Billie Joel, Michel Legrand, Alan and Marilyn Bergman, Stephen Sondheim and Burton Lane – they are all great composers of mature popular craft, but they aren’t played on radio.

Everybody’s hyped up. This is the age of obsolescence. People want something that will increase sales.

B.K.: Are you an artist who lives in the recording studio, or one who devotes the bulk of his time to pre-production?

T.B.: I spend time preparing so that when I go in, I do it fast. I spend months in preparation. I memorize everything. On the latest album, I planned the sequence of the songs instead of waiting until later. We just went in and started with the first tune should be placed and what kind of concept it should have.

B.K.: How many songs did you record to arrive at 18?

T.B.: I did 24. Fred Astaire’s advice was whenever you have an act that feels perfect, pull out 15 minutes no matter how good you feel it is. The reason is to avoid staying on stage too long. I feel a record has to be the same way. You don’t want to be predictable or monotonous.

B.K.: Do you have a philosophy for linking songs together?

T.B.: I look for songs that uplift the human experience.

B.K.: Pianist Ralph Sharon has been with you for over 30 years. What has made this a perfect match?

T.B.: He’s my favourite musician. He’s the best colleague a guy could ever have. I just love being with him. He’s very intelligent and doesn’t throw it out at everybody. He’s much understated, but very educated.

He grew up in Britain and was on the top of the jazz magazine charts there. He was number one for 12 years. He used to play piano for Ted Heath who had the most famous band in England. Ralph also did a lot of movie scores. He’s a jazz player who also loves the public and likes to entertain them.

As a result, he’s very good at selecting songs. He’s found all the songs for me the past 30 years. We consider ourselves tunesmiths and collaborate on introducing songs. We’ve introduced 135 so far, and out of that 50 of them are real blockbusters. Everybody, musicians and singers, performs them now.

B.K.; You find jewels like ‘Drifting’.

T.B.: Ella Fitzgerald suggested that song for me. She said,’ Do that song Drifting,’ and you know when Ella suggests a song you better give it a listen.

B.K.: What makes an accompanist like Ralph Sutton invaluable to a singer?

T.B.: I consider those guys high artists. When I say those guys, it’s just a few people who really know how to accompany, like Tommy Flannagan and John Bunch. There is just a handful of guys who really know how to play behind a singer. Bill Evans, of course, was just ideal.

B.K.: Do you have to be a great soloist?

T.B.: It’s someone like Count Basie, another great accompanist, who made all of his musicians sound magnificent. It’s a gift that’s in them where they want to help other cats out. There’s niceness about them. They decide to sublimate themselves to make everybody else sound good. I think that’s a wonderful quality.

I think they are high artists who aren’t respected enough because they’re in the background, but that background is what makes the whole thing happen. It’s like Jo Jones who took a newspaper, wrapped it up backstage at Newport and just hit his knee and kept time and the whole band knew it. Everyone picked up on it and it became the best Ellington live performance record ever made - just done with a newspaper.

Some guys play too much and it interrupts the singers. You’ve got to breathe with the singer. You’ve got to know every move the singer is going to make. Ralph knows me like the back of his hand. He knows what I’m thinking from phrase to phrase.

B.K.:A vocalist like Shirley Horn understands herself so well it would be impossible to find a better accompanist.

T.B.:I love the way she sings. I heard a cut she recorded recently called ‘Too Late Now’ by Burton Lane and Allan J. Leonard, it’s just perfect. She accompanies herself absolutely perfectly.

B.K.: Personnel changes in your rhythm section are a rare occurrence. What inspires you to alter the chemistry from time to time?

T.B.: I’ve always had very superior musicians like Joe LaBarbera and Paul Longosch who were with me many years. They’re perfect guys and Joe is just the sanest person I’ve ever met. He wanted to settle down. He bought a house and is working in L.A. and doing very well. He’s getting married. What happens is that after a while certain guys get tired of the road. I’ve brought in some wonderful guys like Douglas Richeson from Ohio and Clayton Cameron who played with Sammy Davis Jr. for seven years. All of the musicians say he’s the in-thing right now. He’s everybody’s favourite drummer.

B.K.: Do you find travelling a strain?

T.B.: No, I’ve been doing it 45 years and have gotten used to it. If you look around at people who live in one place, they’re strained too. I love to read. When I get on an airplane, especially on overseas trips, I can finally get into some long-term reading. There are no phones. Other people say,”Oh, God, what a long flight”. To me, it’s like a dream. I can get into a book without having to pick up a telephone.

B.K.: Have you modified your style over the years?

T.B.: I think I have. You get to learn what to leave out. I keep trying to get better. I work at it and take good care of myself. I’ve done almost everything to experience life in the past and now I feel very mellow about the fact I’m in control of myself. I’m disciplined, eating good foods, exercise properly. I’m 67 and in good spirits. I feel very good about life. I know that doesn’t make news, but I’ve never felt better.

B.K.: With all of the radical changes in popular music, you’ve managed to withstand the excesses, wore a smile and attracted new fans. Were there periods which tested your confidence?

T.B.: Yes, Abbey Mann, a good friend I grew up with and the author of ‘Judgment at Nuremburg’, said, “Do you realize how many produces we’ve been through and we’re still here.” That was very astute.

Executives of the record companies and other media like television and film feel very superior in their positions, but when they’re out of it, they have no power. Each new guy decides to change everything.

Once the companies have enough of your catalogue, they get somebody else. If they sense you’re predictable, you’re out. To get into the game of longevity, you have to bob and weave.

B.K.: When performing, where do you direct you art - to yourself, the audience or the musicians?

T.B.: First to myself. The whole idea is to communicate with the audience. I can’t wait to hit the stage. I’m that kind of performer. Ella Fitzgerald, Count Basie, Duke Ellington, Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole, we all went for the audience. We want to entertain.

B.K.: Are you more at ease in concert or in the studio?

T.B.: I like all of it. You have to prepare for it. If you’re going to get nervous, it should be with live performance because there are no retakes. With recording, you have at least four takes for every tune. You don’t have to release anything you don’t want to. With that many takes, you can usually find one that is near perfect.
With live performance, you’re going out there and if that one shot isn’t right, it’s gone with the wind. If you’re going to get shook up, it better be on stage, not in the recording studio. The studio feels really comfortable with me.

B.K.: Do you ever fear they’ll release the ‘out-takes’ on a compilation?

T.B.: They shouldn’t. It would be disastrous.. I also paint and one of my big jobs is to tear up the paintings that don’t work. You should never present a picture unless it’s absolutely excellent. It’s representative of you. You have to shoot for a very high level and that doesn’t happen every day. Most of the time, you’re just doing exercises in painting and once in a while you hit one and say, ‘Look at that, it’s really good’.

B.K.: Have you always painted?

T.B.: I’ve gone to art schools my whole life. I’m still studying. I study with the best painter in America, Everett Raymond Kinstler. I feel so fortunate that he’s teaching me. Painting gives you a happy life. You’re studying nature. Every day you paint, you learn. You always feel fulfilled. It’s meditative and knocks out any of your worries. When you’re painting, four hours go by like four minutes.

B.K.: Would you give some brief thoughts or impressions on some artists? Sarah Vaughan.

T.B.: Sarah Vaughan was blessed with the most wonderful voice - a four-octave range without falsetto. She was really the essence of a singer. When you say Sarah Vaughan, I say she was born to sing.

B.K.: Frank Sinatra.

T.B.: Sinatra is the king of the entertainment world. He’s conquered all the mediums. He’s the Al Jolson of today. He was also blessed with a golden voice.

B.K.: Billie Holiday.

T.B.: Every once in a while there are singers that are very rare. I can think of three. -Hank Williams down south, Edith Piaf in Paris and Billie Holiday. There is a destiny about those three singers. Their lives have become legendary.

B.K. Joe Williams.

T.B.: A magnificent singer. He was with Basie’s band. I was the first white singer to sing with the band and he was the vocalist at the time. Those were some of the greatest days, being around the Count Basie band in the ‘50s.

B.K.: Betty Carter.

T.B.: She’s a wonderful singer. You’re hitting on something that’s so interesting to me because when someone says to me what your category is, I find I dislike that word. I sing all kinds of songs, but I do lean towards pop-jazz singing. Like Ella, God goes through Betty on every note.

B.K.: Harry Connick Jr.

T.B.: I think he’s got a lot of talent. For a young guy, he’s come a long way. I had a lot to do with getting him into films. We had the same agent and I suggested it right at the beginning. He’s just a grand guy.

B.K.: What jazz artists do you listen to?

T.B.: I’m still bewildered by Duke Ellington. I just think that he’s timeless and so avant-garde. Each guy in his legendary orchestra was an artist: Paul Gonsalves, Johnny Hodges, Harry Carney, Ray Nance, Cootie Williams. All these guys were part of an era of individualism. I love that era.

B.K.: With all the new reissues, artists like Ella Fitzgerald are topping the jazz charts with recordings that were classics in another era.

T.B.: That’s very good, you know. When there’s a change on the entire music scene, there are a lot of different reasons why it happens. The big thing has been the compact disc. All of a sudden everybody’s hearing recordings without any surface scratching. They’ll hear a production of an early Erroll Garner record and say, I never knew it sounded like that.

It’s an education for people who have never heard this on the radio. For 30 years, we’ve been rock-saturated. Young people have had to live through this obsolescent age and don’t know about great performers like Fats Waller who made some magnificent records and is really fun to listen to.

The Beatles generation now has two or three young children and all of a sudden they’re discovering their folks weren’t wrong. Young people are starting to come on- board with artists like Natalie Cole and Harry Connick Jr. In fact, I was even in in Rolling Stone this week.

An interview with Phil Nimmons – Head of State (November 2005)

2011-01-31T08:58:00.000-08:00

Clarinetist, composer, conductor and educator Phil Nimmons, was born in Kamloops, British Columbia on June 3, 1923. He later graduated from the University of British Columbia and went on to study at the Julliard School of Music in New York City and at the Royal Conservatory of Music in Toronto. Nimmons is a founding member of the Canadian League of Composers established in 1950 and was a co-founder with Oscar Peterson and Ray Brown of the Advanced School of Contemporary Music in Toronto from 1960 -1966. Along with leading and composing for his various bands, he is currently Director Emeritus of Jazz Studies at the Faculty of Music at the University of Toronto. His compositional work includes contemporary classical works and over 400 original jazz compositions.

Bill King: Reading through your discography with titles like Atlantic Suite, Harbours, Islands, Tides and Horizons, PEI, Jasper and Caribou County Tone Poem, one can’t help recognizing you have a great love for this country. Does the remarkable landscape influence your composing?

Phil Nimmons: In the beginning, as far as writing is concerned, I don’t feel that’s necessarily so. I think the creative process is in all of us in some shape or form. In my case, I think there was this drive to be creative right from my teens.

I think the landscaping tendencies started when I began writing dramatic music for the CBC in Vancouver in the late ‘40s. I wrote some things at the time for Dick Diespecker who was a war correspondent and had written a program called Anthology. I wrote dramatic music for that before I went to New York and studied. That would have been around 1944 or ‘45.

Leaping beyond that, I eventually came to Toronto to study at the Conservatory and ended up writing for J. Frank Willis, who was a producer of dramatic shows on the CBC who came from Halifax. At First, we did nothing but sea stories.

Even before I got to the east coast, I felt I had been transplanted from the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic. We did a program called the Days of Sail, which was all about the sailboats and slave trade. So I wrote about Peggy’s Cove, Luneburg and Sable Island before I got there.

Eventually, my sister and her husband became residents at the University of New Brunswick. I would say, not overtly, but by osmosis. I’m developing a relationship with the geography of the country. People still ask when I am going to do something about the Pacific Ocean, which I guess is in the back of my mind.

B.K.: Do you have a favourite workplace that inspires you - a room or locale?

P.N.: No, not necessarily. When you ask that question, I wonder how the heck I created some of those lovely things when they came from my debris-filled studio in the basement. It was a mess of papers, pens and ink with cigarette burns on the ivory keys of my piano and glass stains from drinks.

I do like having a piano handy when I get an idea. I really work it to death, trying to see how many mutations I can get into it. Eventually, I often end up doing the original idea.

I used to work at it hard and shout up to my wife, Noreen. ‘Listen to this.’ Then I’d say, ’Listen to this other one.’ Do you hear it? It would be only a difference of a 16th note or something. Noreen would reply, ‘Just write it.’

I know when I teach, I tell my students to be quite curious about the potential for variations. But I can do that in my head, it doesn’t matter where I am.

B.K.: How does the writing process begin, with a motif, an unusual harmonic sequence?

P.N.: All of those things could be sources, but ideally it is to find some kind of motif that is the seed so full of potential that once you start to work with it, it almost writes itself.

I’ve had a couple occasions where that happens. The musical seed will be strictly musical. In addition to that, I look for all kinds of ways of developing ideas, like maybe taking my birth date and make a tone row out of it. You mentioned Caribou Tone Poem, well, that’s based on my birth date and mixed with thoughts.

Being born in Kamloops, I have really vivid memories. We left there when I was seven in 1930, but my grandparents remained. We used to go back and forth all of the time.

I remember Kamloops being so hot you could almost fry an egg on the sidewalk. It’s located on that plateau between the coastal range and the Rockies where all of those cities like Kelowna and Vernon are. I also remember tow mountains, Peter and Paul, which were north of where we lived. There used to be great electrical storms with the lighting bouncing from one peak to the next.

I use my birthday as a tone row and make certain changes to it, I might come up with something that’s not precisely based on my birthday, but becomes the initial motivator to do something different. Eventually, you’ll come up with something that has potential for development whether melodically, harmonically or rhythmically.

I’m a great believer in form. It’s probably the most important thing everywhere - even our lives have to have some kind of form to communicate effectively.

B.K: If you were to sit down at this moment and begin a long form piece, what do you think the mood and tome of the exercise would be?

P.H.: Thankfulness. I’m in that particular mood at this particular time.

B.K.: What would be the instrumentation?

P.N.: Whatever the budget could afford. The experiences I had with the CBC, writing dramatic music without me knowing, was the greatest teacher I had because I heard everything I wrote at the time.Depending on the content of the show or the budget, the instrumentation I would write for could be anything from a trio to a symphony orchestra.

One of the first things I did for J. Frank Willis was The Cricket on the Hearth the Charles Dickens thing. We used English horn, harp and violin or viola. I had never written for harp before, so I got out my Cecil Forsyth orchestration book.

Even when Nimmon ‘N’ Nine was formed, the plan was not necessarily to include 10 musicians. When it first came together, there were only nine people. Then, Eddie Karam comes to town from Ottawa. I can remember Jerry Toth coming to me saying, ‘We’ve got to get this guy in the band.’ Everyone was a studio musician and they were all such great musicians that could play anything I wrote.

Eric Traugott is just mind-boggling in this regard. I have not met another trumpet player who had as great a sound from G above the staff right down to a G below the staff that can be done within a bar.

We never took the horns out of our mouths. Obviously, we were much younger then and played all the time.

B.K.: How much has your writing changed through the years and can you give an example?

P.N.: I don’t know if it’s changed so much. I still try to write melodically. I try to write interesting parts for every player right down to the fourth trumpet player.

B.K.: Was Robert Farnon around then?

P.N.: Yes, I knew Bob at the time. I had two dear friends in Vancouver while I was growing up as a teenager and working at the CBC. I worked with the Ray Norris Quintet when I first started and we had a comedian who played the piano while the late Barney Potts sang. We began lifting Nat Cole recordings.

I was also in Vancouver CBC Chamber Orchestra and two individuals, in particular, became great friends of mine – John Avison, who was the conductor and a great classical accompanist and Lawrence Wilson, who was a trumpet player who was in the mainstream back in the late ‘40’s who eventually became vice-president of the CBC. We would do shows and afterwards go to their homes and listen to recordings from Palestrina to Schonberg. Here, I was 15 years-old, hearing people talk about music all the time – I just soaked it up like a sponge.

B.K: What has been the most difficult assignment to conquer and why?

P.N.: There’s nothing specifically that comes to mind because I’ve done such a variety of things. I did a Commonwealth thing a way back that I had to research and come up with all the national anthems from all the Commonwealth countries, back when there was quite a few of them. It was a difficult assignment and I didn’t want to do, but I did.

Fortunately, I Learned awhile back I had to do things I may have not wanted to do to pay for the monkey on my back, which was jazz. I wrote some Gilbert and Sullivan things, and rather enjoyed it even though it wasn’t stylistically something I really did relate to. The same can be said for opera. I have done overtures from operas and that’s been an education.

I’ll tell you one thing I find difficult is when someone sends me a tape to lift that’s been generated electronically through synthesizer. I have to keep listening to it over and over because I don’t have perfect pitch, but instead a very good ear, and that’s like torture.

I begin to wonder if every old guy generation to generation has gone through this. I try to cope with it. I ask myself is the problem because I’ve grown up with acoustic sounds.

B.K.: I think you got caught in transition. Electronics erased the acoustic studio musician in the 1980s and ‘90s. Now, there’s a realization we can work with both. For jazz players, it’s back to acoustic.

P.N.: Fortunately, I may not be able to comment on the question truthfully because I’m 81. I’m just so thankful of the things that are happening.

B.K.: If you had a choice of musicians throughout history to assemble under one roof to play your music, who would be on the bandstand?

P.N.: That would take a lot of thought.

At first, I think I would like to get people who relate to my philosophies, but then I realize it doesn’t matter. What matters is what happens on the bandstand.

I’d like to thank Duke for setting the pattern. It didn’t matter when the band showed up as long as they got there. I was privy to a few events when we had the school with Oscar Peterson and Ray Brown. We’d go to Chicago for meetings and stay at the Palmer House. After they finished playing the London House, we’d go down to the south side of Chicago around one o’clock to hear Duke’s band play.

One night, we went down there and the only person to show up was Duke, so we went home. He was just so great as opposed to other leaders I know that just gets some uptight. I imagine a third world war might have started on Tommy Dorsey or Benny Goodman’s bandstand.

In Nimmons ‘N’ Nine, I had all of those wonderful people starting with Roy Smith, Jerry Toth, Ed Karam, Jack McQuade, Murray and Teddy Roderman and Ross Cully.

When the band changed, Rob McConnell was in the band along with Guido Basso, Freddie Stone, Herbie Spanier, Moe Koffman and Eugene Amaro. All of those fellows brought something different to the band.

I was blessed to take something from all of these people. I try to keep an open mind, which sometimes makes things difficult. But, it you do, the benefits are so great. I have lasting relationships with all of these people.

B.K.: You suffered great loss with the recent passing of your longtime companion Noreen. Has teaching and performing helped ease the pain?

P.N.: Yes, but I’m still dealing with the process. I will cope, but I’m not quite prepared at all times. I’m very lucky to be busy which gets me out of the house and away from being by myself.

At the same time, I do that because I can’t help but think this would not have been possible without her. I drank my butt off up until 1970. I did a very good job of being down in the basement writing. I’d come upstairs and Noreen would say to the kids. ‘That’s your dad, not the plumber.’ She had to put up with me and she did.

In retrospect, she looked after the kids. I came from the old school where the woman stayed home and raised the kids and the man worked. I even sold real estate for two or three years. That was not difficult to do because part of my philosophy was that when I got married, I made a contract with a young lady that we we’re going to do something together, and I would have to do whatever it took to fulfill. It’s very easy to say, but not as easy to do. You never know what will happen. She put up with so much, but I don’t think I’m unique in that respect.

B.K.: Loving relationships can be critical in freeing the soul to create and release that which is hidden below the surface. Was Noreen often the keeper of the key?

P.N.: No, I think we both were. I say that because I think that’s a deep desire as well as something I believe in. Nothing happens without two and a lot happens with three. Two people can start, but an odd number can put the vote up for grabs. It creates a lot more interest.

Being the fundamental part of the pyramid as the parents of this family or household, whichever way it goes, it really took the two of us. There has to be a lot of bending, giving and compromise because of what you want to achieve.

I think she bent a little bit more than I did, but I was eight years older that she was. Maybe that gave me a certain sense of conviction.

Plus the fact, I say with great profundity, we’ll never be as brilliant as they are. The male is such a dolt by comparison and I really believe that. Some people ask the question: ‘Would you have done things different knowing what you know today?’ Of course you would, but that will never happen.

Lorne Lofsky - Kind of Blue (2003)

2011-01-30T06:08:00.001-08:00

Lorne Lofsky Interview

Bill King: You point to one album as being pivotal to your introduction to jazz.

Lorne Lofsky: The Kind of Blue album. It’s one of those things that are hard to put into words. There was something about the music that touched something in me that I’d never experienced before? There was a certain mood I experienced. The fact that it was very understated. I wouldn’t call the playing hard flat-out playing compared to the Coltrane quartet when they were wailing or Miles band later on. There was this cool understatement that was happening and a sense of mystery I got from listening to it. It was something I had never heard before and there was this little light go on in my head that said wow! What is this? I quess I was ready for it.

Many years before I had a friend who played trumpet – I played bad third trumpet in junior high - put on My Funny Valentine album. For what I heard I wasn’t ready to understand what was happening. There wasn’t anything that pulled me in. Not like when I’d turn off the lights and listened to Kind of Blue and try to pick up things subliminally. I was still playing rock & roll and blues at the time and feeling rather limited. I knew my three or four B.B. King and Eric Clapton licks and just kept playing them over and over mindlessly.

Bill: Did you isolate and listen to the flow of certain instruments?

Lorne: I paid a lot of attention to Bill Evan’s solo on “So What?’ It was almost like watching a movie in another language without sub titles.

Bill: Did you search around for private instruction?

Lorne: I did take a few guitar lessons with someone named Tony Braden in the early seventies. We didn’t talk about music per se or improvising. He tried to show me the mechanics of the guitar - some scales and things. I started hanging out with friends of mine who were getting into jazz and listening a lot. We’d go out to places like George’s Spaghetti House. I used to go and listen to r Ed Bickert and Lenny Breau play. Sonny Greenwich. Ted Moses when he was in town. I was just absolutely amazed these players knew what to do and when to do it. I had no idea about listening and reacting and having a certain amount of skills to naturally react.

Bill: Did university studies with John Gittins answer some questions for you?

Lorne: To a certain degree. I was at York in the early to mid seventies as a part time student one year and took some theory. At the time I wasn’t ready for that kind of thinking. I found it to complicated and didn’t really understand it. The next year I went to a jazz workshop and in my free time played constantly. If I wasn’t playing I was listening at home or in a club or jamming. I really didn’t go the music school route. The main thing I got from university was the importance of playing with a strong time feel. The two people I learned the most from were John Gittins and Bob Witmer. Another thing that caught me at the time was that album with Paul Desmond “Pure Desmond” that took me to another universe. I was hearing a guitar that sounded like an orchestra and I had no idea what was going on. I get kind of compulsive about things and go for it. I would spend untold hours lifting Ed Bickert’s solos. I asked Ed years before in this long defunct club called Meat & Potatoes if he taught and I said he didn’t and recommended Tony Braden.

Bill: How about the live playing at the time.

Lorne: Ted Moses opened the Mother Necessity Jazz Workshop around Queen and Victoria and I did some playing. A couple years later I started doing jobbing gigs – weddings and casuals to make some money and club dates playing wallpaper music. The late great Jerry Toth heard me – this I won’t forget – I met him at Mt. Pleasant and Eglington and we were chatting about one thing or the other and he asked if I’d like to work with him at George’ Spaghetti House. I think he was the first to hire me at George’s. I was on cloud nine. It was the greatest thing in the world. After that I slowly broke into playing some of these places.

Bill: Did that opened the door to backing touring international artists.

Lorne: I was fortunate. George’s was going strong and Paul Grosney was booking Bourbon Street and I guess he took some sort of shine for me for a while and started booking me there. I got to play with a lot of great people there - Chet Baker, Carl Fontana, Groove Holmes, Jimmy McGriff, Phil Wilson, Georgy Auld. It was great for me as far as I was concerned. I was getting paid to learn. I always asked questions. I’d ask if what I was playing behind them was O.K. or if I was getting in the way or did they want me to learn other tunes. I did one gig with Bob Brookmeyer who had these great arrangements that was incredibly educational.

Bill: Is this where Oscar heard you play?

Lorne: No, that was at George’s Spaghetti House. I was there with Butch Watanabe a mainstay of the Toronto scene. Oscar came in to hear the group and I met him briefly. A month or two later he telephoned me about doing a recording. I thought to myself, why me? I was blown away by it.

When it was time to record it was a huge deal for me. I’d never recorded on my own before. I went on to do some playing with him in the early eighties in Edmonton and he featured me at the Forum at Ontario Place that doesn’t exist no more. It’s funny how things work. A few years before I remember going to hear Oscar with Jerry Fuller on drums, Neils Pederson bass and Joe Pass on guitar and sitting up on that hill overlooking the Forum and listening to the band and thinking to myself that one day it would be unbelievable to be down there doing something like this - not necessary with him or whoever. Several years later I wind up playing in Oscar’s quartet for three years and the same thing happened with Ed. In 1983 Larry Kramer and Jane Bunnett had this series at a place called Harpers on Lombard Street. One day Larry telephoned me and asked if I’d like to play in a quartet with Ed Bickert. My hero! I said, “Are you kidding – does he want to play with me that’s the question?”
Needless to say I was quiet nervous the first gig. It was fun and he was totally accommodating.

Bill: Did it take long to find a comfort zone with Oscar?

Lorne: The first gig was at the forum and he actually let me do some trio tunes. What he did in the situation was first play a few trio tunes and then he brought me out as a featured performer with Terry Clarke and John Heard. There I was before this huge crowd. All I remember was it was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. Dizzy Gillespie played somewhere earlier that evening and I’m in the middle of a solo with my eyes shut and I hear this wild applause. First of all I know it’s not for me and second I know what I’m playing isn’t that good and then I hear this trumpet chime in on the tune. It was an incredible experience.

I was out in Edmonton with Oscar and Dave Young and we started playing some of Oscar’s original tunes I’d had never heard before. I’ve always had pretty good ears and pick up things quickly. The first night he started playing on “ Sweet Georgia Brown” and he was ripping it up – definitely in his prime. There were flames coming off the piano and as he’s winding down to the last couple of bars he gets down lower and lower on this Bosendorfer piano with the extra bass notes I call those thunder storm notes cause when you’re down so low it’s not the pitch you hear but a storm system moving in off the lake. Anyway, I’m just sitting there figuring he’s going to do more and he just turns to me after hitting this low F and says you got it. So right away I had to do something so I started playing “ Sweet Georgia Brown” by myself. He got me! Every night after that I knew the routine. I’m really thankful about going through the trenches. It’s a great way to learn. Looking back it’s made me stronger player. You don’t get this in music school.

Bill: At present you teach a lot. By choice or evolution?

Lorne: I’ve been married several years and have a son and need a certain amount of stability. I can’t just pick up and run off. I guess if I were a little bit younger and still single I would probably be pursing more traveling gigs and more. The best way for me to take care of business being a musician is teach. I’ve been doing it for years. I do a fair amount at home. I’m now concentrating on just teaching at York University. They’ve instituted private instrument instruction. I can be more selective teaching. I don’t have to take every gig I get called for and realize time is more valuable.

Bill: Two videos: Approaches to Jazz Vol. One and a second New Standards.

Lorne; A few years ago I chatted with somebody by the name Bill Piburn who lives in the Nashville area and hooked up. A friend told he was getting into doing these video things. He did one for Jack Wilkins and a few others. We talked and I found he had a great heart and really supported the projects he was involved in so he arranged for me to fly down to Nashville during a Chet Atkins tribute – three or four years ago. I performed a short set. While there I went into a little studio with a good local bass player, Jim Ferguson and did it all in one day. Jim and I did the performance video first which was good since it allowed us to relax in front of the cameras. It’s not the most comfortable situation. You’re there in this little room with a white backdrop to absorb the glare with four or five cameras trained on you. You’re supposed to be relaxed, articulate and trying to be creative. I have to say most the playing considering the circumstances is quite good. We might make a CD version of the performance video.

We had about an hour break. Then I played for an hour without a break. I had these sub titles jotted down on a piece of paper on the floor so when I got to the end of whatever topic I was talking about we wouldn’t need to edit anything. I went as long as I could. I was on a bit of a roll and went and hour or hour and fifteen and talked about things that are important to me – fundamental things. Things that are practical that I use when I play and a lot of musicians use when they play. The instructional thing comes with a little booklet. They seem to be doing well. I have people e-mail me saying that they’ve purchased it.

Bill: You have a fairly sophisticated website. Does it do the job?

Lorne; There’s a good story behind that. There’s this guy Greg Blake I guess you’d say is a hobbyist guitar player who has some incredible computer Internet skills. We were talking and he suggested I have a web site. I really didn’t have the money to do something sophisticated and didn’t want to do something that looked cheesy. He volunteered to do it for me. I said, “You’ve got to be kidding?” Slowly but surely he began working on it and another dear friend Brian Behie teamed with Greg and they worked together. Greg did a lot of the technical work and Brian had some fabulous ideas. Greg is so skilled he’s in great demand from companies. I enlisted the help of Lucy Frigault. I prepared an ad hoc lesson on diminished harmony and emailed them as attachments to her and she did incredible things in making them navigatible. She posted it and made it available in such a way that it’s very user friendly. She also helped polish the look of the site and help me set it up to do business. She’s a great lady and did such a wonderful job. The lesson is there for purchase. lornelofsky.com

Jeff Healey - In His Own Words - (2002)

2011-01-29T15:16:00.000-08:00

Healey Interview:

Bill King: From musician to managing a club. How has your world changed?

Jeff Healey: It’s a learning experience and will continue to be. I could sit here for a couple hours and go over things I’ve learned in the last eight months. It certainly has made me appreciate a lot more from the musician’s side. Also what a club has to put up with when it’s offering entertainment to the public. I try to be as fair as I can possibly be coming from a musician’s side. I hope musicians feel they can trust me being a musician. I’m going to be looking for the best deal for the musician and make sure myself and my partners are able to pay the rent.

Bill: Do you have bands that draw better than others?

Jeff. Certainly! The bands that work out the best are those who have a following. It’s not a guarantee. I’ve had band’s in I thought had a following but did nothing for whatever reason. A priority over having a following is those bands or artists who are willing to get out there and bust their butts to get people out to the show. When we see that happen, by in large that artist will be back.

Bill: Is the club sustaining itself?

Jeff: Yes! We’ve got a long way to go and we’re still in the middle of the forest but I would say we’re a little further along than what most clubs can claim from when they opened up. We’re just eight months in. We’re able to cover bills and pay the rent and take little bit of a salary out of it for ourselves. Money is slim.

Bill: Do you find there’s pressure on you to anchor the club because of your following?

Jeff: I’ve tried to avoid that. I don’t really think that’s the case. I do have musicians come to me who wouldn’t have the nerve to go to some of these other clubs looking for work thinking that I’m a musician therefore I would react differently but I have to be a businessman at this point. As far as the draw on my name – possible to a degree. It’s understood I’m not always there but I try to be there at least two or three days out of the five during the week. I want the club to sustain and people know that any night of the week when they come in, it will be quality entertainment.

Bill: You’re a guy who loves to play. Are you a bit obsessive about that at times?

Jeff: I like playing. I suppose in moments of deep meditation and totally honest with myself – I’d admit I’ve never wanted to be the center of all that attention or receive all the accolades. I like being a musician and am just as happy to sit off to one side in the back of the stage with a guitar you can hardly hear and just strum along. I love music, listening and interacting with quality musicians- and I always will. The purpose of the club was to enable me to book in quality players and get up and play and not call in the songs, tempos or keys.

Bill: How long has Sensation Records been around?

Jeff: We’ve been putting out issues on the label for about two and a half years. It’s intent initially was to be a label that specialized in reissues of vintage material and packages of artists from the classic period; the twenties, thirties and forties. Ironically, in spite of that concept, the first release on Sensation was a contemporary recording by Alex Pangman. It has done extremely well for us. In a time when it’s difficult to recoup a project cost we did it in two years.

Bill: Did the success with Alex help cover some of the expense assembling the reissues and what about the choice of artists?

Jeff: Simple! The choices are people and things I would like to buy myself. We’ve been a little slow out of the gate and over the past two and a half years we only have eight releases. We’ve got at least a half dozen in the can. One of the toughest things about doing these projects is getting the right people to write the liner notes. You can get the material together pretty easily from other people and get it transferred nicely. If you call the right people you can get more than adequate photos of the right thing.

Bill: Not enough survivors from this era?

Jeff: Just not enough people doing this job. Most are swamped. I’ve been waiting on a guy for a year that’s been working on a package and it’s been sitting here mastered and ready to go.

Bill: Do you draw mostly from your collection and a few others?

Jeff: When one goes to put this kind of thing together, you can’t work miracles. You don’t want bad conditioned discs. You want the best copies you can get preferably close to new. It’s telephone and leg work. It’s calling around the world. One call leads to another. I remember a project I did with Jazz Oracle and I was looking for a good copy of a particular performance. Someone directed me to a fellow who had copies of not only that performance but also two other takes we didn’t even know about. All of the sudden the project gets bigger. It’s the fun in the discovery.

Bill: What about re-mastering?

Jeff: My re-mastering has been done by John.R.T. Davis who lives just outside London in Burnham. He is still the master of the art although he will argue against that. He is a first class musician who has been known to play just about any instrument. His main instruments are alto saxophone, trombone – outstanding on trumpet-a bit of piano and guitar. He came to this as a collector and musician and also has the brain of a mad scientist. He has been throughout his seventy-five years trying to find the best way to get the sound buried in the grooves of these recordings to the surface, as fresh and clear as he can. I still think he does the best job.

Bill: Most people know you with a guitar in hand but I mostly see you with a trumpet.

Jeff: Thanks to your photo exhibit they see my trumpet shots here and there. The first time I sort of exhibited this after the Healy Band in the early nineties I took the Hot Five Jazzmakers into the Café New Orleans. We had a ton of people come out and we’re playing “Jazz Me Blues”, something totally different. I will say ninety-five percent stayed and had a good time, which it was meant to do. The music of that era by and large was meant to entertain. There wasn’t a lot of jazz aimed at the conosuiers- certainly not on disc. They couldn’t afford to. On a then inch disc you only had three to three and half minutes and on a twelve inch disc four minutes, so you didn’t have much time to self-indulge. You had to deliver. I think that we’ve forgotten that music was meant to entertain. There was a conscious albeit serious effort in the early forties by jazz musicians to make a left turn. They did and succeeded. From that point on jazz has been appreciated by a smaller percentage of the public. This is why I don’t buy those who moan why their art form isn’t appreciated. Sixty years ago there was a small bunch of people at Mintons that intentionally meant for it not to be appreciated.

Bill: Early on players soloed off melodies and the texture of the tune. Nowadays many recycle scale patterns.

Jeff: There is no question about it. Charlie Parker is one of the last and probably the bridge between having a strong melodic sense yet having boundless technical facility. If people would look back at what Parker was listening too rather than starting with Parker, you can hear Lester Young and others. It all comes from somewhere. It is sadly astonishing to me particularly that horns do not know how to play a melody. It isn’t something that was taught. The shift away from melody is almost complete. I’d love to find a trumpet player around that knew how to come out and do a first course of a tune like Wingy Minone or early Louie Prima or Armstrong and his big band. These players played the melody off the top- not in a square way. Most know the chord changes but that’s it. I’ve been laughed at by some for insisting on collecting just straight square dance bands from the twenties and thirties. But it’s from that I got a sense what a melody is supposed to be. I’ve got my jump off point.

Bill: What about singers? Do they pay enough attention to the melody?

Jeff: Few! Most don’t try and research where the song came from so that they know what they’re doing. No matter where I’m at in a performance that melody is going through my head. It’s like there’s an orchestra behind me spinning the tune. I work off of that.

Bill: Guitar and blues. Where’s that stand with you now?

Jeff: Let’s not fool anybody; we were essentially a rock band that played some blues, some ballads and a variety of things. I grew up with that. I had the endorsement of Stevie Ray Vaughan and B.B. King that helped the press find and easy niche for me. I got thrown into the blues category. Meanwhile, my most successful song was “Angel Eyes.”What I discovered in high school was I could take the jazz mentality, philosophy and love of it and put it through an amplifier with a lot of wattage and a fair amount of distortion and all of a sudden I turned from geek to cool. If you’re going to get any interest from girls that’s what you’ve got to do.

Bill: You had to have a passion for it. You played it so well.

Jeff: I can do it but once I got out of my teen years are started to think more along Armstrong and Teagarden when I’m playing. Even guitar.

A Word with Doug Riley - (Fall of 2001)

2011-01-28T14:34:00.000-08:00

Doug Riley…

Bill King: You’re making a documentary with David Clayton Thomas?

Doug Riley: Clayton and I knew each other when we’re teenagers back in the 60’s.
He just drove up from New York to get me involved in this thing where we can talk about the old days. The Yorkville days and the Bluenote. They want to interview me and want me to tell a whole bunch of lies about Clayton.

Bill: You go back to the Bluenote era in Toronto.

Doug: I was there from 1962-1964. It was Thursday Friday and Saturday nights with Shawn Jackson, Diane Brooks, Sherry Matthews, Steve Kennedy in my band the Silhouettes. We used to go down to Buffalo on the weekends and buy R&B records bring that back and put them in Al Steiner’s jukebox and learn them ourselves. None of them were on the air locally.

Bill: Is this where the B3 was put to good use?

Doug: I didn’t have a B3 then but an M101, a smaller Hammond version. A year or so later I bought my first B3. It went into storage when the synthesizer came in vogue in the eighties.

Bill: Did you ever get used to that?

Doug: No. I refused to play them. I just went back to playing acoustic piano and Fender Rhodes.

Bill: Was it a time thing? The synthesizer came with a new language.

Doug: I would play it in the studio for string sounds and other sounds but if someone wanted an organ I refused to play it from one of those presets. I’d tell them get a Hammond!

Bill: What is your set up now:

Doug: I have two B3s and a C3. I have one B3 in the basement I bought back in the sixties. It was my touring organ especially when I crossed the country five times with Doctor Music. It’s a little wobbly. Otherwise I use a mint condition B3 and C3 and several Leslie’s for my live gigs.

Bill: Coming through the seventies, eighties and into the nineties when you were consumed with studio work did you ever envision a return to live performing?

Doug: No! One of the main reasons was the B3 came back in vogue. I would play piano gigs. After twelve or so years of people trying to replace the B3 all they could say was the instrument they created was lighter. It certainly didn’t compare musically or sound wise. People are hauling them around again therefore I got interested in playing again.

Bill: You don’t hear much about synthesizers anymore.

Doug: No! We know they are out there and have a use and are great for making demos.

Bill: The character of the sounds hasn’t changed much in years.

Doug: You hear the same sounds over and over again on loops and samples and sound patches. You hear the same sounds again and again on every film and television show. You’ve got to get sick of it after a while. At least when someone’s playing a piano or an organ each has a different touch. Therefore you can hear the different musicianship in each player.

Bill: When the Rhodes and Clavinet were introduced in the sixties they found specific rolls.

Doug: And they still do and they are wonderful instruments. I regret getting rid of my Wurlitzer electric piano and my Clavinet. I still have two Fender Rhodes bought the first week they were introduced at Manny’s in Manhattan.

Bill: As sounds changed and the synthesizer gained prominence, the role of the keyboardist within popular music was diminished. It was no longer about performance but coloring. It was more about posing that participating.

Doug: I started writing more and more and playing less. It was something that didn’t interest me. I liked the records Herbie Hancock did with it but it just wasn’t my thing. I wrote and wrote and wrote and made more money than I could ever expect from playing. Eventually you get sick of that and bored.

Bill: Where you writing more for commercials or films?

Doug: A combo. Besides film and commercials I was writing for a lot of artists and many different styles of music. From jazz, rock, pop, country to Placido Domingo with the London Symphony. If someone called I wouldn’t turn it down because it was this or that kind of music.

Bill: Are you still like that?

Doug: Right now I’m more into playing. I’m creating that new balance; more playing less waiting. Writing has been secondary in that sense but primary in my earning capacity.

Bill: You retreat to Prince Edward Island four months a year. Are you able to shut it down?

Doug: I’m semi-retired now. All that means is I’m not really less busy but saying no to many things and only taking that which I really want to do. I’m playing much more golf. Walking on the beach with my dogs, reading books and lying in a hammock. I still fly out of there to do concerts in fact in the four months I was there I probably flew out of Charlottetown ten times. When I go back it’s my center and I’m much more relaxed. The pace is like twenty or thirty years ago. The people are so warm and relaxed.

Bill: Is the atmosphere conducive for composing?

Doug: Oh yes. I write a lot out there. I was commissioned by the Toronto Symphonietta
to write an concerto combing classical and jazz. I’m writing with piano, bass, drums and alto sax in mind and orchestra. I started working on that in P.E.I.

Bill: Are the skills you have for orchestration something you developed early on?

Doug: I studied it when I was at the faculty of music in the sixties. Still again, that was learning from books and studying scores. The only way to learn it is to play it and be made a fool several times. I learned on the job and in the studio. The stuff sounded terrible at times then others pretty good. Eventually, you find ways to make it sound good most all the time.

Bill: Do string players scare you?

Doug: They always did and still do for many different reasons. They will sometimes get to the point in the music and won’t play. They question things all the time. I mean if you put two string players playing a semi tone apart they will always question it. For brass and reeds that’s normal in jazz. In classical training you just don’t do these things. It’s new training for them.

Bill: Do you go through periods where you have to spend a lot of time at the piano to keep the hands in shape?

Doug: When I first started working with singer Michael Burgess six or seven years ago I did a lot of practicing. His performance covers a wide breath of pianoforte. I don’t practice when I’m playing live so much. When I was in university I practiced basically eight hours a day for five years. Four hours in the morning before lectures and four hours after in the dungeons of the faculty. I lived like a monk. If I haven’t done something for twenty or thirty years I will sit down and work my way through it. I don’t sit down and play scales and arpeggios every day and I bet you don’t either.

Bill: You were once part owner of Revolution Records, partnerships with Larry Trudell and Tommy Ambrose in an extremely successful commercial house and other business ventures. Have you closed the pages on that period and work mainly freelance?

Doug: Totally! I’ve eased out of the jingle business and just write for clients I’ve had for many many years. I’m not going out hustling any new business. I did it for over thirty years in a pressure atmosphere with deadlines all of the time, constantly competing with what’s out there and always dealing with committees.

Bill: You’ve going to Edmonton in the New Year to work with PJ Perry.

Doug: Yes! We’re playing the Yardbird Suite in February hopefully in Calgary in January. I want to start recording these dates. I’d love to have a recording with PJ and the B3 quartet. He’s been wanting to do it all of his life. We played last year in both cities and it was just fantastic and had a wonderful time together. I’ve got a duo CD with Guido Basso, organ and flugelhorn that are to be released on Justin Time.

Bill: Always a pleasure.

Doug: Just one other note. I’ve put a new quartet together with Chris Mitchell on Saxes, Jake Langley guitar, Terry Clarke on drums and my son Ben when Terry can’t make it.

Bill: Jake got good mileage out of his debut with you.

Doug: He most certainly did. I’m sure all involved are happy.

The Great Western Exhibit - Road Time - Pt.2

2010-10-17T20:26:00.000-07:00

We were naive about the necessity of approaching a booking agent. Scratch confidently volunteered to be the point man in these negotiations. He first telephoned his father seeking financial assistance. A thousand dollars arrived the following day. We hurried to Wallach’s Music City located at Sunset and Vine. There a Fender Duo Showman and a few other gadgets for the guitar were purchased. Scratch then visited a used car lot investing in a duo tone black and white 57 Pontiac sedan. From there he rented a U Haul trailer. It was beginning to look like the cross country adventure was coming together.

With three hundred dollars left we gathered around a table in the Omnibus and began charting a destination. The Omnibus was coming under continual scrutiny from the FBI and local authorities who surveyed the place believing it to be a safe haven for draft dodgers and felons. The night before we departed LAPD stormed through the building searching for a suspect wanted for armed robbery. The club owner wasn’t able to scrutinize every freewheeling outlaw passing through the doors. That night the police examine draft cards for inconsistencies. I had in my possession a student deferment card - status unclear. My name hadn’t surfaced on any lists but there were others hiding in the dark corners of the club who quietly slipped out the unguarded exits. Police had photos and composite descriptions along with the identities of young men suspected of evading the military. Everybody became extremely fearful of their persistence. I was the only one in the band with a potential problem the others received medical deferments.

Rick failed to arrive from his parents North Hollywood home the morning of our planned departure, Denny and Rick were California boys who’d never ventured beyond the secure beach communities around Santa Monica. Rick got cold feet. He had a girlfriend and a little league team to coach - major responsibilities. Scratch worked magic on the telephone luring Rick and his young love to the Omnibus. When they finally arrived we found the girl easy going. She jumped at the opportunity, besides a deal was arranged where we’d drop her at her parents home some ninety miles north of Minneapolis, Minnesota. Rick finally relented called his family - received their good blessings.

Carol was quite a calming influence. She was blond, blue-eyed, sociable, and temperate. Carol never let hardship rule choosing to always find something positive in consequence. With gear loaded we ventured down highway 10 up through San Bernardino connecting with highway 15 through Barstow, eventually turning on 40 East carrying us beyond the California border into Arizona. It was somewhere between Barstow and Kingman, Arizona when reality struck.

We’d been laughing and speculating about the future when suddenly we realized we knew nothing of booking a band. Scratch had a confident air about him convinced he could sell us anywhere in America. We had no reason to doubt his proclamation so he was assigned the responsibility.

We arrived in Fort Williams early morning to find the temperature hovering around freezing. None of us were dressed for the sudden change in climate. It was mid-July and in our minds something was drastically wrong. A service station attendant reassured us once we descended down the mountain the thermometer would rise considerably by the time we reached Flagstaff.

Upon arriving in Flagstaff we discovered funds were running uncomfortably low. We desperately needed cash to cross through the state. It was mid-afternoon when we motored through Flagstaff tired and less confident of our journey. Scratch spotted a country and western spot along the roadside and decided to approach the owner about a booking.

The lunch time crowd sported Stetsons like Hollywood Rick. The sight of four longhaired Californians sent shockwaves through the wooden farmhouse. Heads turned enlisting a series of hilarious comments. They’d seen our type on television now we’d entered their backyard knowing any moment we could be snake bit.

The owner was quite amused with Scratch’s bold front and looked upon us as a cheap diversion. He asked only one patriotic question –‘Any of you boys flag-burners?’ Rick was all-American and assured the boss we were different from those protesters. We were a true blue hardhat loving band.

Rick obtained a deferment for a gimp knee injured in a sandlot football game otherwise he’d have enlisted for Vietnam bypassing boot camp.

The guy bought our act offering twenty dollars for an evening of suspect entertainment.

Western folk piled in ready for an evening of Hank Snow classics or maybe a Minnie Pearl jamboree. When we cleared the doorway every tall hat began snickering along with their bovine mistresses. We jumped stage - tuned a few strings and spun into action. Rick executed one of those basic training pivots whipping his black mane into a swirling frenzy - the voice - strained and monophonic.

A greater portion of our opening was improvised void of hooks or potential group sing-a-longs. The audience looked on stunned. As far as they were concerned we may just as well come from some exterior planet well beyond this solar system and none were prepared to travel with us. A few tall hats began interrogating the owner as if he had set them up for a practical joke. We endured the set before being politely asked to pack up and cut the show before midnight. The jukebox was in greater favour with the patrons. They were more curious of us as travelers than musicians. We collected twenty dollars and sped away to Albuquerque, New Mexico unscathed.

Twenty dollars stretched a long distance in 1967 enough feed six nomads and fill a gas tank. Upon arriving in Albuquerque we took notice of numerous car lots and western bars. Scratch spotted one that looked safe for a car load like us and disappeared inside. Somehow he convinced the owner he needed a music policy adjustment and we were the perfect outfit to compliment the Billy Bob act in residence. The only problem - we had no steel guitar or violin.

As I began dragging equipment into the club I came face to face with the manager who in no way seemed as amused as the gentleman along the highway. He was demanding and short on instructions. “If we like you, we’ll pay you”, was his only stipulation.

We sat through a set of weepy bumpkin’ tragedies awaiting our turn. When the order was issued we crashed the stage with the rock and roll zeal of a soon to be derailed locomotive. Rick pumped and bounced - his face rarely in full view. We were loud and foreign.

I scanned faces lining the long bar - the eyes and furrowed brows told me the locals would rather stuff us in a wood chipper than tolerate much more of this nonsense. Everything about us repulsed this conservative ass-kicking brood. I assumed we weren’t going to collect any pay so I signaled Scratch to cut it short sensing greater security in the backseat of the car away from this stage. Sure enough the boss reminded us he gave us a chance and witnessed the crowd’s reaction - so why pony up a dime. Scratch resisted which only aroused an ugly response. I’d seen enough. The manager gave us a choice, get the fuck out of there or he’d gather a few buddies who’d love nothing better than beat the ass of a bunch of Hollywood queers. We still had a few dollars tucked away so we decided to cut our losses and penetrate the Texas border.

The mention of Texas always brought a shiver to my spine. It didn’t take much effort to get buried in a Texas jail. Although we were free of drugs we knew there were methods of manufacturing criminal offences and these guys were masters. Every male with hair drifting below the ear lobe was considered a commie draft dodger in need of fixin’. We knew the key to survival was not courting attention which we managed.

We scoped Amarillo looking for any evidence of shoulder length hair. On a side-street we spotted a paranoid looking guy dodging pedestrians along the sidewalk. My first thought was here’s our man. We then drove alongside and signaled him to the curb and inquired about the music scene, clubs, parks or whatever. The guy ducked his head and waved us down a side-street away from the main highway. We soon came across a low rise housing a few freaks – blinds pulled - everyone keeping a low profile.

Scratch retold our story and asked about possible engagements around the city. The fellow picked up the telephone and called around and came up with a Saturday night dance. Two hundred dollars was the award. We couldn’t believe the good fortune. That amount of money could carry us all the way to Minnesota. The guy then directed us to a military base on the other side of Amarillo. The word military sent shockwaves through the nervous systems.

‘What’s the catch,’ I asked. None, other than playing a Saturday night dance for
couples in the mess hall. We were given contact name and directions.

The thought sent the mind dancing. I envisioned armed guards with chains ready to staple us to a dungeon wall – lost for eternity in some’ hup two three four’ hell hole. Scratch seemed unfazed.

Just getting past the military police was a sight to behold. Two beef necks stop us for inspection then offered a few hippie jokes then telephoned ahead. Bingo! – we were given passage past heavy armaments and a cadre of dreary marched out troops.

The concert hall was definitely a large mess area. Tables had been removed and everyone one was in a frenzy decorating for the night’s social event. We set up in a central locale near were our adoring fans were to be situated. I thought – this ain’t so bad. Good pay – decent room and fair sound system.

After setting up we were then coaxed to hide away in a nearby foot locker far from military personnel. There were rumblings we may be draft dodgers or drug merchants determined to inject liberal poison into the veins of our nations finest. I tried not to make eye contact. What do you say to a three bird colonel with two pounds of brass dangling from the chest and angry disposition? I hope you like the tunes?

Night arrives without much aggravation. The room fills with corsage chested damsels and stiff neck grunts.

“Hey buddy, I used to have hair as long as you – look at me now. They’ll get to you.” Oh, boy. Let the games begin. “Hey hippie, do you squat when you piss.” Yeah man! ‘Yo girls – what you doin’ with those pussies. Come down here and sit with the men.”

Rick’s temper turned volcanic. ‘Shut the fuck up pecker head – I’ll beat the snot out both you and your date.” No, no, no I say to myself. This isn’t good. “Come down here turd-boy and take that funny wig off.” What wig – this is real hair.” Please – slow down Rick.

In real life Rick was one of those beer drinking anti-hippie flower child guys. The get up was more for costume not commitment.

I kept a distance even though a table of date deficient troopers kept shoving their table into us.

Time arrived for the big show and what a show it was. The band quickly lashes into the Leaves ‘Pushin to Hard’. That was one of our endless jams. With a set of ten songs and not much variety a twenty-five minute epic jam was in order.

I could see eyes roll and girls yanking the neck ties of dates. No one danced. It was if we were playing to an audience of timber.

“Play something we can dance too. Wooly Bully! How ‘bout something slow by Gene Pitney – I know ‘Town Without Pity’. I have a girl here who wants to jump my bones let’s get it going.”

What a mess. ‘We’re from California and we don’t play that shit.’ – says Scratch.

“Why don’t you guys take the night off and we’ll get someone to spin records. Deal?”

I’m thinking about the two hundred dollars. “No, that’s just fine – we’ll keep playing. “Here’s one I know you’ll like. ‘Light My Fire’ by the Doors” I say. We glide into the body of the tune without mishap then chairs start sliding and squealing. Before we could get to the forty minute guitar solo everybody evacuates to the back of the room. I could see them whispering. Soon a military spokes men draws near, “Could you guys just stop and leave. This is all wrong. For your safety we’ll help you pack up and find the highway.” Scratch looks the guy straight on and says – “We still have two more sets to play and need to be paid.” The guy pulls us aside. “Look, you’ll get your money just get out of this room – it’s a security matter now.”

“Hey big beak come over here and suck on this.” What? Now Rick and I are in whip ass mode. “Did you hear what he said,’ asks Rick. “Let’s get the one with the shit-eating grin on his face. I’ve been watching how he’s undressed Carol all night.”

Suddenly, the music began playing and couples paired off. We quickly become yesterday’s nightmare.

While packing this diminutive young soldier waltzes near. “I loved you guys – I love acid – in fact I’m so high right now I’m feeling electric – I may never come down – I want some?”

Just as we were clearing the entrance a magic hand appears and slaps the back of my head. I do a quick turn around and see three guys staring the opposite way. I thought of several key phrases but left well enough alone. Then the catcalls start. A couple military police intercede and move the square-headed boys a distance away.

We were then escorted into a room where the officer in charge apologized and told us of his love for anti-social music especially Tommy James and the Shondels. He then proceeded to write us a check. A check? What the hell?

We volleyed back in forth over this but he insisted this was the only way the military pays. Then he said come back Monday morning and he’d arrange to cash the check. The only hitch in this was – it’s Saturday night and what the hell does anyone do in Amarillo for a day and a half.

We took up residence in a roadside park. Our zombie friends downtown invited us to a party. We dropped by for an hour or so but couldn’t handle the paranoia. Everyone was on a watch list – guys and girls. It was easy getting tossed in a police cruiser and more difficult surviving with only a few bruises. Monday didn’t come quick enough.

Bright and early Monday morning we arrive at the front gates. Sure enough the officer lived up to his words and paid us two hundred in cash. He was cordial and respectful. Down the road we go making plans for the heavy haul. Next stop, Des Moines, Iowa.

The Great Western Exhibit (Pt.1) 1967

2010-10-17T10:12:00.000-07:00

In early 1967, I found myself stranded in a woefully depressed town south of Long Beach, California where the stench of petrochemicals and burning industry suffocated the natural habitat. A search for a new beginning and desire to join a growing movement of committed young people seduced the imagination. My life in the Midwest succumbed to daily rituals of catcalls, threats and other forms of nefarious harassment courtesy the local redneck population.

My exit was sudden given to bouts of anxiety and uncertainty. Right-wing politicians instilled bitterness in the hearts of loyal patriots accusing longhairs, peaceniks and free spirits of undermining national institutions and authority. The transparent values of the 50’s hastened the erosion of symbolism giving birth to a revolution beyond the control of bankers, politicians and lawmakers.

After a few months performing in beach communities along the southern California coastline I magically wandered into the not so impressive city of Westminster. It was there I secured work in a Hispanic rock band led by the Sabori brothers who flirted with their own brand of revolution. We had three things in common; a love for rock and roll, distrust of the police and long shoulder length hair. Bassist Andy Sabori and I spent hours peering into a door-length mirror the end of a narrow hallway of a shared apartment - grooming every precious follicle. By night we’d ramble through the psychedelic hits of the day before a beer-swilling crowd of middle aged men who paid admission to spew obscenities at semi-nude topless dancers. These clubs dotted the landscape from San Diego to Seattle. This was not the life I had envisioned but it provided temporary wages enabling weekend excursions north to Hollywood.

My first visit to the Sunset Strip fifty miles north was to the legendary Hullabaloo club. I watched the weekly television broadcasts direct from the club during my final year of high school. Bands like the Buffalo Springfield, the Kinks, the Standells and Leaves exposed millions of young people to new and progressive sounds.

The Sabori’s of Westminster were imitators content with posing and lacking the minimum in basic music skills. Andy faked bass relying on a broad grin to divert attention from shallow posturing. I worked double duty playing left hand bass - chords and lead lines with the right on a Farfisa portable organ. Brother Rusty also smiled a lot while keeping a less than consistent beat. His voice emitted a sound not far from that of a coyote looking for love in all the wrong deserts.

Hollywood offered a glimpse into the future. It was home to street hustlers, pimps and voyeurs - conning the most vulnerable with promises of easy access to a world beyond poverty of the streets.

While entering the Hullabaloo we noticed the only seats available were located down front of the massive stage. As we circled we crossed paths with master of ceremonies and one time teen idol Paul Peterson. Peterson spotted us and singled us out for one of those infamous 60’s calls to combat; “Hi girls! Excuse me, they’re not girls. It’s getting where you can’t tell the boys from the girls nowadays”. He then fished for big laughs. Needless to say Peterson struck a raw nerve. In our defense we stared the grease ball down - fixed eyeballs in locked weapon position. The Sabori brothers took it personally - temporarily cancelling future excursions up the Hollywood freeway. I took it in stride, besides I’d been battered with so many inane one-liners back in Indiana this was soft porn.

I was forced to commute by thumb and foot. Rides were infrequent interrupted periodically by vigilant highway patrol officers scouting for draft-age males. I marched through drainage ditches along side freeways past oil rigs pumping minimum crude. Several wells along the way had dried casting an eerie pall over the withered landscape. The heels of my Beatle boots separated exposing tender skin orcing the binding nails upward puncturing the soft meat of my soles. I was tired and numb and rarely felt the intermittent pain.

Eventually, I arrived at the Omnibus Coffee House situated on North Cahuanga Boulevard. The exterior was covered in wood and stucco. Above the entrance was a multi-coloured sign displaying the coffee house logo. Wooden beams embraced the insides giving it a quaint farmhouse look.

I encountered a nightly flow of young people lost in a world of cosmic dreams and psychedelic intentions. This is where Scratch, Rick, Denny, Carol and I would first meet.

Afternoons were spent sketching the menacing insignia of the Hell’s Angels on denim jackets worn by the occasional artless biker who relished the sanctuary of dim lit rooms. Drawing was my thing – something I spent many hours absorbed as a kid. There was a certain sense of security around these guys but I never trusted their intentions. I gave them exactly what they asked for and let it be. Besides it was the sight of young women parading around in tight see through fabric that kept eyes occupied. Evenings spawned endless jam sessions attracting an odd assortment of players.

I took up residence a block south in a skid-row hotel. The lobby entertained a bizarre collection of derelicts - aging Hollywood damsels and habitual criminals. At times the room would erupt in violence when someone would crack up moment suddenly one or two would assault the resident mailbox or newspaper stand. This was definitely a cast of freaks. Little men with no real life ahead and mouths cocked and loaded with complaints - an atmosphere of paranoia. Women with lipstick smeared from ear to ear. Some you could communicate with while others were just insane. Jammed between the derelicts were young hostile criminals who would explode in a moment of conflict. Everyone would scatter down the hallways and hide under beds until the police arrived. I usually slipped out my back window.

The occupants of the Omnibus slept near their possessions tucked away in various corners on the rooftop and back rooms.

When I first met Scratch and Flower they were holed up in a vault-like freezer in the rear of the building. Both had been warned of danger if by chance the door accidentally closed. Both ignored the message content with the security of their surroundings. Scratch slept with his aging Telecaster resting passively in his hands. Flower would curl next to him rarely leaving his side. Scratch was tall and thin with pointed features. Long blond hair split the forehead covering one eye allowing the other partial view. A yellow tint covered his anemic body consequences of hamburger dinners and nacho lunches. Flower’s short brown hair complimented her sinuous mouth and deep set eyes. Her clothes were drawn from light weight East Indian fabric. The two fought constantly occasionally withdrawing for a session of lovemaking.

Scratch’s father was a career diplomat stationed in Panama. When Scratch sensed his financial situation weakening a call to father would bring a few hundred dollars via Western Union arriving just in time for the latest Jimi Hendrix’s side.

During one of our late night sessions a hip looking guy wearing John Lennon spectacles emerged from the crowd and asked to sit in. We’d been assaulted by an endless stream of inept conga players and resilient folkies and agreed nothing could be worse. All ninety-eight pounds pulled three drums - hi hat - ride cymbal and fixtures to the stage.

One of us called out Dino Valente’s ‘Hey Joe’ and the groove jelled. We followed with Dylan’s ‘Like A Rolling Stone’ and blues anthems ‘I’m A Man’ and ‘Smokestack Lightin’ . Denny played with all the energy and enthusiasm of the Who’s Keith Moon - possessed with a great sense of time. I played left hand bass locking the unit together. We still lacked a front man who could sing. Denny mentioned a friend from North Hollywood named Rick he thought might work well in this situation. A call was made extending an invitation to a jam - Rick accepted.

When Rick first ambled down the hallway of the Omnibus I had difficulty putting the picture together. Here was a guy with the physique of a baseball player - sporting waist length coal black hair - a three foot tall Stetson positioned high on the skull making him look like the original suburban cowboy. He was loud, friendly and ready to rock. Jim Morrison was Rick’s adopted persona complete with spastic stage moves more suited to sucking up ground balls than rock choreography. The voice was no worse than most around Hollywood - short on range and dynamics but loud in delivery. The footwork was more military in design given to frequent spins resembling a two point about face maneuver. We actually learned to appreciate his exuberance.

We began rehearsing and performing nightly at the Omnibus attracting a modest following. Eventually the club owner took over management of the band. He was involved in launching a series of concerts in Griffith Park which he called “Be-Ins”. Anti-war protesters, longhairs, musicians and bikers frequented the early gatherings. Soon, the events would transform into “ Love-ins” as the international media picked up on the number of transient young people attending these events.

The rallies were a mix of vibrant colours with young teenage girls dressed resplendently in bright rainbow colored madras - wrap around wreaths of dandelions circling the head and decorative facial paint. The boys wore painted denim jeans - long bushy hair with incense in hand. Everybody was peaceful and friendly except for the numerous Hell’s Angels in attendance. The invading gang chilled an otherwise perfect mix striking fear in the Beverly Hills kids who liked to associate with danger but turned weak once things turned un natural.

We soon found ourselves performing at a second such gathering at Griffith Park for over thirty- thousand flower children. NBC news dispatched a camera crew to cover the event. We appeared on the Huntley- Brinkley report for the 6:00 news playing our crowd pleaser, 'Hey Joe.' The news was mostly favourable focusing mainly on the free nature of the participants.

The Hell’s Angels drew their share of attention and a few comments about their violent nature. The excitement in the Omnibus caused us to fantasize grander schemes. For a time we floated around Hollywood playing one free gig after another. We tried getting a position at the Whiskey A Go Go but the music policy was dominated by dance oriented bands. Scratch came up with the idea for a lengthy tour of the United States. Accomplishing a feat like that would need to be fully thought out. This we did without questioning the logistics of completing such an adventure.

We battled our way through a democratic list of possible band names settling on the Yellow Brick Road. Weeks later we spotted a marquis on Santa Monica boulevard advertising the debut recording of a group billed as the Yellow Brick Road. We played one more love-in under that name when one of the band members found a brochure promoting a show at the exhibition centre titled, The Great Western Exhibit. We decided we could live with that even though we had no idea what it meant. Consequently, it was kind of a stupid name. What were we? A traveling western rock and roll zoo?

The Rain Tree

2010-10-15T18:51:00.000-07:00

By Bill King

When news arrived announcing the accidental drowning of Amy Dickens, deep sorrow suddenly consumed ever cell in my body. Amy was a romantic link with the past, the requited benefactor of all my childhood fantasies. She was the ten-year-old princess whose every move I studied with absolute concentration. .

Life my side of the block was a painfully cold mechanical process like a scene from Fritz Lang’s oppressive film classic, Metropolis. Day in day out tedium left no area in our spiritless home sanctuary for sensitive expression. The thought of Amy was all I had.

My blood parents, Benjamin and Caroline, placed a moratorium on love, designating college graduation the date I’d be permitted the company of a young woman. No high school proms, no Saturday night dances, and no campus bonfires. It sounds strange, almost indictable, but we were an evangelical family held hostage by rigid fundamentalism.

It was the summer of 1956 and I’d just turned ten years old. Most days I preferred seclusion, avoiding any contact with father. Benjamin worked three to eleven, eleven to seven through the week, occasionally overnights.

When father was secure at work I’d position my Schwin the corner of Presbyterian and First, waiting the moment Amy would stroll towards the center of town. Consumed by shyness, I rarely spoke. As Amy passes, I muse about the scent of her skin, the feel of her embrace, the texture of her radiant hair.

Amy was an army brat, daughter of Sergeant Major Ernest Dickens of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Major Dickens was serving a two-year stint at Fort Knox, Kentucky before returning the family to bayou country. I rarely ever saw him. When I did, he’d salute and call me "little boy soldier ".

Amy’s home, shaded by a tight row of maple trees, was barely visible. The evenly square house was crafted in sun-bleached pastel shingles less attractive than what you’d expect from such a handsome family and possessing little resale value. Military families never had much say about living conditions. Most packed after two years and moved to other accommodations, either post housing or temporary off base digs, each as unappealing as the former.

Fate would somehow position Amy a seat in front of me throughout the fourth and fifth grade. Our instructor Mr.Radner arranged most students alphabetically. The maneuver would liberate my imagination, transporting me to a remote destination well beyond crumbling brick walls and asphalt schoolyard.

Radner was always watching, suspicious of every move. It was never my intent to cross the man but it wasn’t long before I became his designated whipping boy.

It began the day I brought a Parker fountain pen to class. If incorrectly engaged, the side lever could spit a rivulet of Indigo ink a meter or two. To the left of me, Cheryl Martin sat fumbling with the nine-volt battery on her intricately decorated Christmas dress, desperately trying to illuminate the miniature bulbs sewn within the stitching. With one careless slip of the thumb I released a torrent of airborne black ink striking the cotton white surface of the priceless fabric. Cheryl looked down in horror, examined the gruesome markings, and then began to weep. Mortified by my miscalculation I sat in absolute silence. No reasonable apology could undo the trauma committed on my wounded schoolmate.

Upon witnessing the heinous act, Radner belched a chain of vulgarities then charged at me furiously slapping his hands above his head. He then griped my arms and began shaking me as if to extricate a solvent buried deep in my skin, one that could possibly cleanse the stains. Putting the episode in perspective, Cheryl pleaded my forgiveness. After reciting a list of punitive measures Radner’s indignation diminished.

Amy witnesses my awkwardness then resignation. A few moments lapse before she turns faces my embarrassment and smiles. Her carefully sculpted expression releases me from the regrettable incident.

Totally consumed with Amy, I raise my pencil and trace the long strands of her coal black hair and guide down the inkwell of my desk. Amy further satisfies my preoccupation by lowering her ebony tresses on the scarred wooden desktop concealing the pages of my neglected homework. With the palms of my hands I gently stroke then caress the dense effulgent locks. Amy’s head slowly tilts permitting each brilliant strand to filter through my fingertips. The sensation was more than I could endure.

Leaving school one spring afternoon I cross paths with Amy. She was in a conversational mood. I offer to carry her heavy books. Without reservation she hands me the weighty hard covers as if they were discarded gifts, then asks.

"Are you going to be an extra in Elizabeth Taylor’s new movie?"

I hadn’t a clue what an extra was or for that matter what she was talking about.

"Mom says they’re filming a movie called Rain Tree County in town and they’re looking for a thousand people to dress like they did in the Civil War and a few lucky ones will get to ride a Ferris wheel with Elizabeth Taylor,” spoke in a distinctive southern
drawl.

Imagination lit every region of my mind before I reply.

"Are you going to ride the Ferris wheel?” I ask.

"I don’t know, we’ve got to be seen by movie people before they pick us," says Amy.

I soon reason this could be an eternal moment, possibly the closest I’d ever be to Amy. I could see the two of us high above the streets of Madison, Indiana, Elizabeth Taylor just below.

I can honestly say I was never much a fan of Elizabeth Taylor. Even the movie National Velvet didn’t strike a chord with me. I guess Taylor always seemed much older to me. Amy surely had her blue eyes and coal black hair but Natalie Wood was the real screen love of my childhood. It was "Splendor In The Grass" that cast a neurotic spell over me. Other than Amy, Natalie made me feel love so deep and true most men twice my age could never imagine such profound melancholy.

The movie Rain Tree County focused on six of author Ross Lockridge’s novel’s fifty-three years, centered mainly on the Susanna Drake figure played by Miss Taylor. According to myth, Johnny Appleseed in his travels had planted an exotic golden seed from China in Indiana, which would supposedly grow to possess a magic quality that could open all locks and heal all wounds. Unfortunately, the exact location of the tree was forever hidden in the river swamps along the Ohio.

Amy and I hatch a plan to spring me from the suffocating grip of Benjamin and Caroline. Patrice Dickens, Amy’s mother was enlisted. She told Benjamin and Caroline she’d be willing to take Amy and me to watch the making of Rain Tree County without revealing her secret desire to serve as an extra.

Father ran down a list of chores, commitments and consequences before Caroline interceded in our behalf. The two women came to agreement. I reasoned life could be no sweeter, no more powerful than the hours I would share with Amy. I could no longer comprehend homework assignments or rudimentary text. My whole being had been sacrificed to imagination.

A few days prior to leaving word spread of a change in plans. The film company decided Indiana no longer looked visually appealing therefore a new location Danville, Kentucky would be designated Rain Tree County. I was shattered, couldn’t believe anyone would intervene in my well-scripted plan. I feared announcing any change to my parents, especially the crossing of state lines, which could drive them to cancel our expedition. Danville might as well be as far away as Uruguay.

Ms. Dickens was called upon once again to work her magic with Benjamin and Caroline. Patrice assured them the Dickens’s family had cousins living on the outskirts of Danville. If things ran to late we were guaranteed a place of shelter. Patrice also promised not to drive past midnight.

Benjamin paraded up and down the front hallway reciting a litany of potential mishaps. Dad clearly saw the dark side of any situation. That was his nature. It was up to Caroline to invite light in even though on many occasions she succumbed to his brooding disposition. I often wondered if he had lost a brother or sister or perhaps a close friend during his childhood he’d never spoken about. It seemed as if he was always suppressing some cataclysmic event. He rarely expressed an opinion on world affairs reserving his most animated statements for those concerning moral and occupational issues. You didn’t fail dad but once or challenge him on anything memorized from books no matter how convoluted his understanding of the subject. I believe mother loved him more for his firmness and dependability than warmth.

Caroline on the other hand greeted everyone with a handshake and cautious smile. She kept the house in perfect order - always clean and accessible during visiting hours. Mother invited church groups to afternoons of civil discussion on spiritual matters; Christian commitment, values, and debates on the ever-popular ‘life after death’. The cheerless strains of church hymns leaked past the sitting room beneath the baseboards into my dimly lit room making it feel as if I was attending another anonymous funeral. After a dozen or so of these traumatic episodes I pleaded my way free of mother’s stewardship and stole off to the public library. The only place she found agreeable.

Ms. Dickens had this personality that could cure a manic-depressive or resuscitate the dead with an engaging smile and a few choice words. I could barely detect what was said that night. When Ms Dickens left the living room I felt certain I’d be riding front seat with Amy the next day all the way to Danville. Southern women have such natural charm that in that most improbable situation can have a decided effect.

All was not well on the film set as Rain Tree County’s male lead, Montgomery Clift found himself victim of an automobile accident in May causing an interruption in the shooting schedule. Filming would be delayed six weeks. Evidently, Cliff partied a bit too hard at Taylor’s Benedict Canyon home. Without control of his faculties wrapped his car around a telephone pole. Clift lost two front teeth, broke both nose and jaw, and tore a hole in his upper lip. We knew nothing of his escapades other than he was this enormous star. We were later told he’d faked his death, burned his fingers with a cigarette after accidentally overdosing on sleeping pills, and raced through the streets of downtown Danville butt naked. I couldn’t help but think if Benjamin and Caroline had known anything of Mr. Clift’s escapades they'd never have let Amy and I venture farther than our neighborhood. Hollywood has a way of sanitizing bad news even in a little town like Danville.

When first we arrive I see director Edward Dymchk screaming orders at everyone. He was filming the Fourth of July scene with hundreds of people running in all directions. A large brass band rehearsed the Stars and Stripes against a backdrop of confetti and banners. Several workers were busy planting fireworks. This was the big scene where Montgomery Clift and Lee Marvin were to compete in a foot race to the right of the town square near where a magnificent towering eighteenth century Ferris wheel stood.

I suggested the both of us watch from the vicinity of the Ferris wheel. Without hesitation, Amy joins me for a quick sprint around cable and cranes. We stand nearly two hours gorging ourselves on popcorn and cotton candy before a crew of about ten men draw near.

"What are you kids doing hanging around here all this time?" The carnival man inquires. Amy answers, "We came from Madison to ride the Ferris wheel with Elizabeth Taylor. You were supposed to make the movie in my home town". The man pauses then stoops near Amy. "You’re the prettiest little girl I’ve ever seen. If I were a boy your age I’d never let you out of my sight,” he says while tapping the back of my head. "Look kids, you stay right here while I ask one of the associate directors if we can use two handsome looking youngsters."

I fold my long thin fingers close my eyes and pray while my heart beast with anticipation. I don’t even remember the man’s name other than he wore more white than a hospital attendant.
He soon returns and embraces Amy and me.

"So, you kids want to ride the Ferris wheel with Miss Taylor? Well, I think we can arrange that."

Meanwhile, Mrs. Dickens was parading around in full costume, twirling a cloth-covered parasol. I’d rarely ever see Mrs. Dickens but knew she was thrilled about being in the movies. So much good blood flowed through her veins, I only wished she’d adopt me.

Most the day had passed before they decide to shoot the Ferris wheel scene. I was getting bloated from liquids and sweets and tired of guarding my post when all of a sudden hundreds of extras begin advancing our direction. Amy and I climb the rickety platform beneath the Ferris wheel making certain we’d be first in line. Director Dmytryk yells, " Where’s John Shawnessy? I want Shawnessy and Susanna Drake over here immediately."

I had no idea who these people were. I knew I didn’t want to share our precious seat with any of them. Well, it turns out Shawnessy was none other than Montgomery Clift and Susanna Drake, Miss Taylor.

I’d never spent this much time with a girl before other than my sisters, but that don’t count for much. Amy never stopped smiling the entire day. Although she had Mrs. Taylor’s porcelain white skin and long flowing black hair she looked more natural to me. In a burst of joy, Amy spontaneously throws her arms around my neck, squeezes and then giggles with excitement. Heaven, this must be heaven, I thought to myself.

For a brief moment I revive the image of Benjamin and Caroline standing like two sentries at the front door, arms folded, impassive expressions about their faces. Neither cared much for movies let alone movie stars but their presence soon faded as Mr. Dmtryk approached.

Dmytryk cleared a path to the Ferris wheel and then asked in a gruff tone, "Whose children are these? " "They’re the two kids from Madison, Indiana I told you about Mr. Dmytryk. They came all the way to ride the Ferris wheel", said the man in white. Amy and I stare at the imposing man who I would learn later in life was forever branded one of Hollywood’s unfriendly 10. In 1951, he went before Senator Joe McCarthy’s House on un-American Activities Committee fingering 26 people as communists. This came after a conviction of contempt and time in a federal prison for refusing to talk about his communist ties. After jail he was blacklisted. The confession won him renewed respect amongst Hollywood’s right wing studio heads that in turn rewarded Dmytryk with choice projects. Raintree County was one of them.

Dmytryk inspects with a crusty eye and then asks, " Son, are you here to fight in behalf of Robert E. Lee and the glory of the confederation or to find the golden rain tree?"
Everyone laughed but me. I didn’t know how to respond to such a dynamic question so I glare at him and say, " I’m here for Amy," pointing in her direction. For whatever reason those words earned Amy and I passage aboard the ornate Ferris wheel.

As they fasten us in I couldn’t help but think of the moment. The most beautiful girl in the world next to the most loving boy in the universe. I couldn’t begin to count the nights I dreamed of such splendor. I could hear my heart beat two sizes to large for my small chest. Something invisible passed from my soul through skin then hovered above us. It was a most powerful sensation like a protective shield against all unwanted feelings of alienation and fear.

Once locked in position I knew there would be no way for Amy and I to escape until filming had ceased.
As the wheel began rotating in its fixed orbit I suddenly felt uncomfortable - uttering few words until the subject of school came up. Amy and I discussed our likes and misfortunes. Our favorite teachers and least favorite subjects while my eyes remain focused on Amy's tender mouth and brilliant blue eyes. Her voice conveyed sandpaper coarseness, a timbre the sound of which further inspired fantasy.

The night wind rubbed gently across my face causing me to relax my eyelids. I tried unsuccessfully to will her to my arms, the sort of thing love struck men and women do in black and white movies, but Amy seemed more interested in the movie stars below.

It was well into the evening when poor Amy surrendered, collapsing helplessly into my arms, exactly where I hoped she’d land. With the tips of my fingers I smooth the worry from her face and lightly stroke the long black tresses. I was leery of lifting my arms fearing she would suddenly awaken and plan her escape. I held the same position hour upon hour until circulation in my arms had stilled to numbness.

Soft moonlight reflected off Amy’s lips turning pitch black as it spread inside our carriage. I realized time was quickly retreating. If I were to ever taste such sweetness it would have to be now. With arms curled I lift her upward leaving her hair to spread evenly between my chest and arms. With a second raise upward, Amy’s mouth slightly brushes past my bare cheek. Overcome by guilt and fear, I begin shivering. Suddenly, Amy comes to half-life, rises and places her soft lips, damp with the long night of humidity, near my chin. She then moves cautiously, kissing in small increments until reaching the flesh of my raw lips. She then delivers a solitary kiss, as still as the night air that lingers in my heart for what seems infinity. Amy recoils then conveniently rests her head in the crevice between my collar and neck then drifts slowly back to sleep. The whole evening becomes a surreal dream, a journey from which I wish never to return.

For a brief moment I felt passion unlike I imagine few encounter in a lifetime of promise. A simple kiss, so powerful, so unexpected relieved my heart of all disappointment and expectation. The discomfort I’d felt moments earlier all but dissipated then withdrew into unseen currents. As for the actors below; we never saw Mr. Clift or Mrs. Taylor. The many wooden slats obstructed our view and steel beams which revolved in our direction during filming further blocked our view.

The evening would prove to be a long unending affair. The hours slowly pass as we levitate above the noisy crowds, occasionally making a 360-degree spin. Dmytryk barked instructions.

"Action, slate, shoots, that’s a take___ no, no, no, do it again."

Eventually, the night drew to a close and they lowered our passive bodies to the platform below. Mrs. Dickens directed our exhausted figures towards her car and drove to a nearby motel. Amy was tucked away in one bed, me in another while Ms. Dickens slept upright in a large comfortable high back chair. Early the next morning she coaxed the two of us to the station wagon and delivered me to my doorstep.

Waiting like court appointed prosecutors, Benjamin and Caroline demanded a detailed explanation. Mrs. Dickens briefly summarized the day’s events and begged off for sleep leaving me to suffer interrogation. Through a sleep-drenched haze, I wish Amy good night. She stops, then whispers, "did you kiss me?", turns, waves over her shoulder and disappears from view. I climb the long stairs towards my room battered by Benjamin and Caroline’s verbal declarations of dire consequence, then think to myself, " The hell with it, Amy and I are in the movies. Our time together will be shown to the whole world. People will wonder who the two young lovers flying above Ms. Taylor are. We’ll probably be on the cover of True Romance or something like that.

Summer passes and autumn returns after a long drought. Amy and I were still friends, but from a distance. I still parked my Schwinn near her house but she was always preoccupied with grand parents and long visits with army folks. We rarely spoke. My dreams of her only intensify, but it was now sixth grade and we were assigned different classes. Cheryl took the seat reserved for Amy. Although just as lovely and desirable, we never shared the same moments of play.

The year passed with only the occasional smile between us. I tried desperately to capture a free moment. I’d memorized what I thought the right sentiment a few words that expressed the depth of my love. Christ, I felt I suffered an illness with no cure.

By spring, I learn Amy was about to move. I pay twenty cents for the triple horror feature at the Ohio Theater. Younger brother Gene - pal Randy and I roll spit balls and toss them at greasy duck- tail leather boys down front. When Gene and Randy go for sodas, Amy slips next to me. Two things she says nearly rip me apart; the Ferris wheel scene was cut from the movie, the other, confirmation she was moving back to Louisiana. It was if someone had taken a dagger and carved her from my heart. I’d never felt such pain.

Amy told me that Ms.Dickens and her had been invited to a screening of Rain Tree County in Louisville, Kentucky at the Brown Theater. All of the stars were there including Mrs. Taylor and her husband Mike Todd who kept introducing himself as Mr. Elizabeth Taylor. Two hours and forty-five minutes later the verdict was in. The movie was a disaster and there was no evidence the Ferris wheel scene ever existed. I was mortified. What happened to our scene, the recorded testimony of our love?

Before Amy parted, she whispered in my ear," When I come back, we’ll find the rain tree for ourselves and no one else will ever know. Will you kiss me again?"

We never kissed again. In fact, there existed no rumors of her whereabouts. It was if she had vanished without leaving a clue. That’s army life.

Though forty-two years have passed I still can’t let go of the profound feelings I have for her or explain the power she has over my soul. When I first heard the news of her untimely death I wept for the ten-year old whose smile awoke such passion in me. With the maturity of a man crossing mid-life I realize I can’t truly feel the anguish of those whose lives she inhabited daily, but in my heart, I know Amy eventually found her Rain tree. Mine will always reside on the same spot where I held her precious body untold hours fifty feet above in a darken carriage one unforgettable summer night and the kiss that will live forever.

Barbados Jazz Festival 2010 (The Great Bajan Jam)

2010-01-23T18:52:00.000-08:00

During my early journeys to the Caribbean I brought along a copy of James A. Michener’s ‘Caribbean’ – a truly magnificent novel. Caribbean transported me through 700 years of revolution, revolt and spellbinding history. In graphic detail Michener describes the judicial ways of the Arawak Indians and violent conquests of the Caribs. It’s believed an Amerindian civilization predated the arrival of the Arawaks dating back to 1600 B.C. – weaving a long migrating thread between the regions islands and indigenous settlements.

The Arawaks grew cotton, cassava, corn, peanuts, guavas and papaya on the island of Barbados. Barbados earned its title from the long, hanging root of the bearded fig tree and to some extent the bearded Caribs who migrated by canoe from the Orinoco River region of Venezuela. It was the Portuguese who passed through Barbados en route to Brazil who named the island Los Barbados (bearded-ones.)

Michener’s accounts of trials, discomfort, discovery and redemption throughout the region plays the soul like a vibrating string attached to sliding tuning peg. At times the tension is so unyielding I’d pause and catch a view of the perfectly cut horizon beyond the airplane window. The words concealed images of the first settlers – the invading Caribs with their thirst for blood and human flesh who all but extinguished the Arawaks by 1200. Their own termination most likely from disease, famine and the slave trade inflicted by the Spanish and Portuguese was inevitable. The real Pirates of the Caribbean would surface in these waters a few hundred years later.

The evoltion of technology has changed the way we travel. The books that inspired so much intrique and serene moments during the long flight are challenged by options - many options. You can watch a combination of television shows or first run movies from the back of a neighboring chair. In some ways it reduces the flight to a series of visual episodes. I can’t say where or when I would have discovered the brilliant Argentine film ‘Tetro’ if not for the many choices offered by Air Canada - yet in some way I miss page turners like Rohan Mistry’s ‘ A Fine Balance” which accompanied me a decade ago.

Jazz away from the mainland has a distinct appeal free from the expected and commonplace. Hearing the word Caribbean summons a world out of reach to many - yet there for imagination. Winter drives the mind to places never visited but often desired - to places remembered – always longed for. This pretty well sums up the fascination with the emerald green waters that brush the shoreline of the ‘bearded one’ – Barbados.

It’s about that first baptismal swim after check-in. Migrating clouds shadow every move and by late afternoon the sun cuts into the horizon dividing what day time is left between land and sea. The skyline transforms from intense blue to several shades of orange before fading black. This is your moment in a distant locale mostly imagined and foreign to everyday routine. It’s that break from commitment and vicinal demands all travelers so desire. Jazz is a reasonable excuse to jet away to repair and rejuvenate the human spirit.

Barbados Jazz 2010 can claim the luck of the draw. January 11-17 must have carried some kind of zodiac charm that inspired the prevailing winds intercede and cart whatever risk of torrential rains be scattered elsewhere. This was a first. At times during the week’s festivities one could always count on a heavy blast of tropical weather. Generally, the surreptitious visits would last for days leaving the concert grounds an uncomprimising mess.

Trinidadian trumpeter Etienne Charles opened the17th annual Barbados Jazz Festival at the Sunbury Plantation House - built over three hundred years ago around 1660 by Irish/Englishman Matthew Chapman - one of the first settlers and a planter – located in the parish of St. Phiiip on land owned by Quakers.

Charles and his explosive unit featuring pianist Kris Bowers, drummer Joe Saylor and bassist Ben Williams immersed the audience in folkloric rememberance – the music – family ties – atmosphere connected to his youth in Trinidad. Julliard trained Charles has taken a chapter from the Wynton Marsalis script placing narration at the forefront of musical exposition. Charles is stylistically entrenched in the langauge of youth – that is - a swirling mix of world rhythms – staggered bass lines and free flowing improvisation. Cubans have given this movement idenity. It all begins behind the drum kit with the rhythmnic crack of drum sticks against the rim and side panels of the drums – then a collision between all regions of the set. This initiates a dynamic that underlines as wells as guides the soloist.

Much of the evening was given to music drawn from Charles latest – Folklore, recorded in Brooklyn, New York.

Keeping the interest and exploration of folk tradition in the main arena - saxophonist Joe Lovano performed compositions culled from his latest – Folk Art.

Lovano emerged from backstage in full improvisational mode. The horn bellowed and stammered making short emphatic statements before the rhythm section exerted a sizeable lift. Lovano colorfully integrated vocalist Judi Silvano into the mix. Silvano’s free form singing at times outlined the melody at others danced a singular dance in collusion with the band. The short motifs induced a hypnotic feel seemingly linked to ancestural chants inherent to North America.

This was the jazz quotient for the festival. Monday’s are usually reserved for mainstream performers. Terence Blanchard, Roy Hargrove, Robert Glasper have all shared the Sunbury stage at one time or another.

Day two was awarded to Bajan performers. This has become a tradition over the years at the Heritage Park and Rum Factory which also comes with a mini- amphitheatre. Singer/guitarist Shane Forrester opened with a pleasant set based around a few homespun originals and cover songs. Forrester sings in a mid-range falsetto a region in the voice that takes a few listens to adjust to. It’s his crisp to the point guitar playing that impresses.

Throughout the set it was those moments Forrester took command of the string instrument that showed him to be a superior player with something universal to offer. It brought to mind South African guitarist Jimmy Dludlu. Forrester was at his best on Prince’s ‘Purple Rain’, Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror’ and his own single ‘Love When You Call My Name’ a song that should be a staple of contemporary radio.

The evening belonged to rhythm and blues singer Toni Norville - back after a long absense. Norville arrived as if shot from a canon. This was the night she wanted and territory she was determined to possess.

A great performer arrives with fire in the belly and sings with ungoverned passion. Norville had enough in her to light the entire Caribbean.

Norville prowled the stage right to left pausing to punctuate a lyrical imperative or fire a piercing note through the attentive crowd out into the night air. The effect was exhilarating. There were times it seemed Norville might hyperventilate from the mix of declaritory statements and volumes of inhaled oxygen needed to drive the message home. Just when it seemed Norville might slow the pace she invites gospel singer Paula Hinds on board the express train. The two took a soulful turn on Stevie Wonder’s “ Love’s in Need of Love Today. “ This was a BET Sunday morning moment with Hinds putting the finishing touches on the soul-stirring testimonial by scaling an octave above Norville to manage a long soulful phrase in territory reserved for the likes of Mariah Carey, Yolanda Adams, Aretha and a sacred few. The duet sent the normally reserved crowd to it’s feet. Norville certainly claimed her Redemption.

People were expecting soul icon Smokey Robinson to be the life of the party and he didn’t disappoint. This was the big jazz ticket – the night to sport your finest dress or finely tuned suit. That would account in part for the seemingly terminal slow start to the show.

A fifty minute delay in other arenas would cause near riots but in Barbados it’s a given. There were moments of clapping and knee slapping but no one took it serious. By the time Robinson arrived the delay was a forgotten distraction.

Robinson turns seventy next month and there were questions whether the entertainer still had the splendid pipes and stamina to carry a grueling one man show. Robinson made his entrance dancing to Going to a Go-Go, a signature track from one of his 1960s recordings followed by Second that Emotion. Robinson engaged the crowd with bits of humor and storytelling before setting up a string memorable classics. He then ran through a list of hits – Shop Around, Ooh Baby Baby, Being With You, I’ll Try Something New before focusing on his new disc Time Flies.
Robinson then went on to recollect hits personally scripted for other artists – My Girl for the Temptations, Tears of a Clown for the Miracles. The show built to a climax with a slowed down version of Tracks of My Tears. It was here the falsetto began to waver. Robinson regained momentum with a crowd pleasing sing-along on his 1979 hit Cruisin’. He then divided the audience into two choirs. Every riff he threw forward the audience returned fully remembered and spot on pitch wise. This is an audience that spends a greater part of the week in church singing the praises. This crowd could have gone on the road with the icon.

The only downside to the entertaining affair was the way to young dancers who flitted about the stage as if at a hip hop extravaganza and Smokey’s close ups with his young female background singers. Those were borderline moments when Robinson would have benefited by having one of the female rhythm and blues greats from his era alongside to temper the fever.

A night at The Crane is another setting that gives the jazz festival an edge over most other events. The lavish setting has an appeal of its own. It’s a dressy affair complete with five star dining and luxury trappings. This night was programmed as a jazz take on classic Cuban music. The band fronted by rising star – pianist Elio Villafrana with Canadian wind specialist Jane Bunnett on hand played to the delicate side of the popular music.

Friday night’s showcase was held on the prime minister’s grounds at Llaro Court. Along with the sumptuous surroundings came tighter security - nothing in the realm of boarding an airplane to the USA.

The night centered round hip hop artist Lalah Hathaway daughter of revered music pioneer Don Hathaway.

Hathaway’s set was a laid back operation with few highs and no lows. The whole unit looked out of place in outfits more suitable to moving furniture than playing before a crowd of finely honed dignitaries. Hathaway seemed content to let the evening pass without trying to engage the audience. It was the last musical interlude of the evening that offered a glimpse of the potential as Hathaway began scatting and singing as she deserved membership in the Ella, Sarah, Billie fraternity.

Bwakore emerged as one of the highlights of the festival leading the day Saturday at Farley Hill National Park. The band from the island Martinique played music that kept their cultural identity intact as they blended the improvisational spirit of jazz and textural trimmings of world music with indigenous marzuka, Creole waltz and salsa beats.

The ensemble consists of Claude Cesaire, Alvin Lowenski, Jose Marie-Rose, Max and Telephus Zebina Jose. The spoken language is rooted in the Creole vernacular. Throughout the ninety minute set Bwakore never felt the compulsion to indulge the crowd with sing a longs or silly banter – just straightforward exceptional music rooted in French/World music culture.
What a treat seeing this many known accomplished players in one band. Who said fusion was a dinosaur decimated from the bruising strokes of the now extinct smooth jazz invasion?
Lao and Tizer and company would beg to argue with that assessment.

Tizer is the brainchild of gifted keyboardist Lao Tizer. The band functions on high octane playing with long improvisational passages and intricately crafted motifs and counterpoint. With guitarist Chieli Minucci and violinist Karen Briggs nearby Tizer acted as central command nodding and directing from the keyboard pillar. For excitement, there were plenty moments of intersecting ideas especially when Briggs made her entries. Briggs has a natural way of elevating a song by just selecting the right sequence of notes for the moment then letting go. She also has a quiet stage presence that gives the ensemble a solid visual component.

Is there an audience for revisionist music as such? Obviously! Tizer seems to have a schedule that works for him. Is there still demand for music rooted in the Return to Forever, Mahavishnu Orchestra tradition? May be!

Early in the day it seemed Farley Hill Park would witness less than expected attendance. But as time drew closer to the moment Robin Thicke was to take the main stage the park filled up. This was a shrewd gamble on festival producer Gilbert Rowe’s behalf. This is usually the time when an all star band of Cubans or heavy hitting brigade of dance oriented smooth jazzers get the nod.

Robin Thicke seems to be riding the crest of the rapidly declining pop industry whose sales have diminished substantially as a younger demographic chooses to steal music and toy with applications. Thicke made a big splash penning hits for Christina Aguilera, Mya Brandy, Marc Anthony and others. He won a Grammy in 2004 for Usher’s release Confessions and hits for himself in 2007 with ‘Lost Without U’ – then , ‘Magic’.

Jubilant patrons stood nearby clasping the barricades keeping fans a respectable distance. Most screamed during every shift of an amplifier or beam of colorful lighting as set up continued. Then the moment arrived! A heavy blast of dancehall rhythm – lights dim and Thicke leaps center stage. From that moment the youthful audience lived every word – recited every phrase and sang as if the often sexual lyrics were meant solely for a preferred few.

Thicke stays close to the script – past entries – Sexual Attention – Sexual Capacity now his latest – Sexual Therapy. The night rolled on wrapped around these specific themes with Thicke bouncing between piano and microphone stand. Thicke isn’t the smoothest or most sensual male singer/dancer but he bonds with his followers and never shies from addressing their fantasies.

Sunday at Farley Hill National Park began with local folk/rock unit Alex M. Alex has a distinct voice one that connects yet the music being presented at a jazz festival with few boundaries felt out of place. Bone crunching guitar chords and pounding rock rhythms are no match for good taste. This may work in an alternative rock situation but on a day when people were fixated on the Caribbean pulse with a bit of smooth jazz flavor this crossed the line. Nonetheless, Alex M is a super talent. He can sing and exudes ample stage appeal. Perhaps, the coming weeks and months focused on songwriting will bring tremendous growth.

Saxophonist ArturoTappin knows this audience. The native Bajan has played the festival many times the past seventeen years. Tappin also knows what to play and what not to play keeping the audience satisfied. He understands the jazz that pushes him to excel chasing the Coltrane, Brecker, or Parker legacy is not the one that will carry this crowd – especially after church services on Sunday. It’s dance and hit a groove time and please - no music for the head.
Tappin spends the year mostly away from the island as part of singer Roberta Flack’s touring band. He also finds time to churn out his own music and release sessions comprised of new originals from time to time.

On this day Tappin laid his elongated set out as a review featuring singers Toni Norville and Marisa Lindsay.

Lindsay – dressed in stylistic white dress surpassed her past efforts singing music more reflective of her background. It was the classic soul material that saw her reach for notes just beyond most singers range and hit them with authority.

Norville – still feeling the afterglow from her Tuesday night powerhouse exhibition sang with much the same energy but not with the same focus on pitch. There were passages in need of fine tuning.

The pairing of the two singers worked especially well as Tappin rolled the proceedings up with a heartfelt tribute –‘You Don’t Know Me Now’ to soul singer supreme Teddy Pendergrass who passed only days before.

Warren Hill has had an enviable career arriving just in time for the first Wave and then the Smooth Jazz revolution. It’s led to years of touring - numerous smooth jazz Caribbean cruises and a legion of fans.

Hill like so many other players who depended on the cross connect between smooth jazz stations that once was a road map across the USA is now concentrating on touring more than ever. The latest unit may be his best. It’s everything musical you could want from a pop jazz ensemble. Strong curious melodies – thundering rhythm and marvelous interludes. Hill is a seasoned performer who carries himself like a veteran on stage.

Even more desirable than a ticket for Smokey Robinson, which was from this eye half sold – Kenneth ‘Babyface” Edmonds was the artist most on people’s minds.Every act on Sunday had the feel of being mostly background music in anticipation of the one-time can’t miss hit maker.

Babyface earned his name as a member of Bootsy Collins band in the early days of his career as a sideman. Edmonds would quickly score writing credentials with hits for Bobby Brown, Karyn White and Paubla Abdul. It was the monster hit – ‘End of the Road’ recorded by Boyz 11 Men that earned him iconic status. Then came number one hits – “I’m Your Baby Tonight’ and “Exhale (Shoop Shoop) ‘ for Whitney Houston that would lead to three Grammy’s for producer of the year 1995-1997.

Where Saturday night’s crowd was packed with late teens and early twenties – Sunday’s crowd showed its age. Babyface is now in his fifties and so were many in attendance. These were songs people played getting to know one another as the love lights dimmed. You don’t forget those moments or tunes that enshrine those rare occasions.

“Why he still looks like Denzil Washington’ was the verbal assessment expressed in the seats surrounding me. Face is definitely a female attarction.

Babyface didn’t disappoint. The moves are there – the posing – the clean suit – the handsome manners and so was the not so polished singing. This is a writer with moderate vocal chops reaching for Whitney’s notes missing by a wide margin yet that’s not what people absorb. As the rains came – and it did pound the grounds – several couples found refuge under umbrellas - embraced and reveled in the slow grind. Eventually, the pitch black night sky surfaced as the heat of afternoon partnered with the rain to administer a round of Sexual Therapy.

Year seventeen now a pleasant memory and contemporary Barbados at hand I wish to acknowledge those that made this lovely excursion a welcome retreat from the cold winds that chase the body most days up north. Thanks to the many delightful friends at Barbados Tourism Authority – Ruth Phillips, Avril, Maggie, Diana, Stacy. Producer Gilbert Rowe – Jacqueline Wiltshire Gay and all of you who made this visit such a joy.

A special thanks to the Bougainvillea Beach Resorts who always make our stay an occasion to remember – our friends at the Mount Gay Distillery, the Fish Pot Restaurant, Zen , and the Waterfront Café.

Bill King
Ejazznews

New York, New York

2009-10-26T11:02:00.000-07:00

We observe family birthdays like composing a compressed symphony. There always has to be a theme – transition and captivating finale. How we arrived at this practice is still a bit of a mystery. Christmas encroaches then vanishes without much fanfare. Weddings are somewhere on the perimeter. October is big birthday month. Both Kristine and son Jesse rule the later part of the Libra cosmos.

Kristine was approaching sixty a number that can play havoc with the mind. For good measure she started reminding me at fifty-seven that sixty was only three steps ahead. It became a cause for impromptu comedy. I actually believed one morning I’d wake up and there would be an IV machine next to my lounge chair with a note – drip on!

I thought about what could be done to make this occasion memorable while keeping in mind failure could bring a medieval flogging. Rather than decide for myself I engaged my dear partner who without consternation blurted out – “I want to celebrate my birthday in New York - my home, my favorite place.”

How could one argue with that? It had been nearly twenty-nine years since I last set foot there. When I left they were still scribbling gang messages all over subway cars and robbing pedestrians.

I mentioned to Jesse about momma’s wish. Now, the next event came as a unexpected surprise.

Moments after our exchange two tickets aboard Porter Airlines arrive in the ‘in box’. That in itself was cause for celebration. Moment’s later accomodation at the Waldorf Astoria for three nights appears. At first I thought this was one of those Nigerian chain letters – you give me ten thousand dollars and I give you ten million bottle caps. As the supreme gesture began to enliven the room - tears of joy flowed like a endless crystal stream under a sunlit morning sky. The moment was grand.

Kristine made the plans – outlined our schedule. I fully trust this about her. Lincoln Center for Herman Leonard Exhibition, MOMA, Blue Note with Roberta Gambarini and Roy Hargrove – Central Park – and shopping. As soon as she mentioned shopping I understood this to be my chance for a nostalgic run through the Soho district – my home for two years in the late sixties.

If you haven’t flown Porter Airlines then you are missing one of the joys of flying away from Toronto. The small passenger plane is a delight. Unlike Air Canada there’s food awarded that tastes like someone actually prepared it with government regulations in mind.

We arrived at Newark International with little fanfare. The day was the same shade of dim gray as our surroundings. I scan the airport thinking of ways to make this a touch more appealing – like a bit of color. How about Chinese lanterns or gangland graffiti?

We decide to catch a train into Penn Station and cab it from there. A taxi ride is over $75 - train $15. That’s a better deal than a taxi ride from Davenport and Spadina to Queen’s Park in Toronto. One is a mere mile or so the other a small continent away.

The ride through New Jersey was everything I dreamt it to be. I thought I saw Tony Soprano whacking a guy near an excavation site. I just waved hoping New York wasn’t as drab and uneventful.

As soon as the train pulled into to Penn Station I could sense the energy level rise above nuclear. The jaunt through Penn terminal out onto 34th street was exhilarating. Everything was beating at an allegro tempo. I could sense my pulse rise in anticipation.

The drive to the Waldorf was a battle for road space and visual treats. A cab ride in Manhattan is more a drill than casual outing. Traffic flows without mishap largely due to the aggressive interplay between cabs. An open space is for the taking. You either capture or sit idle.

The Waldorf Astoria.

Luxury around our house is a movie, a measured amount of calm and two dogs near comatose.

As we enter the sumptuous surroundings the smell of steaming roast beef comes soaring by the nostrils. The aroma was almost too hard to resist until we were notified the brunch in the lobby could be purchased for a mere $100 a person. At that moment I began looking for the Tootsy Roll dispenser.

The Waldorf is all history and wealth. There’s a sweet fragrance throughout - a pleasant odor one can’t fully identify. In my mind it must be a combination of flowers, antiquated wood and carpet. I kept in mind Grace Kelly, Frank Sinatra, Winston Churchill, the Kennedys, Haile Selassie and even the frightful Henry Kissinger had all stayed there.

All thoughts of the Best Western quickly vanished once our room key unhinged the door. The change of scenery certainly put us in the right frame of mind. Kristine found nirvana in the girlie room off the bathroom. I had no business there other than ‘right of passage’.

My youthful days in New York were never quite this luxurious. I lived in a two room renovated flat in the lower east side. At the time it was a delight compared to my neighbors. I would sit on the fire escape and watch the Latino couple directly across scream and slap each other around. The fights were a daily occurrence. I once called the cops after hearing the young woman plead for her life. Later the police told me the woman chided them in a profane laced dress down to butt out.

The New York in front of me showed no signs of its diminished past. The streets are cleaner than Toronto – in fact I felt as safe as I did forty years ago when I first set foot on Canadian soil.

Where did my old nemesis go? The insane guy who erected a life position top of a trash can between my apartment building and subway stop.

Everyday I’d make the journey to either a gig or rehearsal or movie and this horrific guttural sound would emanate from his perch. ‘Hey shithead, I’m going to kill you. You just wait and see.” I kept thinking about wait and see. When was this? Was there a specific date or time of day or night? After a few months of intimidation I learned of my tormentor’s posturing in a nearby bar.

The old men who watched this act instill fear in passerbies knew the man was mentally challenged but never let on. For them it was comic relief. “Hey boy, you scared of that fellow – he won’t do you any harm – that’s just him. He’s a retard,” says one of the ancient specimens glued to a pint. Then the room howled in unison. I wondered what happened to the menacing guy – did he now have season tickets for the Knicks?

The time spent at Lincoln Center honoring jazz photographer and icon Herman Leonard was definitely a high point. The faces in the many photographs are the prime faces of jazz. The splendor of the images attest to the remarkable skill Leonard achieved with a camera and a couple lights which he attributes to time spent with portrait master Yosef Karsh.

The event was not only a triumph for Leonard whose career didn’t receive much traction until he turned 69. At 90 the man is an eloquent speaker and as robust and fluid as any man thirty years younger.

The grand portraits reveal much of each jazz artist. They aren’t snaps on the fly. They are carefully considered images that bring something from the inner regions of the soul forward as well as a true understanding of light – much like the celebrated painters of old. Light illuminates!

From a social stance this was the place to be if you were a jazz photographer. John Abbott who has photographed over 250 CD covers was in attendance as well as Chuck Stewart - whose work appears in Leonard Feather’s Jazz Encyclopedia, Esquire Jazz Book, Downbeat, The New York Times, Life, Paris-Match, Carol Freidman – who in the 1990s was chief photographer and art director of Blue Note Records, sports photographer Neil Leifer famed for his captivating images of sports legends Muhammad Ali, Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer and derby winner Secretariat among others.

The night for Kristine was an explosive mix of social and artistic splendor. Birthdays aren’t generally this culturally enriching.

Now, for the New York trapped in memory.

I have long anticipated seeing my old neighborhoods - retracing a few of the endless walks that seem to linger until exhaustion. I could still envision the train rides from downtown to uptown across to Brooklyn - cold searing winds sweeping through each open subway door -the smell of urine – the fearsome thugs who stalked the unsuspecting.

Well, the moment I slipped on board at 51st Street heading to Bleecker Street I realized the city in decay was buried and a polished jewel has emerged in its place.

The riders were no different than the latte set at Starbucks in my neighborhood. Laptops were at full face and clothes creased to perfection. Nowhere to be found were the rambling inscriptions of urban warfare that once defaced every neutral space.

As I began my stroll along Bleecker I saw the change – I mean big change. The tenements that once housed impoverished immigrants were now commandeered by glistening youthful faces. My first impression? A person could get deported in the Soho district for being under thirty. These were gorgeous young people – handsome men and attractive women co-existing in a world of their own design. The longer the steps the more streets pass with much the same in common. Cafes, trendy shops , exquisite building makeovers – all part of a more vibrant youthful New York.

My walk down Bleecker sealed the past for me. The Bitter End was still in play. I stood for a moment and thought about the steamy air thick evening I lounged in front of the door sneaking a view and listen to a dreamy looking Joni Mitchell sing in that angelic voice. Joan Baez did this for me years prior but Joni was something refreshing and alluring. There were the nights Neil Diamond packed them in – the comics – the folk singers – the soul thumping Electric Flag – the jam sessions. I then I set my sights on the Café Wha – my first gig in the city.

I’d been thrown to the curb by the band I had arrived with as they quietly exited back to California. New York scared them shitless! I remember standing under an awning with a cool rain lighting the neon streets and the four of us thinking – what’s next? Under the same protective skin was a guy who played drums with a band called Cat Mother and the All Night Newsboys. He was affable and gracious enough to direct us to the Café Wha in search of employment. This we did the following day.

We copped an afternoon audition and just as fast the band vanished. No word, no warning. I’m left stranded with my portable organ and truck full of jazz sides and clothes. Those items remained for a week or so at some guy’s residence courtesy a local street hustler.

I was now homeless with no compass.

I slept in a telephone both. I slept beneath the Four Winds Café now the Blue Note. I hung next door with Jesse the wino from Louisville, Kentucky who’d arrive each summer drunk and serve life according to Jesse’s limited rules then return home for rehab. Jesse loved the women and hated the tourist.

The basketball court at 3rdStreet and Avenue of the Americas still casts a spell over the area. The greats from Harlem and players from NY University and lesser known would test each other in combat late afternoons. Early on – guys like me would take a few blows from the domain managers and play a few hours of three on three.

One early morning while I was rising from my overnight sleep nightmare I was awoken with a takedown a few doors from the Café Wha. A gentleman began a quick sprint down McDougall with a few cameras in chase when suddenly police emerge from all sides and wrestle to the ground. The guy then begins screaming for them to get the hell off. Suddenly, a crew of ten or fifteen men catch up and yell at the cops – “that’s James Coburn – James Coburn you just threw to the ground. We’re making a movie here.” The police retreat and Coburn coolly brushes down his garment and offers a hand. They were doing just that – filming outside the Café Wha in a VW hippie bus and down the street- The film – The President’s Analyst.

As I was reminiscing a young woman approaches with a clipboard. “Would you sign my petition and donate to a worthy cause,” she begs. I hear her out. “Do you believe in equal rights for gays and do you believe in same sex marriage?” I tell her I’m from Toronto and we’re doing quite fine in those areas. Then she reminds me of the persecution going on in America against gays. I tell her to keep up the battle and that she will eventually prevail. Then I remind myself outside of this cultural oasis lies Rush Limbaugh’s America.

The rest of my walk does nothing to rekindle the aromas and edginess of my past. Everything smells lovely even the fuel. Where’s the two inch thick pizza cooking through an open window, the grimy dude with the oily cloth wiping car windows, the broken glass, the badly painted hooker, where’s Travis Bickle?

I never expected to relive the past in high definition so I’ll let history remain stowed away in grainy black and white. As for Kristine, she likes her New York just the way it is – inviting, exciting and youthful and above all – an hour’s flight away! Happy birthday babe!

I Am Fire Dog

2009-10-12T07:37:00.000-07:00

I’ve been reminded my birth took place during the Year of the Dog – 1946 and in some way that minor event underscores my love for this sometimes misrepresented devoted companion. I realize body structure and habits separate those two small free loaders sprinting between the bedroom and front door from me. Yet, I find it hard to relate to them as animals. I prefer most trustworthy friends. It just makes more sense. Besides, I have this compulsion to engage every passing dog in conversation as if they have a clue what’s on my mind.

My affection for dogs stems from my first encounter with the Disney melodrama the ‘Lady is a Tramp.’ My tiny brain could easily relate to things small and close to the ground – that’s where I spent much of the day. Now, what wide-eyed nine-year old wouldn’t fall for a love story between a Cocker Spaniel and Scottish Terrier?

1957 rolls in and ’Old Yeller' hits the film houses - another wonderful children’s play on loyalty and sacrifice. Yeller was a big yellow Labrador retriever who’d never let harm come to his adopted family. Oh yes - that played well with dog boy!

And then there was ‘Lassie’- this ‘always on duty’ rough collie and his soul mate Timmy. Every kid in the neighborhood wanted a dog like ‘Lassie’ even if there wasn’t much ‘sleepy rural town’ crime busting to done.

Not long after the films and television shows began to stir imagination dad brings home a mix breed from the dumps of Colgate Palmolive Company – the plant he stood guard a good thirty years. The part Beagle – part undetectable Bowser was quickly given the name ‘Corky.’ I have no clue why - other than it sounded like the kind of heroic dog that would stand guard over’ Lady’ and run as a eager pack member with ‘Old Yeller’.

Corky didn’t live much longer than a month.It was discovered he was riddled with cancer much to do with the nasty substances brewing on home turf - the Colgate dumpsite. They were the type of airborne toxins that chemically removed paint from employee’s cars in the company parking lot.

The loss of Corky played like the final seen in ‘Old Yeller’ – Dog goes down kid gets wounded. Oh my – how that hurt! I barely knew the dog yet I burdened him with my boyhood grievances. He was a great listener and seemed to understand. I think.

No other dogs were accorded top billing in my life until I was introduced to another mix breed pup in Greenwich Village. It must have been 1967 and someone brought this black and white with a spot of brown pup to me looking to bribe it a home.

I’m living on the fly and have little time to spend with the little fellow but work out a compromise with my roommate who spent most days attending Hunter College.

It didn’t take Spirit long to adapt to our two room flat. Every item became a massive chew toy. Shoes, paper, television, radio, cabinets, clothes, nearly everything I held dear was shredded. One day I pulled Spirit aside -looked deep in those vacant eyes and reminded him – Corky died for his sins.

I had no idea at the time how dogs were viewed around the world. To realize there were cultures that killed dogs over antiquated religious doctrine would have shocked and still to this day baffles me. In fact, try waving down a taxi in Toronto with two small dogs. I can’t count the times I’ve been waved off or refused due to some cultural mistrust of dogs. This is Canada not some far off desert community where some kind of orthodox voodoo is practiced against dogs.

A lifetime interacting with my own species has given me plenty insight into people's motives and actions – the good and bad. Life becomes fairly predictable. Yet, there is nothing more predictable than the dog hovering nearby.

The eyes are totally void of hate, envy, greed or most devious behavior. Nothing pleases my two joy pals more than comforting family or receiving the same in return.

Both Yorkie blended terriers assume I really enjoy hitting the living room floor at 9:PM just when I'm settling in for a movie - for a good forty minutes of ‘lob the squeak toy’. I think they believe I lay awake at night dreaming of the moment when the toy lands nearby - a sticky, soiled mess of goo and I grip and let fly and the pleasure it brings me. I think what amuses me most is the speed at which four tiny feet pick up momentum and the metronomic sway of synchronized fur fluttering about during the race for the object of affection.

The toy usually returns with an empathic drop and pause. It’s at this moment all planetary movement halts. This is when the dog’s eyes refuses to camouflage that spiritual passage leading directly to its soul. The pupils stand as wide as telescopes and suck you in. Is this the cosmic Black Hole scientists refer too?

How does a dog sense a person is undergoing heartaches – sorrow, depression, loss, perceived failure or physical pain? This is where I begin to see dogs as something scared – the Good Samaritan that gives of them until the adult mercenaries arrive. The hallowed nurse that never turns a blind eye to suffering – the assuring doctor that tends to patients needs even when the odds of restoration seem impossible.

There have been plenty loving souls enter my conscience long after ‘Spirit’ was stolen along with my portable Farfisa organ from that New York flat. There was an oversized herding dog - a Puli mixed with steroids and sheep dog fur named Barney we purchased through the Bargain Hunter in the early seventies. He came with a guarantee. I don’t actually remember what he didn’t do that made him so desirable or assured.

Barney lived to shock pedestrians. Just as someone would pass he’d turn and run towards their backside and cough up a baritone sounding riff like he was channeling demons from the underworld. It was loud and ferocious. If the person nearly collapsed in fear he’d perk up and parade the other direction. This was a difficult habit to break. His other call to duty was during those intimate passion filled nights. Barney would jump to the edge of the bed and howl until every person in the neighborhood was notified. At first it was a hilarious interlude then it became an annoyance. It wasn’t until we moved to a farm in New Castle he found better things to do.

Then there was Happy, a gorgeous high strung Belgian sheepdog who spent a great portion of her life in retreat. She made her family entrance when she was six months old. There wasn’t a bad gene if her body. She was all sweetness and motherly. She became an instant pup factory. It seems every six months another pile of carbon copy Happys’ would mysteriously arrive. We couldn’t give them away fast enough.

Happy was a digger. She would bore beneath anything. The land below our front porch became a massive chamber of tunnels leading to places unknown. She saved her greatest work for me down in Georgia.

I’d been collecting Rolling Stone Magazines since day one during the mid-sixties and the boxes of collectables traveled with us wherever the miles piled up. This time we settled in a suburb outside Atlanta called Marietta. The property came with a tool shed something I had little use for other than shaving grass or winding garden hose. One steamy afternoon I happen to notice a crack in the door and spring open. There before me is a giant pile of dirt and mud mixed with demolished pages of political cartoons, Hunter Thompson and Tim Cahill articles, Aerosmith reviews and Grateful Dead photos – courtesy Rolling Stone. Underneath it all was the gazing eyes of the family neurotic. At first I thought the world had collapsed around me then I began to understand. This crazy dog wanted to mother all humanity. How could one even entertain punishing her or even try to reason.

Jason was a six week old Springer spaniel who entered life as a comic. He didn’t really tell jokes - he just brought the laughter through body movement. There would always be a worn sox caught up under a lip. The more I’d laugh Jason would wiggle and prance about. You could twist him in any position and use as a pillow. We’d travel the subways and buses together without need of a leash. He’d attend most recording sessions with me and chew on a microphone filter the entire time savoring every fiber. I’d dress him in shorts and cap and send him to roam the neighborhood. He never once complained. We were inseparable.

Happy lived to be fifteen and Jason was shot and killed by a farmer who accused him of rousting his chickens and ducks.

After that we made do with two cats the next twenty-two years. I do love cats but cats aren’t dogs. When the two felines passed away - both in or around twenty years old I set my mind on getting a dog. I never thought of getting two – but as I’m writing that’s the way things turned out.

Samson and Suzie run the house. They do all the things dogs do. They stand for hours scratching, sleep with bellies exposed - demand a doorman be on call twenty-four hours a day. They both whine and compete for the occasional bike ride with me. They sleep either on my head or nearby. They follow us room to room waiting for action. They hang around the kitchen coaxing me to pop the fridge door. They have memorized the words chicken and ham. They are on speaking terms with the crafty squirrels out back even if they are profanity laced exchanges.

As I look at these two constants I’m truly awed by their compassion and kindness towards humans – I can’t speak for most living things beyond the fence. To know it’s been some fifteen thousand years since their ancestors were first domesticated in China brings a bit of clarity. I guess I have the Chinese to thank for this and for calculating and inscribing 1946 the Year of the Dog.

The Piano Speaks

2009-10-10T08:24:00.000-07:00

Recently, I encountered an interesting discussion on the Internet concerning the quality of performance pianos in venues such as night-clubs. This has always been a contentious issue for suffering pianists. One interloper suggested replacing acoustic with electronic - inviting a maelstrom of acerbic responses nearly drowning the debate in puerile squabbling. Unlike woodwind, brass, string or percussionist- a pianist has little say in selecting a preferred instrument for concert situations. Electronic keyboards are 'Get By' solutions more suited for causal gigs or pop related work. No digital entity can assume the stature of warm-vocally resonant wood, companion felt and metal. Below are a few of my memorable hits and misses.

First year of high school, I’d surreptitiously enter the gymnasium and climb the dimly lit stage and seat myself behind a baby rosewood grand piano then carefully raise the lid and place it high on the longest peg and begin humbly tapping out a few choice notes while checking the hall for spies. On second pass, I subconsciously close my eyes and encourage the hands to search and discover and discard-leaving me awash in a room reverberating with harmonious intent. I couldn’t have felt more fulfilled or joyous. I dreamt of the moment when I’d be accorded the opportunity to play in front of people. A year later it came.

My first gig was not on anything as rare and satisfying as a Steinway but a sleepy Chickering stuffed back of an American Legion Hall in Jeffersonville, Indiana. Judging from the numerous cigarette burns, the poor instrument looked as if it had been tortured into confessing crimes never committed. While lifting the piano lid, I couldn’t help but notice the keyboard scowl back at me with some thirty odd missing teeth. The remaining ivories - covered in ash and spent beer displayed a curious mix of yellow and brown stains. Nearby, a barmaid watches as I examine the neglected relict, closes in and speaks, “Roy plays that piano beautifully. Do you know Hello Dolly? What about Beer Barrel Polka?” Confused and shy, I continue examining the ill-equipped instrument when she interrupts again. “Why don’t you go ahead and start Mr. Piano Player.” This I do.

The first tune that comes to mind is a light jazz version of “Sometimes I’m Happy.” I spread my lead sheet along a fractured wood support and commence playing. As I begin hammering out the first series of chords a nightmarish synthesis of scraping metal and overlapping tones pierce the smoke-hazed beer hall like the dissonant cry of a brooding river-boat calliope - stunting my effort. “Keep on playing boy,” a voice from behind the noxious veil of smoke commands. Again I search for something musical only to be derailed by the dismembered Chickering. Defeated, I rise, close the lid and tell the barmaid I think the piano had been kinder to Roy. “Honey, you can go home,” she says, “Roy comes in about this time every night. He just loves that old piano.” So he should!

In 1976, during a month long tour of Japan with the Pointer Sisters I was introduced to concert grands - mostly imagined, rarely touched. Nine foot Yamahas and Steinways, two or three waits before each concert. One hall presented a Steinway inscribed with the phrase, ‘This Is a Beauty’, Arthur Rubinstein. Also etched on the sound-board the name Van Cliburn. All I could think of was how magnificent Chopin and Tchaikovsky must have sounded when these immortals concertized. Needless to say, those were some of my most inspired evenings. Everything I played behind 'The Sisters' was affected positively by the exceptional pianos I was accorded. Rarely have I had the same relationship with electronics.

I’ve always admired the original Fender Rhodes - the dreamlike quality of its tone. One summer night in 1982, I lost myself composing on a superb Fender Rhodes in an apartment at the Sunset Marquis Hotel in Hollywood. A comforting night- breeze sifted through the partially collapsed window blinds prompting me to search deeper for abstract harmonic sequences when a voice interrupts from the wilderness, “Shut the fuck up or I’ll kill you.” As violently as the order arrives, I was uncertain the directive was meant for me. Cautiously, I inspect the narrow pathway intervening the two buildings and spot a menacing figure - barely visible, lurking below a security light. The bald plated being sights me then screams, “You hear me…I’ll kill you if you keep it up asshole” I was too mortified to reply. Next morning I would learn the threatening skinhead was none other than the bass player of the vile punk band the Plasmatics, the antithesis of everything music meant to me.

No greater thrill could match the times I played on Glenn Gould’s grand piano in the foyer of Roy Tompson Hall. From one end of the instrument to the other the piano resonated as if the Gods had ordained it nature’s virile sound board. Notes sounded broad and confident - intervals, clear and precise. I’d spread all ten fingers and think like a composer and play as an orchestra. This was the perfect situation for making solo piano recordings.

In the early nineties I was invited to play the Pilot Tavern’s tenth anniversary party. Word came chanteuse Holly Cole was showing, maybe even Buddy Bolden.

Vocalist Liberty Silver and I were hired to play a couple sets - me behind a supposed refurbished and resurrected Mason & Reich - a piano of equable repute.

As I enter the Pilot I witness the lovely grand posing with its spectacular sheen - top fully extended - waiting to comply. The room was buzzing with music people. I raise the keyboard lid and play a brief figure - mid-piano upward then retire out of view. Everything sounded in order.

Minutes pass before Liberty and I take the stage. I call an up tempo selection with walking bass and count the tune in. As we sprint from the downbeat my left hand abruptly hits an unexplained succession of pot-holes nearly amputating my fingers. In desperation I descend a register to find the same indiscriminate pattern.

Third time through the tune comes ‘Solo Time’. I signal the right hand, ‘Flail Away’ leaving the left hand to crash about and gather splinters. I can't express the grief, the embarrassment and torment simmering inside. "Baby, I thought you said this guy could play? He sounds like your cousin Ernie, the one missing four fingers on his favored hand."

The song abruptly ends. Liberty looks over and inquires, “Oh! Bill, that bad? Should we try something else?” We make a second attempt at a medium-tempo number to no avail. With no other alternative, I rise - clutch the microphone, apologize to the crowd and explain that the manager had lured me here offering a wonderfully refurbished baby grand for a companion. I then lead them through the crime scene.

"Here’s where B below middle C usually resides. Wait a minute where’s the missing G? Oh lookie here, E and D are mute too. Let's see what else is absent down there. A, G, and F! Well, well....I haven't tested anything surpassing C above middle C. Hmmmmmmm!Count with me; One, two, three, four, five pot-holes! It's my guess this piano was refurbished by a hit and run driver!"

Needless to say, I refuse to feed embarrassment so I stalk the tie-dyed hippie manager who rarely acknowledged musicians when the room was less than full for an explanation. Hell, the place was at capacity! The next thirty minutes he avoids me like I was walking Ebola virus. "Look, I'll be with you when I get a moment. When's your next set?" he says. Now the hurt spreads to Liberty who isn't someone to short side. Eventually, the club grudgingly paid up but never offered an apology. I wondered who invented the myth the wooden piece of landfill had been groomed to perfection once again. I can only assume the manager actually believed a can of Pledge applied to a handsome cabinet was all that was needed to carry the night. My, she was a beauty!

A good decade and a half has passed since that encounter. The years in between have been kind to keyboardist with advances in technology. I resolved the live gig issue once I bought one of the PF series Yamaha digital pianos. Never once did the piano let me down during the six years of constant play. These days it’s the Roland FP-7 that serves me well. I can haul to a gig or play in the house. Sound and touch exceed my expectations.

Much of the studio work I do these days revolves around my productions at Inception Sound Studio in Toronto. Studio One sports a refurbished nine foot Steinway that brings to mind those glorious ECM piano works with Keith Jarrett. It’s one of those rare pianos that respond to the players touch in such a way it seems to inspire an unconscious reverential hook-up between soul, mind and seasoned wood. Singers Sophie Milman, June Garber, Jessica Lalonde, Real Divas, Sophie Berkal-Sarbit, Kinga Victoria, Josephine Biundo have all benefited significantly from the crafted piece of soulfulness.

There are even more advances in technology on the horizon. Some are already here – some still in the planning stages. I’ve been reviewing a few and have played a couple. Rather than expound at the moment I think I’ll wait and see if any really send my fellow keyboard magicians into a testimonial rant.

I guess I can now admit having a solid digital at my command has been a positive benefit. The old ruptured Petrof in the basement looks good but sounds dreadful. Occasionally, I'll play a few scales or spot a couple pages of Czerny for technique but the cost of up keep far exceeds the pay-off. For now, having a piano that feels solid and sounds real and is always in tune is a delicious pleasure

The Last Piano Lesson

2009-09-24T14:29:00.000-07:00

Eva Smith was my first piano teacher. She was a beautiful African American woman well into her seventies. Lessons were no more than fifty cents a pop yet came with so much history and joy. Her students were mostly the black children who lived on the fringe of our town. Everything about her in this piece of fact/fiction is spot on. I owe my world of music to her patience and love for piano.

The Last Piano Lesson.

Every Thursday after school, Charlene would arrive a half hour early for her piano lesson. Ms Evelyn’s sizable back lot, thick with ragweed, wildflowers and tall grass, was enough landscape for a young girl’s imagination run wild with fantasy. She would quickly dash back of the stately wood frame manor, then disappear in the overgrowth, defying wind as she cut an Olympic path through tall blades of blue grass and goldenrod. Wind bowed Tea Roses slumped near the edge of a window box attached to Ms Evelyn’s makeshift conservatory.

Charlene would sprint past pretending to eavesdrop on their conversation then regain top speed. She made friends among the undergrowth, small beings who awaited her weekly arrival then collapse among dried leaves of deciduous plants, gasp for breath, close her eyes, then inhale the garden’s sweet confection. As moisture rose through the wall of her throat she’d guide each syllable through small passage producing the most glorious tone.

“Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, men have named you, you’re so like the lady with the mystic smile. Is it only ‘cause you’re lonely, they have blamed you for that Mona Lisa strangeness in your smile”.

It was three days beyond Charlene's fourteenth birthday. Up to now she held emotion in check growing from an awkward child into a young woman sleek of figure, skin polished to an ebony sheen. Hope, aspiration and a tremendous will would serve her well in the coming years.

“Are you singing something special for me Charlene?”, asks Ms Evelyn.

“Oh, Ms Evelyn, I’m coming,” she says, then hesitates. ”

“I can’t talk to you through that screen door. Come on in and let me dry you off.”

Charlene carefully slips past the rusted screen trying not to attract any permanent stain to her new birthday dress. Evelyn takes notice of the long trail of perspiration,.

“Don’t sit on the sofa child until I dry you off! Stand there until I get back.”

Ms.Evelyn quietly disappears into one of the unseen rooms of the manor and returns with a small white towel.

“Ms. Evelyn, I just don’t feel like the person that was here last week.”

“Of course you don’t feel like the girl who was here last week, you’re a young woman now. You’re fourteen and start to think things a woman thinks. .”

Evelyn lifts Charlene’s thick tightly wound braids and lightly presses the folded towel along the upper shoulders and slender neck then falls silent as if lured into a dream state by something familiar but yet faraway.

“You are the most beautiful creation mother of the universe has ever given. Look at you, your skin is as black as the coal my father lifted from the bottom of those hills in Harlan County and your eyes clear as mountain spring water.

Charlene listens then faces her teacher. “See how much I’ve changed.”

Ms. Evelyn lifts an eye pretending to examine the young pupil.

“Ms Evelyn, do you like Mona Lisa ?”

“Who don’t like Mona Lisa? Are you talking about the painting or Nat Cole’s Mona Lisa,” inquires Ms Evelyn.

“The song Mona Lisa! You know I just don’t think the songs you’re teaching say much. We’ve done played Hanon, Clementi, Czerny - it all exercised my fingers. You know I love Chopin, Brahms and Mozart but they’re just notes without words. When King Cole sings Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, I feel he’s talking about me - I am that painting on the wall.”

“Is this about music or have you fallen in love?” Evelyn asks.

“Ms Evelyn, I’m always in love. I can’t help myself - I’m surrounded by love. Mom calls me her Nubian princess and dad says I’m an African queen, daughter of the Pharaohs. Aunt Emma prays evil away, sings me spirituals. Sister Angie’s my best friend. How much more love can I take?”

Ms. Evelyn directs Charlene towards the old upright piano. “Girl, we’ll talk more next week but right now I’ve got to put some knowledge in your head.”

Charlene positions herself directly in front of middle C then arranges her slim fingers directly over ten partially chipped white keys she’d played a hundred times before. Ms Evelyn conducts the downbeat with an inch and half hook nail curled beneath the second finger. An arthritic hand unfolds exposing the strange appendage -making it look more like a falcon’s claw than human.

Charlene’s first encounter with the ghoulish joint sent her squealing all the way to papa’s lap. Dr. Logan soothed his six-year-old daughter then placed her back atop the oak veneer bench. Ms Evelyn just laughed, fetched some candy corns from a crystal jar, spreading a few along the keyboard. Young Charlene moistened her middle finger, tapped until one stuck, then lifted to her mouth. This pleased Ms Evelyn as she gradually acquired the young girl’s confidence.

Ms Evelyn was a beautiful woman in her early seventies. Both sides her cheekbones were covered in red rouge smeared in circular patterns. Cold cream rubbed deep in her silky brown skin making her look like an precious Christmas ornament. Every item of clothing hung at natural length on her diminutive frame. The signature red-rubber boots worn rain or shine were always polished to a reflective mirror finish. Whether sitting in front of Calvin’s Cafe waiting for the Utica bus or weeding her wildflower garden, the shiny red boots were Ms Evelyn’s calling card.

As Charlene depressed each note a hammer would strike three inharmonious strings. The sound was ungodly. If one could imagine dueling riverboat calliope’s you‘d begin to understand what Charlene was up against.

“Ms Evelyn why don’t you ever tune this thing?” Charlene begs.

“Its just like it was when my husband Pastor Wilkins was around young girl. He’d smoke his favorite cheery blend over there and smile approvingly. If it sound good to him, it sound good to me”.

“But Ms Evelyn how am I going to sound good to you if you never tune this tired piano?”

“Young lady, that piano will never be tired or fail to deliver if you play the notes correctly,” a rather taken Ms Evelyn responds.

Charlene quietly goes about her lesson. As she labors through Hanon exercise number thirty-five, she suddenly halts play, pauses, and then looks Ms Evelyn in the eyes.

“I’ll never be a great concert pianist. I could never memorize a book thick with classical notes. Ms Evelyn, what I want more than anything is to sing and play like Nat King Cole. I just can’t relate to these old men with bad hair perms.”

“Charlene, you know what you’re saying? ”

“Nat’s beautiful, Ms Evelyn. His face is so smooth. His manners, the soul in his voice touches me like no other man in them books.” Charlene, realizing what she had just said, buries her eyes in the pleats of her dress.

“Look at me, Charlene! Your words ring true. I see something in you so different from the other students. You hear, feel and breath music like God picked you special. It was the same for me when I was just a bit older.”

“Ms Evelyn, you like the blues too?”

“Charlene, when I was twenty-two I got a call from the father of the blues, W.C. Handy. He said his piano player got a temporary job at the world’s fair and I’d come highly recommended. He also said there’d be a train ticket waiting for me to Memphis and he’d be there to meet me . Do you know how scared I was?”

“Did you go?” Charlene asks.

“Of course I went! Do you know how many evenings we sat around my mother’s house singing St. Louis Blues? Oh, I love that song. People don’t play it right no more. It’s a spiritual! Scoot over young lady, let me show you what I mean.”

Ms Evelyn had never played a note for Charlene. She taught by waving her slender arms like a miniature Toscanini, then jabbing her pencil into a collection of Walter Thompson etudes and minuets. She’d say “No, no, no. Did I teach you to play like that? Start from the top ‘til you play it right.”

Ms Evelyn didn’t scare Charlene. She cared for the notes she was playing, even the bad ones.

Ms Evelyn placed her weather-beaten hands in G minor position, began rolling a sorrowful passage. Her voice opened with the phrase “I hate to see the ev’nin’ sun go down.” She paused, and then listened as if to hear a chorus of angelic voices repeat her words. “Hate to see--the ev’nin sun go down. Cause-ma baby, he done left this town.” She then skipped a couple verses and got to her favourite lines. “St. Louis woman, with her diamond rings, pulls that man around by her apron strings. Twant for powder and for store-bought hair, the man I love-would not gone nowhere.”

“Charlene, you hear that B flat, that’s the blue note. Come here child and put your middle finger on it.” Charlene slowly extended her lanky arm over Ms Evelyn and depressed the black note. “Honey, that’s you. That’s your history, that’s your sorrow, that’s your joy. That’s your grand folks. That’s community, Thats spirit. That’s your ancestors blood spread all along railroad tracks and over every field where the tall grass grow down south. You’re home young one, you’re home.”

Ms Evelyn rose from her stool, and walked to a cedar chest next to the china cabinet. She lovingly removes photographs of Pastor Wilkins, then folds each doily, carefully placing them on the dining room table. After lifting the heavy cedar lid, she dips her slender arm under an assortment of lace, crochet, Afghans and heavy quilts. Ms Evelyn pulls a magnificent tapestry up from the crowded storage. With the caution of a museum curator, she unfolds the scholarly find, drapes it across her lap. Gold tassels adorned the outer rim, with the name Evelyn Smith
embroidered in the middle over a picture of downtown St. Louis. Charlene kneels next to Ms Evelyn then gently massages the threads linking each letter of her name.

“Ms Evelyn, this is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The world should know about you. You’re probably the most famous person nobody’s heard about.”

“Charlene, Ms Evelyn don’t need to be famous. Mr. Handy told me all I need to know. If the music is inside you and you keep talkin’ it out, it will one day flow like an endless river releasing you from uninvited pain and sorrow, bringing God’s love. You’ve got to be aware of what it’s saying.”

“Ms Evelyn, that’s just what I’ve been trying to explain to you. I hear it so deep and true. There are times my soul weeps when I hear hateful words. The ones that try to shame the color of my skin,my mother, and her mother. There’s something in those piano notes that tell me I am the Mona Lisa in the painting, half smiling, half crying, and that God will look after me.”

“Charlene, you have African blood in your veins. You are part of a proud people going back to the beginning of time. All of our trials and tribulations flow like tributaries from the heel of your foot to the top of your head. You hear the blues, the screams of your ancestors, the laughter of children, the heartbeat in a mother’s stomach, prayers in testament. You are beauty, you are grace, above all very much alive. It’s time you move on.”

“Move on?”

“That’s right Charlene. Everybody’s got to face change”

“But Ms Evelyn, I’m just getting to know you.”

“Charlene, you come and see me anytime, and we’ll speak as women about all things, but there’s no more I can do to help you play the music you hear. I’m not a modern teacher. I don’t understand sophisticated harmony and complex chord movement. This you must find with someone more educated in contemporary thought. This will have to be our last lesson.”

Charlene begins crying uncontrollably. “What about your backyard?

I’ll miss the tall grass and the smell of wildflowers.”

“Of course you will, I’ve got to cut them sometime,” Ms Evelyn
responds. “Life is about change. Even I’m thinking about learning to drive a car. Every few years I’ve got to learn something new. That’s why my mind is always young even though my body keeps changing. I love you Charlene, you’re my most favorite student ever. Now go out and send in your dad, we’ve got to speak. Remember, you can come and visit anytime you want.”

“Ms Evelyn, are you sick?”

“Why do you ask that child?”

“Us women don’t need to keep secrets from each other, right?”.

“Charlene, you don’t need to know my personal secrets.”

“Ms Evelyn, you’re not feeling well. I can see that.
”
“Child, it’s really none of your business.’

“I knew it, you’re hiding something terrible from me, aren’t you.”

“Please Charlene, keep it to yourself. Nobody but me and you need to know. You saw my hands tremble on those notes. I’m afraid it’s only going to get worse; at least that’s what them doctor’s say. Remember, this is between me and you.”

“ But you said you’re going to drive a car?”

“I know what I said Charlene. There are nights I cover myself in bed and cry like a baby girl. Sometimes the pain is more than I can bear. This house has been dark all the years since Pastor Wilkins passed away. When you kids come its like someone switches on the sunlight, but when you leave darkness sits wherever it feels. I hear Pastor Wilkins’ sweet voice whisper , ‘just a little longer Eve, just stay a little longer, the children need you, I can wait’. They say you’ll know when your time comes, just like you know when it all begins. Charlene, my work is done. You’re my masterpiece. Go git your dad.”

“But Ms Evelyn”...

Charlene sits for a moment, then begins crying. She slowly rises, walks behind Ms Evelyn and curls her arms around the old woman’s neck, then presses the soft flesh of her lips next to her cheek. A steady row of tears meet the saliva from her mouth causing Evelyn’s makeup to spoil.

“Charlene, you’re making a mess of me.”

“I don’t want you to die. I’m scared for you.”

“Charlene, I’m not scared to die. I’ve seen all I need to see. The good Lord delivered me and my family from the fields of Alabama and showed us the way north. I met the love of my life and five grown children later I got to see the world. Singapore, Bombay, Istanbul, the Belgian Congo, all these places I can still hear the children’s voices laughing and taste the midnight air. How many will ever have such a beautiful complete life? And look at the past twenty years with all of the children who passed through that doorway and left with a song in their heart. I have nothing to feel sorry about or for that matter nothing to fear.”

“ I’m so sorry Ms Evelyn. You’re right, it ain’t none of my business, I think I’d better leave now. Can I see you next week?”

“A young woman can always make a social call.”

Charlene squeezes past the large presence of Dr. Logan then timidly walks back of the manor and climbs the decaying porch stairs. She studies the vast uneven terrain, closes her eyelids and savors the humid air. She then blindly walks forward as if summoned by a benign stranger. Her long arms unfold, cross, then rise gently over her shoulders . The overpowering fragrance of an isolated flower awakens her from a temporary dream state. One long thorny stalk of a single rose with petals curved by the sun’s rays hangs silently only inches from her face. The plant rising near eight feet seems to be conducting a rapacious movement to some unfinished symphony.

Charlene cautiously pulls the stem near and sinks nose and mouth deep into the petals, then dusts her face and neck before snapping the limb separating the flower from its life source. “Forgive me, it’s only one,” she says as if addressing a thousand jurors. Minutes pass as she walks slowly back to the front porch then places the broken stem holding the single rose in Ms. Evelyn’s wicker chair. She positions the flower so that it rests in the centre part of the thin cushion, then climbs into the back seat of Dr. Logan’s ‘58 Olds, rolls over and begins sobbing. Within moments her voice unleashes the most beautiful sentimental tone. “Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa men have named you, you’re so like the lady with the mystic smile. Is it only ‘cause you’re lonely, they have blamed you, for that Mona Lisa strangeness in your smile.” Charlene tucks her face deep into the warm leather upholstery and drifts peacefully to sleep.

Remembering Jaco

2009-09-24T12:05:00.000-07:00

There are those in life who will never be forgotten. Whose brief existence offers so much promise, but whose life circumstances fix the odds against achieving continuance. A flame caught in an unforgiving draft, cast into eternal darkness. Such is the journey of bassist/arranger/composer Jaco Pastorius.

Pollock, Parker, and Pastorius walked much the same ground. Drive, genius, debilitating depression and uncompromising intellect. Each man understood just how magnificent they were and never hesitated to remind friends and acquaintances of that fact. Each man knew the art they were reinventing could undergo change, recover, and successfully bear new rewards.

Young Pastorius was all bravo. He swaggered, jeered, and stuck it in your face like the punk down the street who kept quick-stepping around you on the way to the hoop. Did I say hoop? Jaco was a court rat who spent as many hours playing one on one as laboring through a set of chord changes. This was life served at full throttle.

It was "Donna Lee" from Pastorius’s Epic Records debut that notified the music community of his arrival. Here was an unknown player doing things on electric bass never before conceived possible. Fleeting lines, harmonics, supremely crafted solos; lead, rhythm, everything on an instrument which had been traditionally assigned a supporting role underneath woodwinds, brass, percussion and most other equivalent strings.

I can’t recall the number of times I dropped the needle on the track for unsuspecting musicians, especially bass players. "Who the hell was that," was the usual response. "That sounded like a Parker tune? Are you sure that was an electric bass?"

It was a matter of days before I recognize some of the meatier originals on the recording. Then I discover a theme Jaco had been developing since he was eighteen. The unconventional use of harmonics as part of the composition was revolutionary. The phrasing, mood, tone, and close-textured symmetry made the piece his unspoken elegy.

Everything Jaco assimilated from playing in R&B and jazz bands in south Florida served him well the coming years. During a ten month road stint with white soul singer Wayne Cochran and the C.C. Riders he learned to read and write music through Cochran’s music director Charlie Brent. The strict rules imposed by soul singer Cochran, who’s 14 piece band was a virtual touring classroom, were ignored in order to accommodate the quirky player. Never one to adhere to Cochran’s dress code, which required tuxedo wear, Pastorius performed in street clothes off stage hidden behind a scrim.

Not long after leaving Cochran, Pastorius replaced Alphonso Johnson in Weather Report while the band was half way through recording Black Market. Evidently, Zawinul saw himself in Pastorius and gave the young player extreme latitude in matters of music and stage attire.

Now comes Heavy Weather. If ever there was a recording from the seventies that deserves the epigraph "For All Eternity," this would be it. Weather Report had been progressing towards this sound since "I Sing the Body Electric, Black Market, and Mysterious Traveler."

How many times and incarnations have you heard the epic Zawinul composition "Birdland?" Here’s a track in which every part can be isolated and committed to memory. It’s just that rich. Each individual pattern runs parallel, intersects, and unites at just the right moments. No cover band can successfully render the tune publicly without precisely duplicating each line of counterpart and interconnecting melodies. We were ecstatic knowing a track as good as this came from an idiom so under appreciated could achieve such universal acceptance. It made you consider maybe jazz fans and musicians didn’t emanate from the far side of Neptune after all.

One glorious night in the mid-seventies I attended a double bill featuring Chick Corea’s "Rerturn To Forever" and Weather Report at Massey Hall, the celebrated institution that gave us the "Greatest Concert Ever," with Parker , Gillespie, Roach, Powell and Mingus. The building bled an intoxicating mix of dust, mold, sweat, tobacco and hashish. A floating blue-lit cloud hovered below the rafters leading to the main stage giving the evening a ghostly surreal atmosphere.

Corea and band played an exotic blend of classical, Latin and rock injected pieces with conviction. Throughout the performance it was Corea’s stunning pitch-wheel bends and cascading lines arising from the Moog synthesizer and complex unison figures with guitarist Al DiMeola that steered the set to a gratifying climax.

You could sense the anticipation as the stage was being adjusted to accommodate Weather Report . I heard voices whisper "Jaco, Jaco, Jaco, which one’s Jaco," from behind and across the aisle. "I wonder if they’ll play "Birdland" first?"

As the lights dim, Wayne Shorter and Joe Zawinul amble to their respective places like seasoned jazz musicians unaccustomed to the visual theatrics of rock arenas. The last to find himself in position was Pastorius who quickly acknowledged the approving shouts and whistles greeting his arrival by hoisting the bass upward then back for a final volume adjustment.

Unlike Return To Forever which hit with all the force of a category five hurricane, Zawinul and company built their set to a final resolution. Throughout Pastorius glided from one side of the stage to the other displaying a physical presence absent the other front line players. He was all head, hands and heart.

From "Teen Town" to "Birdland" the band played a smoldering brew of fusion inspired instrumentals exactly like their recordings leaving the crowd clamoring for more. At no time did Pastorius display the antics we were led to believe accompanied each performance.

As the years pass rumors of Jaco’s manic episodes began to consume any distant news of further revolutionary advancements to the art form. There were those who believed he had said all he had to say and his departure from Weather Report was further evidence of that.

He assembled Word of Mouth and recorded a brilliant album, "Invitation" quickly establishing himself an arranger and composer of the rarest abilities but there were cracks in the pavement ahead that would eventually derail the juggernaut.

For most fans, the details behind the sporadic solo efforts; the alcohol, drugs and growing depression were no more than private conversations between Jaco and those close to him and corporate types still trying figure out how to cope with a legion of "bad boy" rock messiahs.

When news eventually filtered out concerning Jaco’s declining stature and health he was by then a street urchin; homeless, rejected, addicted and a manic depressive. For many, it was hard to believe anyone with such gifts could so easily fall from grace and descend to such depths. Where was the musician’s union? Where were the public health services? How could this be allowed?

The most disturbing aspect of his decline was the violent ending that awaited. Jaco, was no stranger to confrontation. It was a martial arts blow that quickly shut him down. Within a few days he was removed from life support. Movies often afford a period of redemption; time to reflect, rehab and reassert. For Pastorius the end came quick without compensation or compassion.

When you replay the volume of music Pastorius recorded during his brief tumultuous career you hear none of the pain, conflict or consequence that followed him, instead a joyous reverence for new possibilities, innovation, experiences, and existence, few will encounter in a lifetime. Jaco, we’ll never forget you!

“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee."

2009-09-23T10:58:00.000-07:00

“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee."
(From Cassius Clay to Muhammad Ali)

I was captivated by the Mike Tyson documentary a few evenings past. Boxing is a brutal blood sport with millions of game voyeurs, me included. I can point a finger directly back in time to my father who parked his boys and 6’6” frame front of the old Admiral black and white television Friday evenings for the Gillette Cavalcade of Sports – Friday night fights.

Brother Wayne and I didn’t really get much kick back time. There was always a catch to these all male social gatherings – antenna duty. Reception in the late fifties was a constant challenge. No cable or satellite dishes just a crooked pair of rabbit ears. It was all about direction. Keeping the ghosts at bay and pulling in a definable image. This was never easy especially when punches were being thrown in flurries. With baseball you had hours to locate a receptive position. The only drawback – standing around like an under employed mannequin.

Throughout the Tyson documentary I was overcome with sadness. Tyson’s under lit face said so much about the man. From the beginning mercy was never a word in Tyson’s limited vocabulary. He truly wanted to inflict as much pain on his opponents as allowed. The blows came with such force and from a place inside the man - a forbidden zone most men choose not visit but are willing to watch another conjure near the darkest regions of the soul. The crushing impact distorted opponents’ faces. Eyes would sink back in the head and skin fly about as if made from a soft synthetic substance. You never knew if a downed fighter would ever stand again let alone function as the toned individual who entered the ring. As much as Tyson’s fights mesmerized they also sickened.

My first connection with the fight game passed through another local favourite and a man near the top of the welterweight division from Louisville, Kentucky named Rudell Stitch. Stitch had been Kentucky State amateur champion in 1951, 52, 53, 55, and 56. He’d occasionally appear on Friday Night Fights forcing brother Wayne and I into our customary position near the rabbit ears. Oh, how we loathed this gig!

As the months passed and Stitch began to fill out the local sports pages my affection for the man grew. He was a decent person in a nasty sport.

I lived on the Indiana side of the Ohio River. No matter which side you approached the running body of water was treacherous. Dad had a low rent cabin cruiser docked on the Indiana shoreline. It leaked pools of water. Any excursion up or down the Ohio meant brother Wayne and I earned coffee can detail – dipping and scooping water then tossing overboard. Occasionally, we’d get to steer the craft on the return sprint home.

The falls is a tourist draw. We’d bike down as kids and walk amongst the reeds and catch the scent of rotting fish decomposing under a blistering sun. This was the place fisherman inhabit. Below the falls there were connecting boulders where serious fisherman wore hip waders allowing them greater access to the prized fish flopping down from above. These small enclaves formed pools imprisoning some of the fattest game.

Near the falls the fishermen were mostly African American. The place was a source of food and good company.

On a late June afternoon in 1960 Stitch was fishing near the falls in his customary hip waders and heard the screams of a distraught voice - a fisherman had fallen into the swirling rapids. Stitch quickly dropped his gear and dove in rescuing the man then struggled to get a grip on the slippery rocks. The weight of the water logged hip waders - filled to the rim - carried him deep below the surface. Stitch drowned that night and so did the hopes for a boxing king from the area. He would go on to be awarded a Carnegie hero.

We usually gauged our commitment to sports heroes through the influential men around us. Dad loved the Boston Celtics with Bob Cousy – Boston Red Sox with Ted Williams –the Yankees with Mickey Mantle. Uncle Bob in Pennsylvania worshiped the Pirates and Steelers - and most everyone around us the Cincinnati Reds. Basketball and baseball are still big local items. Boxing was on the periphery yet it was still a right-of-passage in tenth grade gym class.

I for one wasn’t prepared for this. I could run indefinitely until someone took a plank to my head but protecting it from a well placed fist was a different matter. We’d lace on these oversized boxing gloves and dual it out as part of our grade. I remember getting hit more than plunking my opponent straight on. Plus, I had this tender spot inside that would never allow me embrace a gun or physically bring harm to another. It has got to be genetic. Too many boys around me seemed to delight in bringing the hurt.

By early 1960, a new face was rising in the local sports arena – a young man named Cassius Clay. He’d just won the heavyweight title in Rome and had returned home.

Clay was loud, proud and boisterous.

I was playing organ in a local rhythm and blues band when we got an invite to play at the R.J. Reynolds mansion for a party celebrating the birthday of a young son. The kid must have been around fifteen and out of his skull. We played on the ornate wood veranda and every once in a while I’d catch a glimpse of the drunken teenagers rescue another from drowning in the family pool.

While we’re on break I saw this young black man carrying hedge clippers come nearby. He’d trim a bit and peek around to witness the festivities. The closer he got his distinct shape, form and features were unveiled. Under the soft porch light a familiar face began to shine through. It was Cassius Clay! I wanted to jump the railing and hug the big guy and wish him well and beg him drop in my gym class and beat the snot out of a few choice individuals.

Clay was financed and practically owned by a consortium of high end investors. These were some of the most prominent men in the state of Kentucky.

The civil rights movement was just beginning to challenge the local white temperament. Louisville was a progressive city with a great affinity and respect for the arts. There were sit-ins and banners demanding an end to segregation. Dr. Martin Luther King spoke at a huge rally in Lexington and the serious inspirational tone of his message spread throughout the state. There were restaurants around the city that were still for blacks and whites only.

Clay would find this an affront to his growing popularity and core beliefs. He’d just beat the best athletes in the world and had brought the pride of that victory home for all.

The party ended when Clay was asked to leave a local eatery that refused to serve him. The disgraceful action sent him into battle. We were told he took his Olympic medal center of the bridge connecting Louisville and my home town Jeffersonville and tossed in the rampaging Ohio waters. I remember weeks later riding my bike to the spot where I believed it submerged and stared as if I could spot a reflection of the prized medallion from the river’s bottom floor.

I like so many other young people were beginning to get a feel for American justice, inequities, and the rotting effect of systemic racism.

As Clay began to work his way up the professional ranks beating every opponent along the way with clever footwork and quick hands whites began pleading for his demise. The greater the hatred the more in the face Clay stuck it to them. The poetry – round predictions – the speed at which he delivered blows frustrated his distractors.

Dad, despised and loathe him! He’d recite the garbled poetry and predict the next fight would shut him up. Early on, the fights came fast and ended just as quick. Dad would sit hunched over the radio and give a play by play - round by round narration. “Clay is getting his butt whupped.” Twenty minutes later the fight would be over and the room would still. The big guy now humbled would take the short walk to his bedroom - defeated once again. The silence was more than golden - most welcomed!.

Brother Wayne and I used to pass by Bales Motors car lot on the way to school -the best place to beg for a complete detailed model car. Every once in a while they’d give us a not-so-cool plastic Plymouth. On one occasion we noticed a pink Cadillac in the driveway. We quickly sprinted to the showroom window and noticed a large black man inside and finely dressed man behind the wheel of the Caddy. Wayne starts freaking – “It’s Cassius Clay – it’s him!” That was our cue to pester the champ.

We were both skinny chumps who did more running from fights than holding ground. We cracked the main door and start taunting Clay. “ I can whip you – come on over here.” For a brief period everyone ignored us. So I kept it up , “ Hey Cassius, I can kick your butt – you ain’t fought nobody until you fight us.” Those may not be the exact words but they sure come close. Bam! Clay turns around and runs towards the door and we scatter like a couple of parking lot cockroaches.

“Come back here and say that again,” says Clay. Wayne and I come out of our hiding place shivering as if the man were going to TKO us before we got home. We drift back to the door and slip it open. “ I can whip your butt – everyone knows I can.” Bam! Clay comes at us with wallet in hand. “ I have ten dollars that says you boys won’t step in this room.” He was right. We scattered across the road and found a clear observation locale and watched until the family clock ran out on us - time to go or meet dad in the next three-rounder.

Muhammad Ali was my hero for years to come – he stood against the powers that be and refused induction into the military on religious grounds. He spoke against the Vietnam War. He fought with smarts, class and dignity and celebrated the right causes.

I was thinking about the match-up between Tyson and Ali and know Ali would have beaten Tyson soundly. I’m sure he would have endured some devastating shots but he survived that kind of punishment with the hardest hitter in the ranks – George Foreman and defeated him with intelligence and a brilliant strategy.

I’ve watched those fight films numerous times - Joe Fraizer, Ken Norton, George Foreman - it’s as if I can see the man dodging and slipping punches most would freely collect. Fraizer hurt him and hurt him badly, but somehow Ali recovered and overcame. That big smile – kids all around and a world followed close behind – the planet loved him. Guys like Ali come once in a lifetime. I’m sure glad it happened during mine!

Unlimited Miles

2009-09-23T07:03:00.000-07:00

I can’t think of an artist who has had greater influence over jazz the past fifty years than Miles Davis.

For music, style, language and business, Davis was at the top of the game. One to never step aside and let critics dissuade or impede his aspirations, he constantly retooled his band with the brightest most gifted young players of the moment. There are those who will argue that Charlie Parker, Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie, John Coltrane, Oscar Peterson were equals. But while these artists contributed mightily, Davis took note of what was happening outside the idiom and adapted his music to the world around him. He saw a useful role for electronics. He understood the potential of world rhythms. And he didn’t react like a dilettante to other musical genres. Instead, he embraced rhythm and blues, reggae, funk and hip hop, enhancing the flavor of his own music.

The first live jazz concert I witnessed was a somber evening with the Modern Jazz Quartet in 1962. By all accounts it should have been my last. I’d been listening in earnest to Miles Davis’ “Kind Of Blue’ sinking deeper and deeper into the various nuances and complexities of the music. With each spin came new revelations. Yet there I was, sitting like a prisoner at my first live jazz concert listening to the Modern Jazz Quartet playing a dry sophisticated style of jazz that felt like someone reading from the Yellow Pages. There was no swaggering, no highs or lows - just all the right notes correctly positioned. I wondered if all jazz was as dull as this.

A few months passed, and then Miles came to town (Louisville, Kentucky). Along with him were bassist Paul Chambers, drummer Jimmy Cobb, saxophonist George Coleman and pianist Wynton Kelly. Here was something to get worked up about. I’d been trying desperately to figure out the shifting sequence of chords over the pedal point at the beginning of “Someday My Prince Will Come.” Pianist Wynton Kelly was playing voicings I’d only heard Bill Evans structure. The intro seemed as if it covered the same distance as a normal solo. Kelly kept elevating the tension with each modified harmony. His right hand danced about lyrically, punctuating each tonal shift before segueing into Mile’s muted trumpet. The effect was breathtaking. From that moment it was a play for the heart. The rest of the evening spun through an array of Mile’s collectibles - “So What, Green Dolphin Street, Joshua, All Blues,” and on.

A year or so later Miles returned with an even more delectable unit, this one propelled by drummer Tony Williams. This concert was a sonic blast. People nearby commented on the seemingly radical personnel change and heated interplay. Even tunes like “My Funny Valentine,” had a new-found tension. Herbie Hancock’s keyboard harmonies were darkly dissonant textures that provided Davis with greater options. As the final cymbal crash faded you could sense a feeling of both relief and contentment.

Every band I worked with over the following decade—whether rock, country, pop, rhythm and blues, hippie tie-died, or whatever—the players packed copies of Miles Davis’ most recent recording. When Davis hit with “Miles in the Sky” in 1968, the transformation was underway. Drummer Williams began spinning hard rock rhythms, something unheard of in jazz circles. The next few recordings, “In A Silent Way “ and “Bitches Brew” would permanently alter the course of jazz, opening the gates to more experimental units like Michael White’s Fourth Way, and others. Like nomads in a desert caravan we waited until our point man signalled us forward.

Miles arrived at the now defunct Colonial Tavern in Toronto during the early seventies with a new band and a new sound: Jack DeJonette, Chick Corea, Miroslav Vitous and company. The band played fierce, unrelenting fusion as Davis looked on from off-stage. Towards the set’s conclusion Miles came forward, blew a few notes and retreated. All in a days work.

Miles never retreated musically. “Star People, Decoy, Your Under Arrest, Amandla, Doo Bop,” brought new faces and new sounds. During live performances, Davis began to sink into the background, giving players like John Scofield and Kenny Garrett greater latitude.

The last Davis concert I witnessed was in Toronto at Roy Thomson Hall. Scofield, Robert Irving, Rodney Jones, Bob Berg and a percussionist whose name I can’t recall were present. Davis, dressed in Zorro black attire, tucked himself in a crevice between the main stage speaker cabinets and the stage curtains. He’d occasionally bounce a few select notes from amplified trumpet into the brick wall. Most the evening he stayed buried in the shadows.

Near the end of the set Miles arrives center stage to an outpouring of crowd adulation. The band continues pumping a mesmerizing back beat interrupted at odd intervals by Irving’s synthesizer. Davis was on the prowl. First, he replaces Irving behind the synthesizer for a few stabs at the keyboard. Then he crossed in front of the band. He belched a few notes, paused, and then looked at Berg. Berg received the eye contact as a cue to solo. As soon as Berg unleashed a sheaf of notes Davis places a forearm on his mid-section, silencing the horn. It wasn’t a hard chop but rather, notice to remain in position until otherwise notified.

As if that move wasn’t strange enough, Davis then proceeded to lounge around the percussionist. The fellow sported a broad smile. Davis looked on approvingly then extended a hand in “low-five” position. The player kept smiling. Davis didn’t flinch. Once again he leveled the hand in front of the man. This time the guy accepts the bait. As the fellow goes to slap Mile’s palm, Davis grabbed and locked it in, leaving him to play one-handed. The one hand solo went on an eternity until Davis decided to release it. The scene was weird, but for Davis, nothing out of the ordinary.

Miles Davis’ music is just as popular in 2009 as it was forty years ago. With all of the advancements and innovations he brought to the idiom not much has changed since his departure. For the moment the Neo-cons rule.

How would Miles view the current state of jazz? I don’t think he’d be too approving. Gone are the “techno” experiments he forged with Marcus Miller, back are the post- bebop days of the early sixties. But then again, he may have warmed to the adventuresome duo of Dave Douglas and Joe Lovano. With him, anything was possible.

Lights Out At The El Mocambo

2009-09-22T05:30:00.000-07:00

As one of the first musicians to work the upstairs room, I have mixed feelings about the demise of the venerated night-spot The El Mocambo .

I first played the ‘Elmo’ in 1971 under my own name with a seven-piece fusion jazz/funk aggregate. I'd just released my first side with Capitol Records, "Goodbye Superdad." Who the hell knows what I was thinking with that title. I actually had people come up to me inquiring if it was a soundtrack recording for a Disney movie. The band played a hard-edge funk/jazz style with screaming guitar and bruising B-3 at the forefront. Our paycheck for the week was $2,400, a considerable sum in those early days. As the months passed and the prominence of the club escalated, the upstairs became an international showcase. We eventually slipped downstairs for the next four years--and steady work. The pay never matched the featured performance slot, fluctuating between $1200-1400 a week. Instead of performing for the usual industry and media types we played for college students, friends and neighborhood regulars. There was nothing humbling about that; in fact it was the perfect situation for introducing new bands, players and material.

Over the next couple years I abandoned fusion and introduced reggae music to the club. As usual, the patrons were receptive to change although some of the staff remained uncertain, to the point of bordering on racism.

Two personalities dominated the venue; Reggie Bovaird, the amiable bouncer/doorman/manager and Pat Joyce the crusty yet caring bartender. A third, Keith McCullough bridged the gaps between the more eccentric personalities, bringing a sense of normality.

One situation the El Mocambo had in common with other age-restricted Toronto venues was the depth of its unrepentantly hostile bouncers. A body-toss down the stairs wasn't out of character for some of the beef brains that stood watch over the club. More than a few of these thick-necks faced the courts on assault charges. It was Reggie who kept things under control and in perspective.

Reggie had come over from the Nickelodeon. Everybody knew and respected him - his love and devotion not only for the music but also the musicians. Whether it was Dylan or Zappa, Reggie held court and kept the social thing upbeat and integrated. Pat on the other hand divvied out rare compliments, usually coming only late evening after a full house and fat till.

What really made the El Mocambo such an attraction was the diversity of artists who filled the upstairs. Lord, if I only had a camera then! Mingus, Sonny Rollins, Buddy Guy, Asleep At The Wheel, Roomful of Blues, Ramsey Lewis, The New York Dolls, Howlin' Wolf, Downchild Blues Band; jazz, blues, bluegrass, country-you name it. In fact, I even worked the joint to an ecstatic house with comic Robert Klein. Speaking of comics, how about National Lampoon with Bill Murray, John Belushi, and Gilda Radner doing her best Patty Hearst?

By 1976, I left Toronto for pastures south. When I returned in late 1979, the Elmo had been christened a national shrine. An appearance by the Rolling Stones elevated the reputation of the club to that of a sacred institution.

The music policy had also changed. Jazz and blues were out. Power rock was in while aspiring punks hid in the crevices. Other than a few bright reggae moments and Stevie Ray Vaughan's memorable appearance in 1983, the place began to smell corporate.

It wasn't until I was part of China ( Kearney, King & McBride), a band born on the bottom floor of the club in 1980, that I learned an obscene lesson in booking policy. To play upstairs, bands were now required to pay a fee. CBS doled out $600 for our performance, to be deducted from future recording royalties. When word spread amongst the band members it was met with resentment and anger. We eventually played to a full house but walked away penniless from the gig. The Elmo cleaned up.

The following year I played a couple more weeks down stairs with my ska/reggae unit but the luster had all but faded. The pay in 1982? $1,200! Sound system rental, $750. Some things never change.

As the years advanced the names of bands became less significant. I'd pass the marquee and ask myself who the hell Zoo Flem, Butt Monkey, Violent Spoon, The Nauseous Snake, Toilet Boys, Duck Butter and the Pancakes and the likes were. Gone were tall names like Grover Washington Jr., George Benson, Freddie Hubbard, Little Feat, Bobby "Blue" Bland, and Tom Waits.

While sifting through a box of old cassettes I came across tapes of Kearney, King, McBride and LeBarge recorded downstairs in 1980 and transferred them to Sound Forge then over to CD. The energy and sounds in the room brought back wonderful memories of sweat- and smoke-filled evenings. There were few pickers locally who could match the guitar wizardry of Danny McBride and Bernie Lebarge back then or the cracking rhythms of Paul Delong and Gene Falbo.

One day in 1998, I thought for a moment about sticking my head in the grimy bar for one last sniff at infamy, remembering five wild fun-filled New Year's Eve's rocking the basement crowds. I made the usual right turn into the musty stench and recognized that the room in much the same condition it had always been. What struck me was how far I had come. I could no longer suffer the gruesome dour of stale beer or the sight of the soiled walls. There was little nostalgia here. It made me realize that to a musician, a gig is a gig. Few places ever truly capture the imagination. The Elmo came closest in Toronto solely because of the great musicians who'd preceded the latter day juvenile, inarticulate drones who rendered the institution laughable. Dance on!

JIMI HENDRIX (Deconstructing the Blues)

2009-09-21T16:24:00.000-07:00

The spring of 1967 we rode the rails from Toronto arriving in Penn Station late afternoon. The trip had been a sobering affair after three months of playing such American landmarks as - Flagstaff, Arizona - Des Moines, Iowa - Minneapolis, Minnesota - Amarillo, Texas and Montreal, Michigan. The band, The Great Western Exhibit was about to face the same issues most impromptu acts encounter after weeks of highs then slow descent into group depression. Three out of four of the members discovered the band absent a heartbeat then bolted abandoning me just after an excruciating set at the Café Wha located at the epicenter of Greenwich Village.

In fact, a photograph of that fifteen-year-old chanteuse from Queens named Barbara Streisand stared back at all comers descending the stairway to the inner sanctum. It was here I would encounter Andre, “ The Singing Street Hustler.”

Andre was privy to everything going on up and down Bleecker and McDougall Streets. He knew the bands, shared the women, accompanied the hangers on and fleeced the hopeful. Andre would drag me through unknown night haunts into uncommon situations.

On one such occasion street cleaners were just finishing a morning sweep through the Village and I’d been up most the night starved of sleep - broke and homeless. From around the corner comes Andre dressed like one of those Carnaby Street window mannequins you’d see in a British Mod clothing storefront. With little else to do I match him stride for stride down McDougall ignoring narcissistic rumination and absorbing local gossip. As we turn on to Bleecker Street Andre suddenly pauses, spots this figure attached to two women moving slowly up the street. “Do you who know who that is?” he asks. I inspect in silence. “That’s Jimi James- I mean Jimi Hendrix now, the next big thing in rock and roll. He’s just finished his first album in London and it’s going to be a monster.” I knew nothing of the man other than he sported two fine looking women one on each arm.

Hendrix was dressed in what appeared to be crushed velvet, ornate military jacket, a loosely knotted scarf around the neck and wind-blown Afro. The girls looked as if they’d survived a vigorous shopping spree, every item seemingly purchased at some upscale Manhattan boutique.

Andre glances back and signals me to hang close while he approaches Hendrix. A few choice words pass between them before he summons me. “Bill, this is the man, the next great rock super star, Jimi Hendrix.” I shake ‘The Man’s’ hand and quickly direct my eyes towards the two attractive vixens then start the slow march up Bleecker. Andre asks Hendrix where he’s headed then invites the both of us along. A few minutes later we end up behind a large round oak table in an upstairs café called the Tin Angel next to the Bitter End nightclub. Andre banters on about the recording and release date - his own aspirations to perform while delivering a few sweet words to one of Hendrix’s entourage when a waitress arrives with scratch pad to book orders. This was my cue to exit. Let’s face it. I couldn’t even afford a cube of butter let alone a cut of bread, so I politely excuse myself.

A few weeks pass and I find myself living in a flat at 533 E. Sixth Street and playing organ nightly in the village at a psychedelic coffee house called the Underground. I was hauling down fifteen to twenty-five dollars a night and paying twenty-five a month in rent. “Are You Experienced” hit the streets in May of 1967 like a speeding asteroid with advance orders approaching a million. Everywhere I gaze Hendrix’s face stares back at me. “Purple Haze” and “Foxy Lady” blare from basement record stores, radio and stereos from street level to tenement roofs. Andre was right, Hendrix would not only quickly impact the Flower and Peace generation but every young rock and roll lover across North America.

A year or so would pass and I find myself back in New York after a stint in California. I land a job with a band called the Chicago Loop which had a regional hit with a song of no consequence. The lead singer, Bob Slawson was a frequent visitor to Steve Paul’s Scene an uptown night spot where anyone who was anyone in the music business hung out - in great contrast to the chic patrons at Max’s Kansas City where Warhol and his gang of art warriors bunked.

After a featured band performed a formulated set the all night jam sessions kicked in. I dropped by a few times and sat in on Hammond B-3 organ - once with the New York Rock and Roll Ensemble - another night with a list of dreaded unknowns.

I happen to slip in one night when the Buddy Miles Express was winding down. Miles was a member of the Electric Flag eventually moving into Hendrix’s Band of Gypsies after drummer Mitch Mitchell’s departure. Miles had Mitchell playing alongside this night adding an extra degree of thunder to an already rampaging band. I waited until the group took a break and slipped in close proximity of the Hammond B-3 organ. Herb Rich, Mile’s organist had first crack at the drawn out jam session leaving me drooling in anticipation. Once Rich departed I began my slide onto the bench when I was abruptly met by Miles - who then shuffled me aside. By this time the front line unit was led by singer guitarist Terry Reid and guitarists Larry Coryell and Ron Wood. I waited patiently as Miles clung to the only two chords he knew before he relented.

With the door of opportunity open I lit up every groove with my best sonic licks. I twisted and bent notes then pumped out the ritual backing patterns all organist learn when playing roots rhythm & blues. With little fanfare a changing of the guard occurs just in back of me. Suddenly, a dangling frilly cuff from what looks to be some Edwardian garment brushes past my face. I quickly spin my head around for a glimpse. As if struck by an errant lightening bolt I do an instant double take. It was “The Man” himself, Jimi Hendrix about to play the same kind of probing bass lines he did on his own recordings. I couldn’t help notice Hendrix holding the bass upside down, strings facing the opposite way. Over the next twenty minutes or so I ride the pulse tossing in a few modal chords just to shift the tonal center. Coryell and Wood try one-upping each other even going as far as tossing in a few lines from Freddy King’s blues anthem, “Hideaway “. For one long exhilarating stretch it’s Larry Coryell, Mitch Mitchell, Hendrix and me deconstructing the blues.

The night ends with a few hand slaps and Buddy Miles offering to hook me up with a rhythm & blues band in San Diego, one he once propelled. For me the night would never end. Even after falling into the dark embrace of sleep I replayed each note and every missed opportunity until dawn intercedes wiping away all evidence I had shimmered during the night of stars.

Chuck Berry Scares Me!

2009-09-21T10:11:00.000-07:00

I’d been hanging around the musicians local in Hollywood in 1968 looking for a gig or gigs when this guy named “Scooby,” if you can believe that, mentions Chuck Berry was in need of players for a concert at the L.A. Exhibition center.

“Scooby” was this older than most hippies guy who couldn’t get a handle on the love generation but liked the perks. He played saxophone and did a few pit gigs the most memorable being hired to play behind the Temptations. In fact, he was the only horn facing a fully orchestrated score calling for eight to ten horns. He professed it to be the scariest night of his life. “Just play the parts mofuck…” He’d been awarded this non job with the union to bring the rock guys back to camp union. Many could care less about being members.

Anyway, I wandered in hoping to find any kind of work – shoot pool–chat it up with the employed studio musicians who hung around between session calls and pretended to be in the middle of things. Scooby intervened announcing – Chuck Berry was in need of a band and Scoob was hiring.

I quickly got on the vine and called the players I’d been rehearsing with who were to be the foundation of Linda Ronstadt’s new band, me being the music director - that in itself another story. In short – Linda went to the beach a lot and I looked on like a mute smitten with Cinderella. Man was she a beauty!

I get the band to commit and show up ready to roar for Chucky. First band up, the original edition of Fleetwood Mac with Peter Green, second – the Chambers Brothers. Forty minutes into the Chambers Brothers set I was ready to rip the throbbing cowbell out of the front man’s hand and scream “Time” ….is Up!” It may have been a cool song for a minute or three but a heavy dose of "Time" was more than this vagrant piano man could withstand.

Here comes Chuck! Give it up.

Now, you must keep in mind Chuck didn’t rehearse or spring a set list on you. So I stood back and watched the roadies haul his psychedelic stained Fender Dual Showman on stage in front of ten thousand screaming reefer-sucking teenagers.

Soon, an old upright piano is rolled in placed. I looked on and thought, “That must be for me. I asked myself if one could actually hear this thing beyond your mother’s living room. I scanned the crowd for sweet faces, something as gorgeous as Ronstadt.

Chuck shows side stage wearing this magnetic looking blue Nehru shirt. Now, I’d owned a dozen custom made Nehru’s with clean ribbon design – cut nicely for me from the Mercury Gift Shop in the East Village in lower Manhattan. Chuck had one that could have only come from the B.F. Goodyear Thrift Shop next door to Uncle Phil’s Process Parlor. Berry could have lit the heavens on this occasion with that shirt.

Just as we were about to climb into position pianist Barry Goldberg and drummer Eddie Hoh emerge. Goldberg cuts me off and announces he’s replacing me on orders from Chuck. This catches me off guard. I think for a minute then tell Goldberg to bring Chuck over and we’d work things out. Goldberg fires back, “Look man, Eddie and I played with Chuck last night in Chicago and flew all the way out here to play with him.” Another pause then I ask, “ How much is he paying you?” Goldberg shoots back, “ We’re here because we want to be and Chuck wants us.” I respond, “We’re here because we’ve been hired, get lost.” Case closed!

Goldberg sniffs around Chuck trying to draw him into the line of fire. Chuck looks back and says, “I don’t care who’s on the stage just long as they play the shit right.”

Goldberg loses it starts telling me how he’d make sure I’d be forever out of work in L.A. Hell, I didn’t even know anyone who had a job. Who could he tell, the folks at the Spot Dog Diner, the home of the ten-cent corndog - my favorite hangout? Eventually, Goldberg backs off and fades away.

Chuck kicks things off louder than a rampaging diesel. Berry’s amp was so distorted it was difficult separating chords through what must have been a busted speaker cone.

The next fifty minutes we hit nirvana. Every song had a piano solo and an approving nod from above. I can’t express how elated I was. The crowd stomped, hooted, rocked and rolled. Berry finished the dynamic set with “My Ding-A-Ling.”

I left the stage feeling like I’d conquered the west coast - from here, second keyboard with the Doors?

As we patiently wait to get paid a hundred crisp greenbacks I thought maybe conversation with Chuck would be appropriate. Three words in. No response.

Chuck continues counting “Four thousand one hundred and seventy, four thousand one hundred and eighty, four thousand one hundred and ninety. “Wait a minute, you shorted me ten dollars.” The ordeal repeats itself. Promoter A recounts the stacks to the dollar. Chuck counts his own way and comes up ten short. After an hour of haggling Promoter B says, who gives a shit - give the cheapskate another ten.

Now came our pay check. Chuck, without looking up lays four hundred dollar bills aside and begins scooping his personal stash. Like a fool I think the time is ripe to get acquainted so I say, “ So, I guess you’re taking the band out for steaks.” Berry gives me a look I’ll never forget to this day. Let me put it in words. “ Get lost loser before I torch your head - shrink wrap it in my vinyl Nehru shirt - and feed to starving pit bulls. Excuse me, I have a plane to catch.”

Suddenly, a gig panhandling seemed more realistic.

Thoughts on James Brown

2009-09-20T15:53:00.000-07:00

James Brown can take his rightful place alongside Coltrane, Miles, Ellington, the Beatles, Marvin Gaye, Ray Charles, Otis and the giants. The guy had a remarkable music and business mind - a one of a kind way of hearing.

I first caught Brown live back in 1964 with cape - three drummers and two bass players. I was playing a prom at the coliseum in Louisville, Kentucky in a side room while Brown inhabited center stage in the sports arena. What a spectacle - the place burned with female shrieks and thundering rhythm. I'd never heard a band play with such precision outside the Basie band.

That summer we followed Brown into Club Cherry in Lebanon, Kentucky with the Shadows - a cover band playing mostly rhythm and blues classics of the day. Club Cherry was this black music venue residing next to a long stretch of railroad tracks. The decor was all things dim and walls sticky with tobacco stains and evaporating body sweat. Upon entry, one of the first sightings was two large glass canisters - one with three or four left behind pickled pigs feet submerged in what appeared to be pond water and the other showcasing a preserved pig snout in proximnity of the cashier. Posters of Arthur Prysock, Count Basie, Lowell Fulsom, Cab Calloway graced the walls. Bands shared dressing quarters with the owner who on this occasion failed to sweep away a recently spent condom. Soiled clothing and the smell of fresh pomade challenged the nasal passages.

The stage where Brown worked his magic was not at all the dimensions you'd expect, leaving one to believe floor space down front served that purpose. On this night two fights broke out that were swift and memorable. One guy took a solid shot to the backside from a kitchen chair and kick to the head. Justice served. I remember thinking how unruly and bizarre the week must have been with Brown in attendance.

The local white clubs were jammed with beer swilling teenagers more intent on inviting a ruptured liver than a shot of music. Club Cherry was all about sex and music. In which order depended on how magnificent the hair doo shaped up and smooth delivery. Over at Club 69 the white boys were like vultures hovering over potential sex meat waiting until the last chick fell unconscious after drowning in a vat of near beer.

Fast-forward to the mid-nineties when Brown was booked into the Masonic Temple in Toronto. The late Toronto impresario Gino Empry was Brown's PR man for the occasion. My wife Kristine and I jumped all over the offer to attend the press conference with cameras in hand. The place was dominated by television crews so we decided to split up and shoot from opposing sides.

Brown eventually held court. I snapped a few shots when suddenly Brown singles me out, "Who says you can be taking pictures of me ...did I ask you?" At first, I was startled by the remark then ignored him. He then turns to Kristine and says ." Pretty thing you can shoot as many pictures as you want." Needless to say - I copped as many indiscreet shots as I could.

Nothing matched the concert images. The room was a suffocating hundred degrees and hundred per cent humidity. Both Kristine and I shot from down front but the cramped surroundings sent me into near panic for air. We relocated upstairs and caught some wonderful concert frames and enjoyed one of the best concerts ever. The foundation shook.

The ensuing years I have found myself buying early Brown sides reacquainting myself with the complex rhythm patterns - the inside horn lines that are at the core of his sound. Brown camped on the offbeat's a most unusual place to inject a clever twist of a phrase. We used to play many of the ‘Live at the Apollo’ tracks in the sixties in various bands but few musicians ever played the arrangements note for note.
Prince is the grandest disciple of Brown. He uses the same measured techniques building from the bottom up.

It's funny how we collectively say - we will truly miss the man - but in reality he'll never be gone. Like Ray Charles the music will linger an eternity. Brown was crazy as hell and did some wild ass things but it's still the music not the silliness that was his strong suit. That's how powerful his impact on all of us has been.

I met several players around Los Angles in the 60's and 70's who worked as sideman for Brown. This was no picnic. The gig was demanding and paid a paltry sum. Brown carved out minuscule stage real estate for each band member. If one strayed outside allotted territory one could expect a fine and tongue lashing - the same for wrong notes, miscues and stage wear. The man ruled a tight kingdom and kept his bands in prime shape. He was never less than perfection.

JB dance in peace! Bill King - ejazznews.com

In Session with Kinga Victoria: Pt.1

2009-09-19T10:51:00.000-07:00

I’d been working weeks for this day. The day when I could draw drummer Mark Kelso, bassist Duncan Hopkins and guitarist Rob Piltch back in the studio for another go round.

I produced four sides on Kinga last season hoping to eventually put all of this together as a complete recording. The past year and half Victoria has been a cornerstone of the singing quartet Real Divas. She possesses are warm, soulful voice that could easily turn a blue note or play it straight. I’ve been encouraging her to hit the groove button and try for more rhythmic guided songs – tunes with solid meaning and flexible enough to both inspire and showcase her prodigious talent. This is new territory yet never once has Victoria flinched.

During our search we came across Randy Newman’s - “I Think It’s Gonna Rain Today” – James Brown’s version of - ‘It’s Magic” – Dinah Washington’s “This Bitter Earth” and Latin version of “What a Difference a Day Made” - Bill Wither’s - “ Ain’t No Sunshine.” These are songs set in stone. The real challenge is to bring something new to the table. These are songs Victoria feels, words she can play intimate. I could tell during our first practice sessions the voice fit comfortably around the rich melodies and could deliver a heartfelt interpretation of the lyrics. My chore was to craft arrangements with a slight bent that would offer fresh ground to cover.

The next few weeks were spent in the basement with piano, laptop, Finale 8, printer, headphones – YouTube, Kingston Data Traveler and all of the gifts morning brings. That’s my time to create – nothing enters the mind beyond the sound of music – harmony, melody, rhythm, possibilities. I love the immersion process. It’s quiet time – the brain only receives that which comes with color and potential.

I keep pads of manuscript paper nearby when a quick line or chord sequence needs documentation. Then I cram into the measures on the laptop. I never see anything with finality until a day before entering the studio. Everything is open to revision.

With six songs in preparation we were still in need of two additional numbers. These had to be compositions with flare and tempo. I just happen to have a duo CD set of Mose Allsion tracks from the late fifties and early sixties. We need go no farther.

Viva Cuba

2009-09-19T10:06:00.000-07:00

Viva Cuba!

Photographers: Stephen, Smith, Kris King, Roger Humbert and Bill King

A couple weeks back I had the good fortune to team with fellow photo jockeys for an exhibition of Cuban images at Dundas Square, Toronto. This is in the heart of downtown produced by lens master Stephen Smith.

Smith had been plugging away for weeks organizing and printing. We even took a moment and dropped by Pikto for a most successful afternoon session of printing in the Distillery District.

Smith and a select gang of scribes and accomplices traveled to Havana together in the spring of 2006. The week long affair produced many respectable images and more laughs than guaranteed. Havana is one of those locales no matter which direction you point a camera something interesting gets stored away.

For Kristine and me it was a juggling game bouncing between concert photography and music demands. It all came together on a brilliant September Friday. I could tell from the early morning set-up this was to be a joyous occasion.

Most exhibitions occur in small controlled environments. Outdoors in a tent poses its own limitations. Much to do with hanging objects out of the path of a steady fall breeze.

Fortunately, the day became one of frequent visitors all inspecting every corner of the images. Fellow Cubans tracked neighborhoods pointing at intersections and houses – all too familiar. Others lost themselves in the dancing girls from the Tropicana – still others in the music and landscape.

I’ve attached a recent article describing the day. There’s nothing like sharing a bit of oneself with faces never seen. Most endearing!

http://www.travelindustrytoday.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=2343&Itemid=28

True Compass Edward M. Kennedy

2009-09-19T08:34:00.000-07:00

For autobiographies this one arrives with a soft touch. It's a boy's recollection of early life within a vibrant, competitive yet respectful family structure. Joy abounds as the youngest Kennedy experiences the day to day exchanges with sisters, brothers and a stern yet giving father. Much is expected. Humility abounds. I'm early on in this marvelous recollection of summers in Cape Cod - sailing and misadventures but savoring every passage.

Bill