Big Doings in New York City. Down Beat #2

 There was a column in each issue of Down Beat called Strictly Ad Lib. Stringers from up to a dozen cities, in the U.S. and Europe, submitted news and bookings about jazz in their cities. I covered St. Louis, and there was always something going on to keep me busy. The issue I refer to here is September 12, 1963.

First, however, to give you a taste of some of the musicians and vocalists that personified jazz in the U.S. during the early 60’s, here’s who were mentioned in the New York item, both as playing in NY or were leaving or arriving from gigs in other parts of the world.

Cannonball Adderley returned from Japan. His sextet was unforgettable: Brother Nat, Lateef, Zawinul, Sam Jones, Hayes. Count Basie left for a tour of Scandinavia. Art Taylor departed for Paris. In NY, you could hear Randy Weston & his 12-piece band; Machito and his 16-piece band; Horace Silver with Blue Mitchell, Junior Cook, Gene Taylor, Roy Brooks, Sonny Red, Chick Corea. Wow!! At the Village Gate: Herbie Mann, Roland Kirk, Lambert-Hendricks-Bavan, the Coleman Hawkins quartet. Charlie Mingus. Nina Simone. Odetta. Around town, there were Max Roach, Abbey Lincoln, the Gerry Mulligan quartet (w/Bob Brookmeyer, Bill Crow, Dave Bailey). Bill Evans with Gary Peacock at the Village Vanguard. (I spent a lot of nights at the Vanguard on my frequent business trips to NY. Especially on Monday nights for the big band. The place was always jammed).



Okay. Enough about New York.

But you’ve got to admit, it’s a who’s who of the jazz world and jazz history. Following NY in the column came DENMARK, then TORONTO. 

Then a rundown of jazz in ST. LOUIS. 

Nancy Wilson packed them in at a new downtown club, Jazz Villa. Jorge Martinez ran the place, booked the acts. Scheduled to follow were Junior Mance, Joe Williams, Gerry Mulligan. The big names in town quickly give way to local names, some incredibly good musicians that called St. Louis home. Dave Venn, piano. Lee Hyde, trumpet. Ralph DeRousse, bass. Harry Stone, drums. Also Tommy Strode, John Mixon, Gene Gammage, Herb Kaufman. Jim Bolen.  Singleton Palmer, keeper of the New Orleans flame.

A couple of news items deserve mention here. First, a West Coast bassist,

Curtis Counce, died at the age of 37, of a heart attack. Curtis was born in Kansas City and became one of the few Black musicians to play with Shorty Rogers Giants. The other news item announced the closing of two well-known jazz clubs: Nick’s, the Dixieland spot in New York’s Greenwich Village; and the Black Hawk in San Francisco.

I had been at both clubs over the years. Nick’s was a hangout for Eddie Condon’s fabulous Dixieland group. I was there one night when a guy sat down next to me at the bar. We started talking during the break and he told stories about growing up in the music world. It was Max Kaminsky, the Dixieland trumpet player. He had just written a book, happened to have copies at the club there, I bought one, he signed it…and I still have it.

Now about the Black Hawk. I moved to San Francisco in 1960, following two years in the Army. The Black Hawk was part of my routine and I heard some great jazz there. The ones I remember are Cal Tjader, Stan Getz, Shelly Manne, Horace Silver. And, I think, Dave Brubeck. Oh, to be able to go back to those days, to those clubs, to hear those giants.

One more tidbit from that issue: the Blindfold Test, featuring bassist Ray Brown. He struggled a bit, trying to name the groups.

But I love this comment about jazz in general: 

“…I would go and listen to Charlie Parker or Lester Young, and I would retain a certain amount of what they played - I would wake up the next morning and be able to play it on my bass - plus the fact that rarely did Bird play a whole lots of, like 25, choruses. Those guys said what they had to say, and that was it.”

I love that. Talk about attitude. I saw Ray two or three times with Oscar Peterson and the trio. In fact, I have Ray’s autograph in an autobiography of Oscar. Never got Oscar’s though.

That ends this set. Stay safe, be well. See you next time. Sadie and I will be expecting you.

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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THE DREADED CURSE OF IMPULSE BUYING

     They know how to sell us stuff we neither want nor need, but we buy anyway. It’s there, all spread out for us like a garden of delights. The trap is set. We have to pass by it. Or, worse, stand next to it while waiting our turn. 

     You probably know I’m talking about check-out lanes at just about any store. The disease they’ve learned to profit from is “impulse buying.” It happens so easily, attracts us so effortlessly. 

      Recently I was standing in line at Ace Hardware. I held a 2-pack of halogen light bulbs and a jar of gopher and mole poison pellets, “Guaranteed to rid my yard” of these burrowing creatures. Two people stood in front of me, so I kept my proper social distance. Next to me was an assortment of hard and soft candy in bars and bags, salty snacks, colorful bracelets, action figures with little or no action, small plastic animals, insulated cups…the variety was impressive. Like a mini-Woolworth’s. Remember, this was a  hardware store. Nails and screws and pliers I would have understood, but this was far out of the category of hardware.

     I’ve got to confess here. I am a sucker for temptation, a victim of suggestion, a consumer of the unnecessary. It usually manifests itself with a sudden need for sugar or salt or something crunchy or chewy.  Even an occasional gadget that I didn’t realize how badly I needed it until I saw it was “New, Tested, Guaranteed, and Essential.” Guaranteed for what, it didn’t say. Those people have my number.

 
     So I bought a bag of licorice tidbits at Ace, “soft, chewy, delicious.” They were made in New Zealand or somewhere not usually associated with licorice. Switzer’s I would’ve understood. I ate three pieces in the car, then pitched the bag into the trash can when I got home. I probably should have given them to the gophers and moles in my yard. That would have speeded them along to a soft, chewy death.

     The good people who design floor plans for retail stores most certainly keep a psychiatrist or two on staff. They have read us like a book, know what our weak spots are, and probably have a list of categories with projections of sales and inventory turnover. These are most certainly connected to the type of retail outlet in which they’ve been installed. Ace Hardware has different customer profiles from Best Buy, which are different from Schnuck’s and Walgreen’s and Bed, Bath and Beyond. Maybe those impulse items are what “Beyond” means. Further, they all seem to feature a wide variety of gum. Ever notice that? Every configuration of gum is displayed in this impulse purgatory. If you need to chew, you’ll find it here.

     Possibly the most fascinating category for me is the magazines. I have learned things about public figures I never see in the New York Times or Wall Street Journal. Just put me in a slow-moving line at checkout and I’ll be up-to-date on who’s getting a divorce or has a drug problem or is pregnant or has been messing around. I’m tired of reading about Prince Harry and Meghan and George Clooney and J. Lo and Ben and even Elvis. People I’ve never heard of fascinate me. Usually young celebrities who have gone viral for some unbelievable reason. It’s really hard not to read this stuff. Maybe that’s part of the reason reality TV shows are so popular. And I would know nothing about them if it weren’t for their accessibility at a vulnerable time. We’ve become a TikTok nation.     

     Impulse purchases are not relegated to just the checkout line, of course. If you go food shopping without a carved-in-stone shopping list, you’re guaranteed to put a few extra items in your cart. Recently I went to get a half-gallon of 2% milk. I got it, along with a half-gallon of Oatmeal milk (“Made with organic oats”) and a half-gallon of chocolate milk (“Omega-3 Supports Brain Health”). That sounded pretty good, but there’s no way I can drink them all before they expire. I will finish the chocolate milk however.

                             This column was published in the current issue of                                                     County Living Magazine (Fall 2021) 

The Serendipitous Effect of the Second Banana

That's a pretty heavy title. Here's why it's relevant. 

 I think another word for what happened is "synchronicity." That's when events - in this instance, two events - appear at the same time but there is no logical connection that might have caused it. Carl Jung came up with this concept. He was a pretty smart guy with some stimulating ideas about you and me and everyone else. 

    What I'm about to tell you could also be classified under the chapter called "Coincidence." That's an easy way to dismiss any deeper interpretation. We've all had those, right? Okay, enough preamble.

    I wrote a column recently for County Living Magazine. It was about Second Bananas. The title was "Whatever Happened to Those Second Bananas?" Maybe you read it in the magazine, or on this blog a couple weeks ago. Second Bananas is not a subject you see very often. The printed version of the magazine was due off the press, and I was waiting to get my copies.

   

Yesterday - a Sunday - I was reading the New York Times, deeply engrossed in the Arts and Leisure section. The lead article was "Saying Goodnight To the Sidekick." The subject was Andy Richter, who was the sidekick for Conan. He said his job is like a dog or goat who is paired with a horse to keep it calm. "I'm the goat," he said.

    Two more articles were inside that section. One had more about the various sidekicks, and one was titled "The Top Second Banana Moves On." That was about Richter. Captivated by the Second Banana headline, I was just starting to read that article when there was a knock at my door.  I opened the door and there stood Todd Abrams, the publisher and editor of County Living Magazine. In his hands he carried a stack of the latest edition, the one with my Bananas column. Todd believes in excellent personal service, which is one reason why his magazine is so professional and worthwhile.

    So there I stood, the Times in one hand, the magazine in the other. This was synchronicity of the first order. Jung would have said, "See? I told you." I showed Todd the newspaper. Not just to let him know how impeccable my timing had been, but to provide proof that such things still happen, even in this digital, distanced, techno world. Or, perhaps, maybe because of it. 

    Here's my suggestion to you: Keep your mind and heart open for connections you may never have guessed at, for unexpected meetings beyond your imagination, for a direct link to the forces that are out there. They are watching us, listening to us, and just waiting to connect us, if only we let them in.

    
Here is a link to the Second Bananas blog I posted in June.

http://heyyouhoser.blogspot.com/2021/06/whatever-happened-to-those-second.html

 

     

Whatever Happened to Those Second Bananas

    I passed a diner recently in Washington, Missouri. Wimpy’s Sandwich Shop. I didn’t stop but the name stayed with me as I continued driving, headed back to St. Louis.

Wimpy. Here was one of the great characters of the comics, Popeye’s buddy. I assume Popeye is still around, in one media format or another. But Wimpy seems to have faded away, remembered only by his hamburgers. Frankly, I could never understand this duo: Popeye was energetic with big muscles and ate spinach from the can. Wimpy was overweight, wore ugly ties, picked up discarded cigars, and ate hamburgers. Still, they were buddies. Wimpy was Popeye’s straight man. He was the “Second Banana.”

    I love that designation: Second Banana. As compared to Top Banana. The term originated in burlesque as a designation for comedians. The Second Banana’s role was to make the Top Banana look good.

         That set me wondering about other forgotten or discarded Second Bananas. I’m sure you know Porky Pig. But do you remember his girl friend? If you said “Petunia,” you win a pound of bacon. Introduced in 1937 by animator Frank Tashlin at Warner Brothers, Petunia went from co-star to minor roles to a discarded has-been several years later. A sad story indeed. I think Porky had feelings for her, but wonder if he still thinks of his lost love. I hope Petunia has found happiness playing bridge or bingo with friends at a pig-friendly retirement facility.

    Minnie Mouse fared much better. Maybe because Disney had a more compassionate heart than Jack Warner. I was not a big fan of Minnie but was pleased to learn that she and Mickey got married, in 1933. Unfortunately it didn’t happen on-screen. But Walt attested to their tying the knot, off-screen. Seemed the American thing to do back in those days. I’m still waiting for news of their children. Assuming they had them. Mice are prolific.
   

One of my personal favorites in the Disney stable is Donald Duck. He has an edgy, out-of-control personality that I appreciate. It took a special woman to love him. Her name was Daisy, who appeared in 1940. I’m happy to report that Daisy continues to enjoy a film career, and is still married to Donald. All’s well that ends well, even in Duckville.
    Other Second Bananas come to mind: Robin (Batman), Elmer Fudd (Bugs Bunny), Barney (Fred Flintstone), BooBoo (Yogi Bear), Tigger (Pooh). And the list goes on. My apologies if I’ve omitted your favorite. They all helped further the careers of the Top Bananas but somehow got lost in the dust of memory and competition.

    Which brings me to a most interesting group of Second Bananas - the Seven Dwarfs.

When Snow White met these little guys, they assumed an important role in this beloved story, made popular by Disney in 1937. But how did it all end? Snow White and The Prince get together and ride into the sunset on a magnificent steed, leaving behind her seven little friends. “So long, it’s been good to know ya.”? Sorry, Snow. Not acceptable.

    For the record, their names (to refresh your memory) are: Happy, Bashful, Sneezy, Grumpy, Doc, Sleepy and Dopey. Those were the names Walt gave them anyway. In the original story of Snow White, the Brothers Grimm didn’t name the little fellows. Walt named them, then had his animators create characters to match the names. I don’t know the back story on these guys. Maybe a bowling team or folk-rock band. But they got together in that mine and were a supportive group for Snow. They gave each other purpose in that cute cottage. My thoughts are with the dwarfs occasionally, as I try to imagine what life brought them later. They had a cameo in a couple of the “Shrek” movies, but nothing after those.
    Today I can see them at Golden Mines Manor, “Assisted Living for Retired Miners.” Though much older now, with a hint of memory loss for Grumpy and Sleepy, they are in relatively good health. Once a month they get together and sing for the residents. “Hi-Ho” is the most requested tune, followed by “Who’s Afraid of the Big, Bad Wolf.” Dopey has written his autobiography, “Hear Me Talking: Stories from the Mines.” Sneezy and Bashful recently took first place in the Manor’s pickle ball tournament. Happy felt jilted by Snow and is now dependent on anti-depressants. But he looks happy. Doc learned to play the banjo and is a big hit at the monthly manor gatherings. “Snow White” is a name they rarely speak, but each day they look for a post card, a letter, anything from “those magical days.”
    The life of a Second Banana is a lesson for us: Enjoy your lot and just be glad you got in the game.
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Mugged by a Gang of Coffee Cups

    The other morning I realized my situation was out of control. As usual, I shuffled from my bedroom to the kitchen. Objective: Coffee. I didn’t even notice if the usual enclave of birds was feasting at my bird feeders, or if they needed seed. First things first.
   So, into the coffee maker - filter, Community Coffee New Orleans Blend, and cold water. Push the “on” button and wait. This part was easy. Predictable. The next step proved more complicated, even stressful. I opened the cabinet door to grab a cup.

 

   I stopped and stared helplessly at the shelf. At the cups. That’s when it hit me - I have a  whole lot of coffee cups. Thirteen of them at last count. Now, who needs thirteen cups? All I need is one. Maybe two or three, just to add some excitement to my mornings. But thirteen??
This is when I realized how insecure I am. I needed to pick the “right” cup. I narrowed it down, slowly, to the Los Angeles Farmer’s Market, Larry David “Pretty Good,” and Ernest Hemingway in Key West. I smelled the coffee brewing, needed to wake up, begin my day, escape from this dilemma. I decided on the Hemingway, a gift from my son from his trip to Florida six years ago.

   As I sat there over my coffee, staring out the window, I wondered how many other people are similarly obsessed. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one in this situation. I mentioned my cups predicament to a friend a couple of days later.
   “Those aren’t cups,” she said. “They’re mugs.”
   “Same thing,” I said, suddenly defensive.
   A bit of advice here: Don’t argue with a knowledgeable woman about anything in the kitchen. Especially dishware. “Those are two different things,” she said. “Different sizes, different functions.”
   I knew I was getting in deeper than I wanted to. She told me, in gentle terms, that a cup is used for tea and is smaller. Six ounces, to be exact. That’s why the British say “a cuppa.” A mug is used for coffee, also for hot chocolate. So when you say, “Let’s get a cup of coffee,” you’re showing your lack of awareness. Just to finish this lesson, understand that a mug is sturdier and comes without a saucer. A cup and saucer go together like ham and eggs, just to keep the breakfast analogy going.
   About a year ago, I cleared out some of my cups. Maybe seven or eight of them. The shelf was too full. A couple even had dead flies in them. I still found it difficult to take a few to the Salvation Army, which is a kind of purgatory for cups.  “I Love You” was one, either from my wife, my daughter or my son. A morning reminder I was loved. Another was “Happy Father’s Day.” Every father in America must have one of those. At least I hope so. I also gave away a $20 cup I had bought at the Truman Library in Independence. It looked like it was made of marble and had the Presidential seal on it. The cup looked great on the shelf or the table, but drinking coffee from it made me feel imperious. As though I had to sign some bills, call the Speaker of the House, or ponder the wisdom of dropping the atomic bomb. Not a good way to start the day, right?
   However, parting ways is not easy. Coffee cups, I believe, have something in common with our t-shirts, caps, and greeting cards. We are emotionally attached to them, for they represent part of our past: occasions, connections, celebrations, and expressions of love.  
About the cups thing: I, for one, will continue to call them cups, regardless of proper nomenclature. Some things I can not part with. Tomorrow morning, when you make your coffee, think about which cup you reach for. And why. You may learn something about yourself.
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This column appears in the current issue of County Living Magazine (April 2021)