The Young Man From Down Beat - Part 1

 There was jazz in St. Louis. Lots of jazz. I was a 28-year-old neophyte copywriter at a small ad agency. I had been in love with jazz ever since I got my first 33 1/3 LP…back in the vinyl days…Benny Goodman and the 1938 Carnegie Hall Jazz Concert on Columbia Records. I still know every note, every drum break, the next song. The music is still magic for me. And I have the album cover, framed and on my wall.

St. Louis had several jazz clubs, ranging from elegant down to  seedy. I liked the seedy clubs. Where people talked in low voices, occasionally laughed loudly, clinked their ice cubes in their watered-down drinks, smoked cigarettes and even cigars. Never saw a pipe, though. But it didn’t matter where I was as long as there were jazz musicians on the stand.

Most of the clubs had a low cover charge. I was short on money. I thought if I tell them I’m stringing for Down Beat I’d get in for nothing. It worked. And I would give them a good mention in my column. I was a king maker, like Walter Winchell or Earl Wilson (look those names up; they’re part of American cultural history).

This is Part 1 of a 3-parter, pulled from the pages of my March 28, 1963 Down Beat which I keep in an envelope in the basement. This happened to be the 7th Annual Percussion Issue, with a “Spotlight on Drums: Elvin Jones. Chico Hamilton. Barry Miles. Kenny Clarke.” 

There’s a full-page ad on page 1 for Ludwig Drum Company, with a terrific picture of Joe Morello. He was the incredible drummer for the Dave Brubeck Quartet for many years. Next time you listen to Dave and Paul, listen closely for what Joe is doing. 

There are ads in there for Horace Silver, Ahmad Jamal (the cat still plays!), Ellington, Roach and Mingus together, and a Blindfold Test with Shelly Manne. That’s where the cat tries to guess what artist he’s listening to. Shelly didn’t do well on the test, but he laid out an interesting quote: “I like to listen to music, not only with my ears and my brain and my eyes, but I have to listen with my heart too.”

 

 

Now I’ll tell you about St. Louis. My contribution was placed between Philadelphia and Chicago. It starts off like this:

“Name jazz in this area is currently headquartered at Gino’s, a west-end club open since Thanksgiving. The attractions have included Sonny Stitt, Dakota Staton, The Three Sounds, Stan Getz, John Coltrane, Roland Kirk, and Herbie Mann. Sonny Rollins is scheduled next….Buddy Moreno did a guest stint for a march of Dimes telethon that included Rosemary Clooney, Eddie Bracken, and Virginia Graham…The Dark Side led off the new policy with King Pleasure…Harry Frost, KADY radio, did an unprecedented two-hour interview-with-music with Stan Getz.”

I met Stan Getz one night, with his young son, Steve, who had accompanied him on this trip. I thought the two of them would enjoy seeing some of St. Louis, so I suggested to Stan that he and I and his son go to the zoo. The next day, that’s exactly what we did. A magical day, for me and I think for them. We had dinner, pizza I think. And, I hope I’m not imagining this, stopped at Ted Drewes. Happy to say, Stan and I remained friends for the rest of his life. I saw him in Malibu, many years later, when his cancer was in remission. He wanted me to go swimming with him in the cold Pacific water, said it was good for his health. I declined, not particularly fond of swimming in really cold water. Now, looking back from three decades, I wish I had plowed into the waves with him, cold or not. Sometimes you just have to grab it when you can. Stan died about a year later.

So that’s jazz ala Down Beat for March of 1963. I’ll be back with more. Stay cool. As Duke would say, “Love you madly.”

Take Your Good Intentions and Shove Them

 I've been cleaning out files. At least attempting to. But it's difficult to avoid getting caught up in reading some of the stuff I've written over the years. Make that "over the decades." I came across this one, written in 2010. I share it now with you. Remember, I'm 12 years older now, but the sentiment still holds. Probably  more emphatically.

....GOOD INTENTIONS....

I've reached that time of my life when I'm a little sensitive about my age. Granted, I can't do anything about how old I am, but I can do something about how I'm treated by young people. So, if you're under fifty - that's young - and you're a waiter or salesperson or someone I meet, here's what you should know.   When you look at me, I know what's going through your mind. You're thinking, "You're old." You're thinking, "I've gotta wait on this old fart and make him feel good."

Well, I can't help what you're thinking, but I can tell you what not to say or do. First of all, when I'm waiting to be helped at a store, don't say "How can I help you, young man?" That just reeks of bs. It tells me you see an old man standing in front of you. We both know you mean, "How can I help you, you confused old fool?" And don't look down at my fly to see if it's zipped up. I'm not at that stage yet, when I walk around with the breeze blowing between my legs.

Another thing: If I'm standing on a bus or the subway, and you're sitting, don't offer me your seat. If I was able to walk to the bus stop or the station and could step up to get on, I'm sure able to stand here for a few stops. And if you're staring at my fly as you sit there, and it's open, I'm not forgetful. I'm just airing it out. My choice.

Let's talk about food. If you're waiting on me at Denny's or IHOP, just hand me the menu, tell me about your specials, then leave me alone while I decide. Don't turn the menu over and point out the Senior Specials. That just makes me want to puke. When I order two eggs over easy, a side of bacon, a short stack of pancakes, and coffee, resist the urge to tell me I can order the Senior Slam or the Golden Platter for only $4.99 and I get hashed browns with it. Between you and me,, pal, I hate your greasy hashed browns. Even a 20-year-old stud or beauty like yourself would be hard pressed to digest that mess.   

And what I said about Senior Special goes double for the Early Bird Special. When I eat at 4:30, I call that lunch.

Another thing. When I'm in the cereal aisle at the supermarket, trying to decide between Cheerios and bite-sized Shredded Wheat, don't point out that high fiber crap to me. I know fiber is good for you. Unless you're Rip Van Winkle, there's no way anyone can escape the benefits of fiber. If I have trouble with my bowels, I'll go to Steak 'n Shake for a bowl of chili and a chocolate shake. That takes care of my problem and I can still enjoy my Cheerios and Shredded Wheat.

When I need a new pair of pants - not jeans, but big-boy pants - I'll probably go to Macy's or Target and look for something pretty sharp. Please, I beg of you, don't ever suggest I try on a pair of Sansabelt pants. Who do I look like, Ed McMahon? The only reason he wears Sansabelt is because he gets paid to.

Here's what you need to understand. There's a difference between being old and getting older. As soon as a little baby is born, he or she is getting older. You're getting older even as you sit there. You'd better hope you keep getting older for as long as you can, because when you stop getting older, it's all over. I don't think of myself as being old. I'm just getting older. A little slower perhaps, a little hard of hearing, takes longer to get up from sitting on the floor. But am I an old man? No Way!

One last thought: If you're a doctor and I'm in intensive care, and the priest is waiting to give me final rites - and I realize just how serious it is because I'm not even Catholic - don't come into my room in your white coat and stethoscope and gung-ho smile and say, "We'll have you up and running in no time." I'm not a Lexus. I'm a Chevy with a lot of miles, and I never ran well to begin with.

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