SWING TO BOP

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Swing to Bop

AN ORAL HISTORY OFTHE TRANSITION IN JAZZ

IN THE 1940S

IRA GITLER

OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESSNew York Oxford

Oxford University PressOxford New York Toronto

Delhi Bombay Calcutta Madras KarachiPetaling Jaya Singapore Hong Kong Tokyo

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and associated companies inBeirut Berlin Ibadan Nicosia

Copyright 1985 by Oxford University Press, Inc.

First published in 1985 by Oxford University Press, Inc.,198 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016-4314

First issued as an Oxford University Press paperback, 1987Oxford is a registered trademark of Oxford University Press

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,

electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,without the prior permission of Oxford University Press, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication DataGitler, Ira.

Swing to bop.Includes index.

1. Jazz musicUnited StatesHistory and criticism.2. Jazz musiciansUnited StatesInterviews.

I. Title.ML3508.G57 1985 785.42'0973 85-5092

ISBN 0-19-503664-6ISBN 0-19-505070-3 (pbk.)

Since this page cannot accommodate all the copyrightnotices, the following page constitutes an extension of the

copyright page.

68 10 9 7Printed in the United States of America

Acknowledgment is gratefully made to the following for permission to reprintfrom previously published materials (names and page numbers in parenthesesindicate locations of reprinted passages in Swing to Bop)

Cadence, Redwood, N.Y., from interview with Bob Rusch, copyright 1976, 1978 by Cadence jazzMagazine {Allen Eager, p. 307),Charles Scribner's Sons, from Stanley Dance and Earl Hines, excerpted from THE WORLD OF EARLHINES. Copyright 1977 Stanley Dance. Reprinted with the permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.

Doubleday & Company Inc., excerpts from To Be or Not to Bop: Memoirs by Dizzy Gillespie with AlFraser. Copyright 1979 by John Birks Gillespie and Wilmot Alfred Fraser reprinted by permissionof Doubleday & Company Inc. (Al McKibbon, p. 45; Dizzy Gillespie, p. 123; Art Blakey, p. 130).down beat, Chicago (Mose Allison, p. 63; Jackie McLean, p. 63; Charlie Parker, p. 75; Oscar Pettiford,p. 106; Gil Evans, pp. 250, 251, 252; Claude Thornhill, p. 251).Fantasy Records, Coleman Hawkins: A Documentary (Coleman Hawkins, p. 151).Jazz Hot, Paris (Lester Young, pp. 35-37).Jazz Journal, London (Dexter Gordon, last three lines on p. 37, pp. 81, 338; Milt Hinton, pp. 44-45.56-58; Budd Johnson, p. 48, first eight lines on p. 312; Dizzy Gillespie, p. 56; Benny Bailey, firstparagraph on p. 97, references to Hubert Kidd on p. 98; Al Levitt, pp. 295, 297).

Macmiltan Publishing Company from Jazz Masters of the Thirties by Rex Stewart, copyright 1972 byMacmillan Publishing Company (Rex Stewart, p. 48), and from Jazz Masters of the Forties by Ira Gitler 1966 by (Dexter Gordon, p. 47).National Endowment for the Arts Oral History Project excerpts courtesy of the Institute of Jazz Stud-ies at Rutgers University (Eddie Barefield, pp. 23-24, 34-35, 41, 82; Kenny Clarke, pp. 52-56, 76-77, 81-82, 102-3, 130, 22?; A* HaU- P- 53)-Sonny Rollins, from Soul (Sonny Rollins, p. 103).Ross Russell, from Bird Lives! by Ross Russell, copyright 1972 by Ross Russell (Charlie Parker, pp.178-79).Vera Miller Shapiro and Nat Hentoff, from The Jazz Makers, edited by Nat Shapiro and Nat Hentoff,copyright 1957 by Holt Rinehart and Winston General Book (Roy Eldridge, pp. 45, 46, 47).

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To the memory of Budd Johnson for his contributionsto the music from the 'aos to the '8os.

He bopped with the best and never stopped swinging.

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Acknowledgments

Immeasurable thanks to all the people who took the time to contrib-ute their thoughts to the narrative. Gratitude to the GuggenheimFoundation without whose aid the project never would have been car-ried forward. A tip of my bop cap to my editor, Sheldon Meyer, forcontracting the book and having the patience and informed guidanceto help me to see it through. Appreciation to assistant editors, PamelaNicely and Melissa Spielman, for their benevolent nitpicking. Kudosto the transcriber-typists: Patricia Giro, Sarah McCarn Elliott, and LoraRosner. Verbal medals to Bill Gottlieb for making his authentic pho-tographs of the period available. The same to Dan Morgenstern, di-rector of the institute of Jazz Studies, Rutgers University, not only forthe photos from the Institute's archives, but for resolving the impasseover the book's title between Sheldon and myself, by suggesting Swingto Bop, incidentally the name of a Charlie Christian jam on "Topsy."Back in the photography department, a typewritten handshake toRobert Rondon for his inside jacket photo of me in a jazz festival at-titude.

To Liz Rose, for the use of her Apple lie and generous help, I can'tsay enough. Without them I'd probably still be doing the index. Last,but not least, tulips to my wife, Mary Jo, for her encouragement frominception to the final light at the end of the tunnel.

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Contents

Introduction, 31. The Road, 92. Roots and Seeds, 323. Minton's and Monroe's, 754. Fifty-Second Street, 1185. California, 1606. Big-Band Bop, 1847. The Bop Era, 2198. End of an Era, 291

Epilogue, 318Index, 320

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SWING TO BOP

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Introduction

Big bands were the focal point of the so-called "Swing Era," whenjazz reached its greatest popularity, in great part because of its rela-tionship to dancing. Jazz permeated our society from movies throughcomic strips; found its way into our language, our fashions, and, ofcourse, at its source, was heard in recordings, on the radio (live andon record), in theatres, ballrooms, and nightclubs. The "swing" bandsdid not play jazz all the time, but even the ballads and novelties wereapproached from a jazz viewpoint. The "sweet" bands, on the otherhand, all had in their books some jazz arrangements, or "flagwavers,"as they were called.

Swing, like the styles of jazz that preceded it, was essentially a blackexpression, but it was the white bands who were accorded the greatestpopularity. Duke Ellington, Jimmie Lunceford, Count Basic, Earl Mines,and Cab Galloway all were successful in this period, but not to the ex-tent of their white counterparts. Benny Goodman, utilizing the ar-rangements of Edgar Sampson, Jimmy Mundy, Horace Henderson,and, most particularly, Fletcher Henderson, sparked the arrival of theSwing Era in the public consciousness. He was dubbed "The King ofSwing," and achieved the commercial triumph that had eluded FletcherHenderson in the latter's years as leader of the first big band to gainwide recognition by playing jazz.

In the mid-igaos, Henderson's trumpet section was graced by LouisArmstrong who, among his other musical accomplishments, dennedwhat swingingthat solid, yet springing, 4/4 propulsionwas all about.

As the '305 segued into the '405, new ideas were coming togetherfrom various sources and directions; different people were develop-ing along similar lines and others were being influenced directly orbuilding their styles in a particular way because they were being shapedby the attitudes dictated by the innovations of these seminal improv-isers. Men such as tenor saxophonist Lester Young, trumpeter RoyEldridge, guitarist Charlie Christian, pianist Art Tatum, bassist Jimmy

3

4 SWING TO BOP

Blanton, and drummer Jo Jones were musicians who caught the earsof their peers and inspired them to extend what they heard and cre-ate afresh.

The younger black musicians, tired of the repetition of the riff-derived arrangements and lack of solo space in the big bands, beganto form a new music that they felt could not be so easily appropriatedby the white leaders. Unobserved by many at the time, bebop evolvedfrom the big bandson the bandstand but more so in the after-hoursjam sessions. This was happening in many parts of the country butreally began to crystallize in New York at Harlem clubs such as Min-ton's and Monroe's Uptown House. From there Charlie "Bird" Parkerand Dizzy Gillespie introduced their ideas into the Earl Hines band in1943 for a short stay, unrecorded due to a recording ban. In 1944came the first large bebop band, led by Hines's former vocalist BillyEckstine and featuring, among other young stars of the new move-ment, Parker and Gillespie.

From there bebop moved to 52nd Street (where it had already putdown roots), and in 1945 Dizzy and Bird co-led a quintet that offeredtheir music in its quintessential form. When they recorded for the Guildlabel that same year, the word was spread to musicians and fans farbeyond New York.

Although there were still some very important big bands in the Be-bop Era, the emphasis shifted to small groups and the individual so-loists within them. Then, too, the modern musicians of that time be-gan to think of themselves as serious artists, whether it was someonelike Gillespie, who also overtly entertained, or like Parker, who justplanted his feet in a wide stance on the bandstand and played. This isnot to say that the giants of the Swing Era were not fine artists, butthey were coming out of a different milieu, and only people close tothe music realized how "serious" their work was.

The advent of bebop came at a time when many of the same venuesthat the swing players had usedthe movie theaters, hotels, and ball-roomswere also the arenas of the modernists, but to a far lesser ex-tent. The hoppers, of course, were performing in the small night-clubs, but were also utilizing the concert halls more and more, whetherfor programs by bands, combos, or the jam session taken from the clubcontext and placed up on the stage. Norman Granz broke through withhis Jazz At the Philharmonic, and soon there was Gene Norman's JustJazz, and other carbons or mutations.

The young black audience, which no longer supports jazz the wayit once did (for a variety of reasons, including the cultural genocideof radio), was into bebop in the big cities above the Mason-Dixon Line.I know because whenever I went into a black neighborhood in the years19451949, whether it was at a record store in Harlem, a shoeshinestand in St. Louis, a rib joint in Chicago, or someone's apartment inBrooklyn, I heard bebop coming out of loudspeakers, juke boxes, and

INTRODUCTION 5

an assortment of phonographs from consoles to portables. I was incloser touch with black people because of this music.

It was said that people didn't dance to bebop and, for the most part,this was true, but black people figured out a way to make those fasttempos by cutting the time in half whether they were doing a new dancecalled "The Apple Jack" or the older Lindy Hop. And wherii Bird orLester Young or Gene Ammons played a romantic ballad, you put yourarms around your partner, moved to the music, and got 'groovy.Whether it was Young playing a dance in St. Louis or Parker at thePershing in Chicago, the ballroom was crowded with listeners anddancers.

Bebop was characterized as weird but, to many, it was a music thatlifted one with beauty and joy. It was an expression of the finest blackmusical minds and, besides what it expressed explicitly, offered thehuman verities that jazz had communicated from its inception.

Though bop became a pervading influence, not only in jazz but, asit filtered down, through all facets of the entertainment and advertis-ing industries, the music, as such, was never fully accepted by the public.Its greatest acceptance was when it was popularized by white musi-cians. This is not to say that the majority of white players who weredrawn to the music came with the thought in mind, "Hey, I'm goingto make some money with this." Those who did approach it calculat-ingly made little impact, for I don't believe even the successful popu-larizers were armed with that attitude.

All the young musicians, black and white, were caught up in the ex-citement generated by Parker and Gillespie. As a young fan I, too, wasvery taken with the new ideas. I think the reason I embraced it quicklywas because I recognized all the qualities it had maintained from theprevious jazz styles that I had been brought up on and loved so much:rhythmic propulsion and the happy-sad duality of the blues that in-fused so much of the music even when it wasn't couched directly inthe la-bar form. Additionally, if one could make the connection be-tween the chord structures of the standard songs on which the origi-nal bop compositions were based and these new themes, it helped inappreciating the new improvisations.

As important as the harmonic explorations were, it was the rhythmicinnovations that were at the core of what made bebop a new and uniqueexpression. The drummers, shown the way by Kenny Clarke, accom-panied in a manner that allowed the soloists to fly with eighth-noteconstructions and extend their lines to include bursts of sixteenth andthirty-second notes. It was a wedding of style and idea that, in newways, combined elements that had been in existence in jazz for years.

I believe the first time I heard about the new music was when Dan-iel Bloom, who was a fellow student at Columbia Grammar Prep, wasraving about a record called "Bu-Dee-Daht," from the Apollo sessionthat Coleman Hawkins cut in February 1944 with Dizzy Gillespie, Clyde

D SWING TO BOP

Hart, Budd Johnson, and Max Roach, among others. It is generallyconsidered the first official bebop recording date and Gillespie's "Woody'n You" its most celebrated number.

I didn't hear any of the Apollos until after I discovered the Parker-Gillespie Guilds and Gillespie Manors toward the end of 1945 and hadset out in search of any and all bebop, be it a chorus on a Johnny Longrecord of the old Peter Van Steeden chestnut Home, or a completerecord in the style such as something by the Bebop Boys on Savoy.There were, however, people who heard the Apollos when they werereleased and were taken with them. Jim Krit, from Chicago, whom Imet at college in 1948, said he encountered them when he returnedfrom the Philippines after the war. "We didn't know the word bebop,"he said, "but we knew they were different. We called it 'New York'jazz."

It was at that time, through the record program of Sid Torin, knownas Symphony Sid, that I really became acquainted with the new "NewYork Jazz." He played it on WHOM between and among the Basics,Louis Jordans, Wynonie Harrises, and Billie Holidays, and on Fri-days, when he came on a little earlier in the evening, he would devotean entire hour to the new releases on labels such as Guild and Manor.Each week he would run a contest in which you had to identify themusic or the musician. The reward was free admission to the Sundayafternoon jam sessions at the Fraternal Clubhouse on West 48th Streetor the Lincoln Square Center, which was next to the old St. NicholasArena on West 66th Street. Jazz promoter Monte Kay (who later wenton to manage the Modern Jazz Quartet and Flip Wilson among oth-ers), publicist Mai Braveman, and Sid had formed an organization calledthe New Jazz Foundation under whose auspices these sessions werepresented.

One Friday night I called Symphony Sid with the correct answer tohis record quiz (I think it was the Slam Stewart trio playing "ThreeBlind Micesky") and won a pass to the Fraternal Clubhouse on the fol-lowing Sunday afternoon. The only live jazz of consequence I had heardbefore was from the theater stage shows but I had never been to a jamsession. I was not quite seventeen.

The music that still is remembered vividly from that day is the pow-erful trumpet blown on "Rose Room" by Bernie Privin, recently re-turned from overseas and the Glenn Miller Air Force Band; long, tallDexter Gordon and short, orange-goateed Red Rodney combining on"Groovin" High"; and a slight, dark trumpeter, introduced in an off-hand manner by Symphony Sid as "a little student from Juilliard," whowas at the back of a large ensemble on stage for the finale and sput-tered through a short solo when his turn came. Many, many monthslater I realized that it had been Miles Davis.

From that time I began to attend other Sunday afternoon sessionsand eventually jazz nightclubs, particularly the ones between 5th and6th Avenues on 52nd Street or "Swing Street," as it was known. Ac-

INTRODUCTION

tually, I had already been to 52nd Street once to hear Billie Holidayat the Downbeat. I didn't date that much in high school but there wasone girl who excited me, and I guess I wanted to take her to some-thing special. Like all sand Street clubs die Downbeat was low-ceilinged,long and narrow. Each wall was lined with banquettes and the tablesdown the middle were flanked by two thin aisles. There were nodressing rooms to speak of and so the performers, dieir set over, wouldgo out onto the street and club-hop since there were so many placesin that block and the one west between 6th and yth Avenues. Billiehad her boxer named "Mister" at that time, and after she had finishedsinging she walked by our middle-section table with him on the wayout of the club. My date must have tried petting the boxer for a min-ute later she said to me, "Miss Hollywood's dog almost bit me." It wasthe last time I took her out.

In the mid-'4os, 52nd Street had several jazz styles going at the sametime: New Orleans (or its descendants) at Jimmy Ryan's, swing, andbebop. At the Fraternal Clubhouse and Lincoln Square Center mostof the musicians were drawn from people working on the Street orplayers who might be in town with a traveling big band. There was amixture of swing and bop that told anyone with ears that, althoughbop was a new way of playing, it came from and was not incompatiblewith swing, at least insofar as basic thematic material was concerned.Of course, beboppers were extending the harmonies, and rhythmi-cally there were those marked differences, but there were drummerslike Harold "Doc" West who were adapting very nicely.

When Dizzy Gillespie came back from California in the winter of1946 without Charlie Parker, he opened at the Spotlite on 52nd Streetwith Ray Brown, Milt Jackson, Al Haig, Stan Levey and Leo Parker,no kin to Charlie, on baritone saxophone. Sometimes J.J. Johnson wouldsit in, a perforated, grey felt beanie hanging on the bell of his trom-bone, creating a velvet muted tone not unlike that of a French horn.My first published writing on jazz was a review of this group for theColumbia Grammar newspaper.

There were other great nights on the street: a J.J. Johnson quartetwith Bud Powell on piano; Roy Eld'ridge's big band; Coleman Hawk-ins quartet with Hank Jones at the piano; and a group co-led by FlipPhillips and Bill Harris after Woody Herman's Herd had disbanded.

I left for the University of Missouri at Columbia in the fall of 1946with intentions of studying journalism. A couple of record review col-umns for The Missouri Student was all the writing about jazz I did fora while. I visited in St. Louis and Kansas City on some weekends, lis-tening to what music I could catch. On short vacations I would get toChicago. During the summers, I hung out on 52nd Street, the RoyalRoost, and Harlem, bought as many records as I could and read aboutjazz from Mezz Mezzrow's Really the Blues to Leonard Feather's InsideBebop.

In early 1950 I left Missouri and returned to New York. Birdland

7

SWING TO BOP

had opened the previous Christmas and become the main jazz club. Itried to get a job with either Down Beat or Metronome, the two leadingjazz periodicals of the time, but it was not as simple to break into jazzprint in those days as it is today.

My professional debut was a set of liner notes from Prestige PRLP117, a Zoot Sims album recorded in August 1951. I continued to writefor Prestige, also producing records and doing just about everythingelsepacking boxes, sweeping floors, and serving as liaison with thedisc jockeysintermittently into 1955. I also began to write for otherlabels and, finally, for Metronome and Down Beat.

In the 19605 Martin Williams was editing the "Jazz Masters"series from Macmillan and asked me to write Jazz Masters of the'405, a book that concentrates on the major figures of the musiccalled bebop, through the format of biographical chapters. It wasfirst published in 1966, and is now available in paperback fromDaCapo Press.

In the early 'yos I felt I wanted to do a new book on the subjectfrom a different standpoint. Rather than biography it would be an oralhistory, tracing the roots of the style and how it evolved from the mu-sicians of the big bands of the '305 to become a full-fledged force inthe big bands and, particularly, the small groups of the '405. Under agrant from the Guggenheim Foundation the work was begun and in-terviews conducted with the following people (here listed alphabeti-cally): Joe Albany, David Allyn, Jean Bach, Benny Bailey, Eddie Bare-field, Jimmy Butts, Red Callender, Johnny Carisi, Benny Carter, AlCohn, Sonny Criss, Buddy DeFranco, Charles Delaunay, Billy Eck-stine, Biddy Fleet, Terry Gibbs, Babs Gonzales, Dexter Gordon, JimmyGourley, Al Grey, Johnny Griffin, Al Haig, Jimmy Heath, Neal Hefti,Woody Herman, Milt Hinton, Chubby Jackson, Henry Jerome, BuddJohnson, Gus Johnson, Hank Jones, Barney Kessel, Lee Konitz, DonLanphere, Lou Levy, Shelly Manne, Junior Mance, Howard McGhee,Jay McShann, Mitch Miller, Billy Mitchell, James Moody, Brew Moore,Gerry Mulligan, Joe Newman, Red Norvo, Chico O'Farrill, Cecil Payne,Art Pepper, Lenny Popkin, Max Roach, Red Rodney, Frank Rosolino,Charlie Rouse, Jimmy Rowles, Zoot Sims, Hal Singer, Frankie Soco-low, Sonny Stitt, Idrees Sulieman, Billy Taylor, Allen Tinney, LennieTristano, Charlie Ventura, Mary Lou Williams, and Trummy Young.

8

I

The Road

In the period from the early 'gos to the war years, the big bandswere king and inspired the same adulation that rock bands enjoytoday. The jazz fan and the young jazz musician had a very closerelationship. Indeed, very often they were one and the same.

:>SHELLY MANNE I remember when I subbed for Davey Tough years ago

when he got ill one nightat the Hickory House with Joe Marsala. Iwas sitting there playing, and I had been playing drums maybe a year,a little over a year at that time. And Benny Goodman came in 'causehe wanted to hire Davey to join the band. He sat down at the circularbar, right next to the drums. I was playing and it was really nervestime because Benny was there. It's 19 . . . '41 I guess. '40 or '41. Any-way, Benny had, to me, the greatest band he ever had at that time.That was when Charlie Christian and Cootie Williams were on theband-Artie Bernstein and Mike Bryan, Georgie Auld, Gus Bivona.That was a wild band. Eddie Sauter was doing all the writing"Ben-ny Rides Again."

He left, after he spoke to Joe, and Joe Marsala goes, "Hey, Bennyliked the way you played. Maybe he's gonna give you a call." I said,"Hey, you're kidding." About an hour later the phone rang, and Bennysaid, "Hey kid, what's your name?" And I said, "Shelly Manne." Hesaid, "This is Benny Goodman." I said, "Yes, Mr. Goodman." He says,"You wanta go on the road with my band?" I said, "Yeah." He couldn'tget Davey, and I guess he liked the way I played. He said, "Just bedown to Grand Central Station tomorrow with your cymbals. I havethe drums."

So I put the cymbals under my arm the next day. I think the trainwas leaving at eleven. I must have been there about eight, sitting therewith my one little suitcase, and here they come, about two hours afterI'd gotten there, but they start walking inCootie, Georgie Auld,Charlie Christian, and Helen Forrestand, man, I'm sitting there, and

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SWING TO BOP

I was really going berserk, you know I really was, and I was scared. Igot on the train. I sat there all by myself. In fact, there's a picture Ithink in one of the jazz history books or something, some place. Theytook a picture of that band at the station. We were going to the Marchof Dimes President's Ball in Washington. I sat on the train. I was allby myself, and Benny came up and says, "What are you worried about,kid?" I said, "Well, I haven't seen the book or anything." He said,"You've been listening to my music for years," and he walked away.That night I played with the band. I played with the band I think two,three days, then Davey joined them. He finally got Davey on his phone.It was a funny experience sitting there when you're young, watchingthese people walk in.

Of course, the big bands were the way a musician could gain na-tional prominence very quickly in a very well-known band. 'Causeeverybody knew the third trumpet player, the fourth trumpet player;they'd name me the baritone player, the third alto. They knew every-body's name in the band. That's how guys like Harry James and peo-ple like that all became famous in big bands. Like with Benny's band.

I think the big bands were the place where you got your schoolingand where you got your experience with other great musicians. 'Causewhen we say big bandswhen I say big bandsI mean big jazz bands,what I felt were jazz-oriented bands, not just dance bands. Like whenwe were kids we used to just get in the basement and listen to DukeEllington records all night.

Of course, big bands gave an individual a chance to be heard na-tionally and gain a reputation because the big bands had the kind offollowing the rock bands have now. Maybe not quite as gigantic.

Like the one year with Stan's [Kenton] band when we did concerts.My God, they'd be standing on top of one another to hear the band.It was exciting. It was an exciting time, and the big bands not onlypaid pretty good salaries for those days for a top-notch sideman, butit was a way of getting, really gaining a reputation. Nowadays it's verydifficult to gain a reputation on Woody Herman's band for instance.I know Woody's got a good band, but I can't tell you who's in die band.

Nowadays, most of the young kids come from colleges. They're notwell-known. But most of the players in those days were pretty well-known as players before they joined the band. They used to say, "Hey,you know who joined? He joined him." The next thing, you know,you're listening to the band and listening for him, for his solos.

>*The whole big band, road syndrome is something that's virtuallyfinished now. Of course there are a few bands that still travel, buteven die small groups don't travel the way diey once did. The clubcircuit is not as extensive, and the airlane to an engagement hasreplaced the road.

10

THE ROAD 1 1

SHELLY MANNE They're not forcedthe bands and small bands even to-dayaren't forced to live together like a family. I think that the bigbands traveling in those days, what we were talking about, being lockedup together, creative juices flowing between twenty guys, created awhole thing away, another creative thing away from an influence ofsomeplace else. In other words, I think it was healthy, because it cre-ated a thing of your own.

And traveling and constantly living together and exchanging ideas,creative ideasplaying and creating with your playing on the job atnight created a thing away. You weren't influenced. You didn't say,"Let's play it like they played it." You didn't hear how they played it.You said, "Hey, let's play this chart. Let's do this." And you got yourown individual sound that way.

::If you were a big-band musician in the '305 you played mostly fordancers in large ballrooms, roadhouses and, in the Southeast, hugetobacco warehouses. Bands went on location in hotels and thea-ters, but more often it was one-nighters and the rigors of the road.They traveled by bus, car, train and sometimes, as with Duke El-lington and Cab Galloway, by private railroad car.

>:MILT HINTON I'd like to mention this about Cab. Cab had a standard that

he wanted to set. He traveled to the South; he always traveled first-class. There was no planes, it was always Pullman wherever he couldget a Pullman, and a baggage car next to the Pullmana huge bag-gage car where he had a great big, green Lincoln Continental, and hecarried a chauffeur, and we had our trunks in his baggage car, andwhen we got to the small towns were you couldn't get a train into, thenhe could hire a bus. This kept us out of conflict with the people in theSouth that were biased, black and white. Mostly white, but even blackguys couldn't go in a black neighborhood in the South and walk in thebars because the guys would figure we were pullin' rank on them be-cause we were sharpwe were city slickersthose niggers are fromNew York and they've come here to take our chicks. There could bea confrontation and somebody could get hurt and most likely it wouldbe us.

It was so competitive, so Cab, to keep this down, he would hire thisPullman. We would get out, get us cabs to the dance hall. At inter-mission we'd make whatever connections we wanted with the chicks,and then we'd tell them, "Meet you at the Pullman." We kept a Pull-man porter for six months at a timethe same guy. When we left togo to the dance', we'd tell him to get fourteen bottles of whiskey, threewatermelons, and a hundred chickens and have it there for us. We'dleave the money, and the guy would have it all set up so that whenthe dance was over, and we'd made our connections at intermissionwith all the other chicks we were going to be involved withwe'd tell

12 SWING TO BOP

them to just come on down to the railroad station. Then we didn'thave to go into town and have to compete with the local people, localfellows for the fancy of their local ladies. The ladies who were ourchoice came down, and when the party was over we'd thank them fortheir gratuities, and they got off the train, and the train would pickus up and take us on to the next town.

Cab had this feeling that he wasn't very successful playing dances inthe South because in the Southas it is, almost now, there were radiostations that sang only blues, and "I'm Gonna Cut Your Head Off,"and I'm gonna do this, and "I'm Gonna Kill My Woman," and he didn'tbelieve in this. He thought that perhaps what he intended to do wasto try to entertain the people, especially the black community, showthem the sharp zoot suit, the hip styles, the new lingo, and this kindathing, to elevate 'em, but they kept requesting blues, and Cab wasn'ta blues band. He didn't believe in these blues, because these blues taughtpeople to fight, and to get under, to make them feel low and de-graded, and he didn't feel this.

So Cab consequently would not acquiesce to this type of thing, andof course the people hadn't been educated to his type of entertain-ment. It was just too sharp for them, and his dances fell off. The whitedances were great, even though we had problems with all those whowanted to jump us and all those crackers who wanted to beat us up.They were so rude down there that you could hit a nigger in themouthas long as you could get three hundred dollars, and some ofthem had the money so they wanted to" do itand especially a niggerlike Cab. He was a bigshot. So we had these problems along with that,and not being able to play a double danceplay a white dance tonightand a black dance tomorrow night. He was continually losing moneyin the South, so he decided to give up playing down there. Becausethe radio stations only plugged blues and race records and whatnots,and not enough of his things. And they did not do that, there, forhim, for Cab. The people who could hear him on radio and came justfrom what they listened to from the Cotton Club on radio programs,but the records, he was never really big in records. Because they neverbought his type of records in the South. So he finally gave it up.

*>The private Pullman helped avoid hostile confrontations, but theywere an exception. Usually a black band had to stay at black ho-tels or at private homes in black communities. Sometimes therewere no blacks.

**TBMRY GIBBS I was talkin' widi Milt Hinton. There was one town, I'll never

forget, Marysville, Kansas, where there wasn't a black section of town,where the guys actually had to sleep on the bus.

* +Nat Towles, out of Omaha, Nebraska, solved this kind of prob-lem by moving his band around in a big sleeper bus. During my

THE ROAD 13

hitchhiking experiences, when I was at the University of Mis-souri, I remember seeing the bus, with the band's name printedclearly on the side, tooling along U.S. 40. A musician once toldme, "When that bus used to park for the night, in the morningthe ground around the bus would be covered with condoms. Andit would get pretty funky inside. They used to clean it out period-ically. They called it the 'traveling garbage can.' "

The area Towles traversed was called the "territory." It in-cluded Kansas, Missouri, Texas, Oklahoma, Wisconsin, Minne-sota, Iowa, and the Dakotas. Bands also made forays into Mon-tana and Wyoming, but these states weren't included when some-one referred to the "territory." (When I was in the midwest in the'405, however, a "territory" band also meant white, "mickey mouse"bands out of Mankato or Sioux Falls.)

14 SWING TO BOP

fair grounds to a little bar to listen to the fight on the radio, and afterhaving been saddened by [his knock-out]. . . .

'Cause [Joe Louis] was an impetus to dignity, to manhood, to us. Hewas a symbol. It was a chance for us to say, "Hey, man, look out. Don'tdo that. Here we are." And this was a great symbol, and we had to gooutside the fair grounds to a bar to listen, and then on top of that,Joe Louis gets knocked out, and officials made us pay to get back inwhere we were working! Made us pay to get back in! So aside fromfeelin' so low, we came back in and had to pay to get back in.

**Dexter Gordon was approaching his eighteenth birthday when heleft his native Los Angeles for the first time as a member of Lio-nel Hampton's band. What he saw and did is typical of much ofthe black band experience.

**DEXTER GORDON We leftit was 1940, December 23rd, 1940. We left Los

Angeles, and I joined the band like just a few days before we left. Inever had a rehearsal with the band. And then we got into this bus.It was a small bus. Gladys [Mrs. Lionel Hampton] was economizing. Itwas a line called Ail-AmericanAll-American Bus Lineand the wholeband could fit in there, but it was tight, and it was strictly a Californiabus, arid it's December, and so our first stop was Fort Worth, Texas,which I think is about fifteen hundred miles. It took about three daysto get there. And after we got out of Arizona, we got into New Mex-ico, it started getting cold, and so then we got to El Paso, there was amutiny [laughter]. There was a mutiny in the band. And this cat JackLee was the road manager with the band. And the cats said, "No, no,man, shuck this bus. We got to get a real bus." 'Cause that kind of buswas okay for California or a short trip, but being out on the road youneeded something like a Greyhound. Something insulated and strong.But then we got the bus, a real bus. I think it was El Paso, 'cause bythat time, everybody was wearing overcoats. We were wearing Califor-nia clothes anyway, but we got everything on.

So then we went to Fort Worth and we played the Hotel Fort Worth.It was a white hotel that was strictly white. And the next day, a coupleof days later, we played in some other towns. We played in Dallas. Thestate fair. For a black dance. And I remember seeing this cat with thisbeautiful white Palm Beach suit dancing his ass off, swinging. And allof a sudden during the dance, at one point, there was a big circle ofpeople, moving out, moving out and pretty soon it looked like an arena,these two cats in the middle, and this one cat was the cat with the whitesuit, and then suddenly his suit was red. I'll never forget that.

But for the most part I don't remember too many special incidents,except a funny thing happened one time we were in Mississippi anddoing these one-nighters and gettin' food out of the back of the res-taurant and all that kind of shit. So we pulled into this filling station,a roadside diner. Everybody's hungry, and nobody wants to get out of

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the bus and go through all that hassle and shit, so me and Joe New-man said, "Fuck it, we'll get out." And cats are calling, "Why don't youget something, bring me back a pork chop or something?" I said, "Yeah,man." So the cat, the man, is working on the bus, the owner of thegas station, he's filling up the bus, and he's going through all this. Soanyway, Joe and I go into the diner, and we stand at the counterwedon't sit down, we stand at the counter. And say we'd like to get some-thing to eat. And there's two young chicks in there. So one said, "Okay,what would you like?" So I said, "I'd like some ham and eggs" orsomething like that. And Joe said, "Yeah, same for me." She said, "Okay,where would you like to sit?" "Well, here." "Sit down." Just straightlife, you know. We're the youngest cats in the band anyway. So we sitdown, and then we started eating. By this time the cats in the bus aregetting a little curious. They see us go in the front door and expect tosee us come right out, and we're in there for a little while, so they startcoming out of the bus, stretching, and getting a little curious. Theywander over there, they come in. Man, we're sitting there drinkingcoffee, ham and eggs, toast, napkins, and everything and say, "Whatthe fuck is this?" Next thing you know, the whole fuckin' diner is filledup with the band. And the chicks are ordering this and that. And allof a sudden the front door bursts in, and here comes the cat finishedwith the bus. And he comes in and sees this diner all filled with nig-gers eatin', and man this guy got so red. Looked like he was gonnaexplodegonna have a heart attackman, he was really dramatic. Andall the cats froze. All gawking and looking. So by this time me and Joehad finished. And the cat's screaming, "Get all these niggers out ofhere. Uhhh. I'll kill them. Where's my gun?" So then, by this time themanager had come in. So he starts talking to the man and coolin' himoff. And the cats are coming out, whether they'd finished or not. Andlater on he's telling us, that he told him, "All these guys, they're notSouthern boys, they don't know nothing about this, they're all fromNew York or Hollywood or something." And he was talking to himtill we got out of there.

ffffWhen blacks and whites gravitated to one another there wereproblems. The road experience could bring these to the surface.

**LEE KONITZ The biggest hassle that I can recall is traveling on tours with

Bird and black musicians in the South when we had to stay in differ-ent places. This was in '53 we went out, and in Georgia they had tohave a white man in the taxi before they could leave the airport, andthings of that nature stand out in my mind. Bird invited me to stay attheir hotel.

**

When Charlie Rouse, who had been raised in Washington, D.C.,went on a deep Southern tour with Dizzy Gillespie's orchestra in1945 he experienced the kind of incident that cannot be ignored:

l6 SWING TO BOP

Washington is a Southern city, but not in the sense that Memphisor Mobile is a Southern city. As a Washingtonian, Rouse thoughtof himself more as a Northerner. Most of the men in Dizzy's bandwere from well above the Mason-Dixon line. Their previous en-counters with prejudice more often took a more subtle guise. Sogoing south was a total immersion in a negative atmosphere ofseparate water fountains, dividing lines at dances, and much worse.

*:CHARLIE ROUSE We hadn't been to the South at the time, and at the time

the South was very bad. And I think it was in Memphis, Tennessee. . . we had to get out of town early in the morning. There was a bassplayer from Arkansas named Buddy Jones.* Well, I met Buddy Jonesin Washington. We were friends there. So he was in the Navy and hewas in Memphis, and when we got there with the band we played aone-nighter, and Buddy wasn't supposed to be there, you dig? But hemet us in the daytime, and we're walking up and down Beale Streettogether, and everybody is looking at us weird. We wasn't paying hoattention or anything. So when we left each other, Buddy said, "WellI'll see you at the dance tonight." I say, "Okay." And when we got tothe dance the police came and beat him and clubbed him out of thedance. They called the SPs and they came and, oh man, they messedhim up and they told us we had to get out of town before sundown.It was really weird, man. And the next time I saw Buddy we talkedabout it. But we felt that it was something happening, 'cause we waswalking up and down Beale Street laughing and talking and peopleturning around looking at us, and we say, "Hey, look at those weirddudes looking at us." And we's just walking up and down the street.We left, but then they put him in, put him in the brig. And he toldme later that he stayed in the brig for about two or three months.

:

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AL COHN It was the first time that I had ever really been exposed to blacktheaters and the black neighborhoods, so it was kinda new for me anda great experience. Shadow Wilson played with the band for a whileand Howard McGhee, and I don't remember anything happening thatwas . . . I remember being in Harlem in those days and never think-ing there was any kind of "draft"* going on. I don't know how it wasfor the guys when we played downtown.

When we were with that band we did some one-nighters and, as amatter of fact, I remember hearing something, a little Jewish preju-dice going on then too. [In Ohio we were] driving to some gig in theback of the truck when something happened to the bus, and we got alift from the hotel, and this guy was talking about these Jewboy bandsfrom New York. Being so involved in my own thing, I wasn't evenlistening to that stuff. I didn't even hear it.

**

Only well enough to remember the remark thirty-five years later.But it was not just about being black or Jewish. It was the state ofbeing a musician, looked down on much as vaudevillians and ac-tors, have been for as long as there have been itinerant enter-tainers. White bands didn't exactly have a picnic out on the road.Musicians of any race were regarded as interlopers by rednecksor most any provincial and were on a back-door, employees' en-trance footing to a great extent. So although they didn't have theproblem of "wrong" skin color, white bandsmen, too, knew therigors and pitfalls of the road. Vocalist David Allyn tells a storythat illustrates this and, at the same time, reveals the hipster men-tality of a body of white musicians who grew up in the wake ofLester Young, Dizzy Gillespie, and Charlie Parker.

**

DAVID ALLYN Rocky [Coluccio] and a bunch of buysStan Kosow, StanLevey, Tubby Phillips, and let's see, who the hell was with them? DonLanphere. We're in Art Mooney's band; we're out on the road. Hehad a pretty good dance band. Not that show shit that he had all thetime, but we had a pretty good book. And we went out to make somemoney just a few weeks. And we're lost in Cleveland, in Shaker Heights.And the bus driver, it's foggy and kind of dawnish and he didn't knowwhere the hell he's going and we're riding around. And at that time,I was strung out, and I was fucked up. This could have been around'51, '52. Around in there. And it was miserable being out there with-out shit. You know you're making "croakers"t all the time for Dilau-did. Tryin' to score somewhere. But Jesus we wouldn't hit very much'cause you'd be missing most of the time. Get beat and all that shit.You'd have to leave town, get on the bus.

*negative feelings.t doctors.

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I think we're just coining into Cleveland! But anyway, the bus driv-er's lost and there's the gray dawn coming up. And as the fog startsto lift and we're rounding corners, we could see that we're in an areawhere there's tremendous estateswith great big iron gates and stonewalls and houses sitting back, with pillars. Great green lawns andshrubbery. Just fantastic places. And I picked up on it. I used to standby the driver where I could hold court. "Look at this. Oh, my God,look at this." They would say, "Oh, man." Just like unison, everybody,"Oh, dig that pad. Oh, that's wild. Look at this over here. Look at this.Oh man, look at this." And this went on. The guy's saying, "Jesus, Ican't find my fuckin' way." He's trying to drive the bus. And we didn'tgive a shit about him. The pads were so wild. The houses were just sowild, right? These great big estates. And I said, "We're gypsies. Whatare we? We're roving, we're wandering, we're stupid." I said, "We'renot hip. We're not hip. They're hip. We're square. Look at us. Whathave we got?" And they're saying, "Oh, you're right, David."

And I say, "What the fuck are we doing?" Who listens to us? No-body. These people don't even want to hear us. Maybe they turn uson for five minutes and turn us off. And we're working years. They'rehip. We're square. That's what it is. We're gypsies. We're bums. That'swhat we are. And we don't have any shit, and nothing is right." AndRocky Coluccio says, "Yeah, but wait a minute, man, now wait a min-ute, what do they know about Diz and Prez and Bird?" [laughter]. Oh,God. Fucking classic.

Despite the hardships and down days, all was not despair in thebig bands. Before 1941 and during the early years of the war, therewas no heroin problem. There were soul-testing times, to be sure,but these were men interacting and enjoying the bloom of theiryouth and experiencing musical and extramusical discoveries.

**

SHELLY MANNE The important thing about big bands was the fun that youremember having on them. You don't remember the really bad shitthat happened. You remember the good things. At least I do. I re-member when I was, years ago, with Bob Astor's band or some bandin Boston. We were playin' in Boston, and I dress up like the hunch-back of Notre Dame. I'd get the girl vocalist to make up my face. Iwas so skinny and gaunt in those days. I'd stick a pillow in my back,and I remember the Copley Square Hotelnot the Copley PlazatheCopley Square Hotel. They had fire escapes that ran around the wholebuilding. You could walk all around the building on the fire escapes.Old-style building. So I used to find out what room the guys were inplaying cards or something. Oh, there was another band in there. An-other good band . . . oh, it was Will Bradley's band. I ran around thefire escape, and I'd run by and I'd peek back and say something andthen, all of a sudden I'd jump in the window at them or something.

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We used to do crazy things like that. And then I'd run, everybody wouldscatter. I'd finally run in the bathroom, and they used to have theshower that had a shower curtain, a round one, in the middle of thebathroom. You'd open it, and there guys would be standing there likethat. Straight up. Or else we played, I'll never forget it, with StanKenton's band. We played a place up 'in New Hampshire and we stayedin an old house. Like really a hundred, hundreds of years old, thehouse was. It had a big wicker chair, like a Sidney Greenstreet chair,and at night the hallways were wide and dark, and they didn't havemany lights. You just had little, dull lights. Well, I got there real earlyone night after the job, and I just sat there in the chair like this. Iknew a couple of the guys were coming, and I just sat there. Theycame down this dark hallway in this very spooky kind of house. Theyflipped. But things like that I remember. We did wild things when wewere kids.

I remember on Bob Astor's band, Al Young Al Epstein. Yeah, usedto be Al Young. You know he played trumpet with Babe Russin's band.He played baritone, but on trumpet he could only play middle G to Cabove high C. He studied with Costello for a little while. And he couldonly play the high notes, so he used to play all the high notes, likePaul Webster in Lunceford's band. He'd play the end, so we'd play alot of Jimmie Lunceford arrangements "For Dancers Only" with BabeRussin's band and we rehearsed at the Fraternal Clubhouse. Al wouldput his baritone down and hit the trumpet notes at the end of the chart.

But anyway, we used to do wild things. We were at Budd Lake inNew Jersey with Bob Astor's band at the Wigwam, and Al says, "I'llgive you fifty cents if you eat that spider and some mustard." You know,you'd do it. You'd do anything, man. One day he put iron glue in myhair while I was sleeping. I woke up my hair was long in those days,right my hair stood like that for weeks. I couldn't get it out. Crazythings.

When Neal Hefti first came from Omaha, he came to join SonnyDunham. Something happened between him and Sonny, and he joinedBob Astor's band. We roomed together. And at night we didn't havenothing to do, and we were up at this place Budd Lake. He said,"What are you gonna do tonight?" I said, "Why don't you write a chartfor tomorrow?" Neal was so great that he'd just take out the musicpaper, no score, [hums] trumpet part, [hums] trumpet part,[hums] trombone part, [hums], and you'd play it the next day. It wasthe end. Choking charts. I never forget, I couldn't believe it. I keptwatching him. It was fantastic. And one night we got arrested in BuddLake 'cause we went out with the guys, had a couple of beers or some-thing we were just kids. And we opened a big truck where there wasducks, transporting some ducks or something. We opened it out andlet them all out. They took us to jail. But those are the things, youremember those things, strange things.

20 SWING TO BOP

One time with Stan's [Kenton] band, we played a small theater . . v

and these things were happening all the time. Played an old theaterin New England, and Ray Wetzel used to . . . you know, the trumpetriser in the theater was very high, and Ray weighed almost threehundred pounds or whatever he weighed, and he'd jump off the riserand run down front to sing a vocal. He jumped off the riser this day,and he went right through the stage up to his waist with his trumpet.And there he is stuck in the stage, and of course, like the band couldn'tplay for like fifteen minutes. We were in tears rolling around. Theaudience was laughing too, I'm sure. But those things were alwayshappening. Now Stan running forbeating off the band, and run-ning for the piano bench tp hit the downbeat on a tune, and the pianobench collapsing on him. Things like that always happened. They werefun days.

Once we were playing a one-nighter in Kansas City in a ballroom,and we're changing clothes. We're late for the job; we're changingclothes in the back. The bandstand was here, and there was an aisle-way that led down this little flight of stairs, and the dressing room wasbehind the bandstand. And the sprinkler system broke, with all ourmusic, our instruments, our uniforms, everything. And Stan wasstanding there holding the sprinkler, yelling, "Go get a plumber orsomething." I remember little things like that, that happened.

On Woody's [Herman] band, see I didn't ride on the bus. I boughtmy own car when I joined Woody's band, and I traveled in the car.Also, I drove with Woody in his car. I made a left turn in a car whileI was driving with Woody and drove up . . .1 thought it was a street,in Pittsburgh, but it was railroad tracks. I was driving up railroad tracks.The street was to the left.

**Sometimes playing in a band was just plain hard work, even if youweren't on the road. A location job in a ballroom or hotel was amatter of coming to work in the evening, but the theater stageshows were a different matter, alternating through the day withthe feature film.

m. GOHN Joe Marsala was my first name band, in '43. We played one weekin New York during that time at the Loew's State. That's when I foundout what it is to work. I didn't know that you come in at twelve noon,and you're there till eleven o'clock at night. You know, four or fiveshows a day. That was one week, seven days. But some guys got on ashow that really made it, and they spent six weeks doing seven daysyou know something like thatplaying the same show all the time. Youhave time off between shows, so you grab a bite to eat. How manytimes can you see the movie?

Well, it's different if you're working as a musician at Radio CityI

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never did it, so I don't really know. They have a system. Work a fewweeks and then take a few days off.

Most major cities had huge movie palaces with the facilities forstage shows, but New York had more of them. Manhattan hadthe Paramount, Capitol, Strand, and Loew's State. The neighbor-hood houses, such as the Flatbush (in Brooklyn) and the Windsor(in the Bronx), were otherwise used more for theater presenta-tions rather than motion pictures. Even if one was in grade schoolit was possible, when school let out at three o'clock, to hear bandssuch as Count Basic and Charlie Barnet bands in one's ownneighborhood. Then there was downtown Brooklyn, where onemight see and hear the Jimmie Lunceford band at the BrooklynStrand in a show headlined by Bill Robinson; and of course, thebright lights of Broadway.

At the Apollo on 125th Street, one often saw Alan Curtis, withhis 4O-suit wardrobe, as Philo Vance; downtown, one was morelikely to view Humphrey Bogart in a Warner Brothers epic whilecutting school to catch the morning show of Lionel Hampton fea-turing Arnett Cobb and Herbie Fields. A classmate once satthrough Morris Carnovsky trying to intimidate Alan Ladd in Sai-gon three times just to see four stage shows of Buddy Rich.

The bands were a way of life then, particularly for the strongfans and the budding musicians. Not everyone had the New Yorkadvantage, but there were stages all over, and eventually the bandsarrived there.

*

JIMMY HEATH When I was in high school in North Carolina, my uncleused to take me to see the big bands that came down to North Caro-lina to play, and I saw the Erskine Hawkins band down there. I know'cause I got everybody in the band to autographand the Sweetheartsof Rhythman all-girls band who nobody realized before the libera-tion business, but they had a big band. But Erskine Hawkins was oneof my favorites. They used to go into some kind of things with the bigbands, even with Erskine Hawkins, that would only incorporate thealto, maybe.

**Many bands had little groups that would come down front, likethe Cab Jivers with Cab Galloway.

>:JIMMY HEATH So now they chased the small group back. It was very dif-

ficult. But, I mean, in the beginning there was a small group. Thenthey went into the big band era. When I was around Philly after I fin-ished schooland I was around there for a few yearsI was studyingwith a guy, saxophone, for about six months or so, and I was fre-

22 SWING TO BOP

quenting the Earle Theater. Every week I would go over on the daythey would open and carry my lunch and see the whole three or fourshows a day, and I would know all the arrangements, memorize alltheir arrangements. I saw Mitchell Ayres. I saw Shep Fields and allthem saxophones. I saw Alvino Rey with the steel guitar. I saw TommyDorsey's band; Jimmy Dorsey's band; Cab Galloway with Chu Berry;Georgie Auld's band with Shadow Wilson and Howard McGhee; GeneKrupa's band with Roy Eldridge; Andy Kirk's band, with the three tenorplayers: J. D. King, Edward Loving, and Jimmy Forrest. I saw that. Isaw Cootie's band with Eddie Vinson; Charlie Barnet's band when"Cherokee" was out. Let me see . . . well, Lunceford I saw once. AndBenny Goodman, of course. He had Georgie Auld with him. "GoodEnough To Keep." "A Smooth One." I saw Boyd Raeburn's band. AndLionel Hampton used to come in there and kind of break it up. Basic,of course. But Lionel Hampton was really sensational in the EarleTheater. They had to line up to see him.

**

Hamp's band caused great excitement at the Capitol in late '43."Flyin" Home" was at its height, and Hamp was jumping off drumsand leaping in the air.

**

JIMMY HEATH Earl Bostic was in the band . . . and Arnett Cobb wouldbe breaking houses down. I saw it once when Johnny Griffin and Ar-nett did their routine, throwing their coats down and all that.

:

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band. And I remember that big tone, even then. In fact, I got withYusef last year and was singing some of the arrangements that theyhad in that band 'cause I couldwhen I go and hear a band and Ireally like an arrangement, I sit there until I got it kind of learned.

*>There were all manner of fan clubs for bands and for the indi-viduals who peopled those organizations, but you didn't have tobe a club member to know who played what with which band.There was that unofficial^ clubthe jazz fraternitythat sup-ported the bands but, even more so, was aware of the soloists whowere surfacing in the sea of orchestration that bubbled with surg-ing ensembles and hot riffs.

However many solo opportunities these players received in thebands (some had entire featured numbers to themselves, but theirnormal space was more likely to be eight or sixteen bars ratherthan a full chorus of thirty-two bars) there wasn't enough roomfor them to do what was becoming an increasing imperative. Therewas a need for the music of the soloists to expand, while in theconfines of the big bands it was being constricted, like the feet ofthe infant females of ancient China. But if the structure of thebig-band performance was sometimes binding, the atmospheresurrounding these bands was conducive to opening new chancesfor expression.

The big bands brought countless musicians in contact with oneanother, whether within the same band or in encounters betweenand among bands. Since these organizations were constantly inmotion around the country, they were always rubbing shoulderswith one another in the large cities where one or more might beplaying at the same time, or at least laying over at the sameora nearbyhotel or other lodgings. There was also the interactionamong the itinerants and the best of the locals in both large andsmall cities and towns.

The arena of communication became the jam session. It camein all sizes and styles and could happen almost anywhere. It wasboth proving ground and learning experience; a test of will andego and a chance to try out and/or learn new ideas. If these jamsdidn't usually fit the Hollywood imagemusicians whipping outtheir horns on a train or bus and wailing away into the sunset ordawnthere were scenes like the one saxophonist Eddie Bare-field describes when he was with Bennie Moten's band in 1932.

**EDDIE BAREFIELD We played the dance in Indianapolis that night, and the

next day we're to meet in front of the ballroom to go to Terre Haute,Indiana and play the dance that night. And everybody's in the bus,loading up and settin' there. Just as we got to pull out, a guy in a little

24 SWING TO BOP

oP raggedy Ford runs in front of the bus, and George Johnson jumpsout. He says, "Where is Eddie Barefield? I come to cut him!"

And so everybody gets right out of the bus, goes into the ballroom,opens up the piano, and Basic starts to playin'. And we didn't get tothe dance that night. Naturally, we sent out and got some booze andthings, and we had a jam session right there.

**

This session was strictly for musicians, but there were many oth-ers to which the public had access because they were held innightclubs. Since they were often after hours, however, it was aspecial nonplaying public that was privy to such affairs. Saxo-phonists such as Coleman Hawkins, Ben Webster, and LesterYoung were always challenging and being challenged. Trumpet-ers such as Roy Eldridge and Hot Lips Page were always ready tojam and would actively seek out sessions. They were young ath-letes, anxious to flex their musical muscles, work out with their"chops" and win the musical joust. In the 19308 Kansas City wasnotorious for its nonstop nightlife and the attendant sessions withtheir competitive nature.

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ways good for sessions. They had plenty of spots like New York, likeChicago.

**

It was a practice in some places to encourage people to jam. Mu-sicians would congregate after the job to eat, drink, and meetwomen. These clubs wanted to attract musicians who would sit in.That was good for their business.

*

26 SWING TO BOP

it, not necessarily selling morality orI've never been involved withdrugs or pot or whiskynever been involved. I love the life of playingmusic. I love the gypsy effect. I love the nomadic life. But I didn't likedoing anything that personally would debilitate me and have never beeninvolved in that.

It didn't seem to be a temptation. I felt very sorry for them becauseI saw guys looking old before their time. I saw a lot of people gettingup with hangovers. I saw people trying to play and not having re-flexes but believing they were playing very well. I never could see itas a solution to a problem. It was not from a standpoint of wanting tobe a good God-fearing manI just saw too many people that wastedthemselves. I was told by many people that if I smoked a lot of grassI could hear a lot of chords. My reply, and it was honest, I would say,I can't even hear the ones I play now.

So there were a lot of jam sessions, and I went to as many as I couldgo tonot in New York, but wherever I used to play. There were threethings that I could see about these jam sessions. One was just a socialcamaraderie, just the hanging out, being together and meeting newpeople. Second was learning tunes, learning things and hearing howother people played. I must confess that the third is sort of feedingyour own ego and flexing your own egotistical musical muscles. It'skinda like to show people what you can do. And there was a lot ofthat, too. I never went in what I would call carving contests or cuttingcontests, but there was always the thing of feeling like that, whereverI played, I was like a gunfighter from out of town coming in, and theyhad their own local gunfighter, and he's pretty good, and we're veryproud of him, let's see what you can do. Always that kind of thing.One thing that was interesting to me as an insight, another lesson, andI've mentioned this in stories; that is, while playing with Chico Marx,at the Black Hawk for four months, I had a lot of solos to play andevery time I played I didn't think a thing about it. I just sort of closedmy eyes and played whatever came to me, freely, whatever it was. Atone point somebody in the band just happened to mention that wehad a very large listening audience. He said, "Do you know how manypeople are listening to us? Millions."

Something happened to rne at that point. I started thinking in aparticular way. I said to myself, there are millions of people listeningwhen I play a solo, and I'm a professional, and the thing that aprofessional should do is never make a mistake. Therefore, I shouldmemorize my solos so that I don't.

For one thing, the solos that had been free, that represented a kindof a breathing thing within these arrangements, were now set, so itoffered no really fresh kind of an interjection from me, because theband had been playing written parts, and now I came into my solos,and they were all set and the band could sing them with me. Not onlydid I not change them, but it even got worse because if I made a mis-

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take, everyone knew it, whereas before, if I hadn't played exactly whatI thought and it wasn't wrong, nobody knew. And I didn't realize thatI'm sort of limiting myself in developing my own ability to improvise.I hadn't been to a jam session in about two months, and I went to ajam session in Chicago, after doing this for a number of weeks, play-ing this way and memorizing my chords because I didn't want to makea mistake on the radio. When I sat down to play, I realized that myreflexes weren't there, that if I thought of something it didn't comeout right away; so something within me told me that I must get backto the way I was before and dare to make a mistake and dare to playfreely, and that's the only way to get good at playing. The only wayof getting good at making things up on the spot is to constantly makethings up on the spot. That was an insight to me. Since that time, itwouldn't matter which show I've been on, I've been on radio shows,TV shows, when it comes time to blow, I just blow, and I could careless about the mistakes.

**

Not only did players discover themselves out on the road, but theyalso came across musicians who stayed put, recording a few ob-scure solos or none at all.

**

SHELLY MANNE If we were playing Texas or someplace, there was alwayssome roadhouse out of town. They said, "Hey, there's a crazy band outthere. Let's go out there," and we'd all pack up at night and go on outand play. And it always happened in no matter what town you're in.In Detroit, Chicago, that's the first thing you do after the job is lookfor someplace to play. And then you'd start exchanging ideas with guysall over.

A lot of very creative musicians came from Washington, D.C. Ber-nie Miller, "Bernie's Tune." He wrote "Bernie's Tune" and "Loaded."Those things. He played piano. And what was the other guy's nameRomeo or something? I can't even remember. Tenor man in Wash-ington [Angelo Tompros].

And in Philadelphia you know you'd always find the guys that playedat all those places. 'Cause most of those guys, even during this time,were very strongly Basic-influenced. Lester Young and Basic School.All the drummers too.

*

Tompros played and recorded with the Joe Timer orchestra (Wil-lis Conover's House of SoundsBrunswick; and One Night in Wash-ington, Dizzy Gillespie with the OrchestraElektra Musician), but an-other from the Washington area didn't leave any tangible evidenceof his talent.

:CHARLIE ROUSE There was a kid therealto player named Gibson. He

was fromwell, he was playing in Annapolis, Maryland. He had a style

28 SWING TO BOP

closely related to Bird, and I don't think he ever heard Bird at thetime, but he was hearing that same type of harmonic structure. Thiswas really in the late '305early '305. Gibson. Gib, they called him.And he was playing, playing different things, and I didn't hear Birdat the time until Ben [Webster] told me about Bird. Because, actually,during that time back then, Diz was playing more like Roy. He was intheir thing, that was the wholethat jazz thing.

BENNY CARTER The only one that I can think of now is Cuban Bennett,who is my first cousin, and it's just a pity that there's nothing beenunearthed that he has recorded on. I don't know of anything and thisis just a pity, because he had something that was way ahead of its time.He was maybe closer to Clifford Brown, I might say. Yes, I would thinkso. He lived in a little town called McDonald, which is about eighteenmiles out of Pittsburgh. He was really something else, you know. Soundand conception and harmonic structure, everything. He was quiteamazing. I think Roy Eldridge is probably the only one around nowthat remembers him. And being a trumpet player, he could really makea proper evaluation.

HOWARD MC GHEE Then there was a trumpet player that I had workedwith before that I dug, and his name was Charlie Jacobs. He used toplay with a girl named Harriet Gallowayshe was going as Cab's sis-ter, and everybody would flock to the dance. You used to see herdrawing good because everybody thought she was some relation to CabCalloway.* She was a cute girl; she had this trumpet player, CharlieJacobs. He loved the ground she walked on. She really messed himup; she went off and left him. He followed her til he caught up withher in Seattle. But, boy, he was in love with that broad. He never didget straight, but he could play the shit out of the trumpet! I think heinfluenced me as much as Roy did. At that time he was playing all thisshit that was as much as you could want to hear. He was using thewhole tones, the augmenteds, the raised ninths, the flatted fifths, andhe'd do it, and I used to sit and marvel at it because I said, "God-damn, how did this kid . . ." He came from North Carolina, and hehad no name whatsoever, nobody never heard of him. I used to listento him in the band, I said, "Damn! This cat is somethin' else!" He'sthe one who taught me about augmenteds and shit. I knew the chordchanges, but I didn't know about alterations and all of that. This is ayear before I came to play around Detroit.

* *Red Allen in Fletcher Henderson's band in the '305 was playingsome whole-tone scales and things that were ahead of their time.

* Blanche Calloway was Cab's band-leading sister.

THE ROAD 29

HOWARD MC GHEE I didn't get a chance to hear Red till later on. I didn'tknow him too well. In fact, I didn't hear manythey told me FrankieNewton was a good trumpet player. I never heard him, period. I hearda record, but I never heard him in person to really hear him play.Another one they always told me about was Jabbo Smith, but I neverheard Jabbo but one time, and he only played about two choruses then,but I could tell that he was the damnedest trumpet player. I had neverseen a trumpet player that whatever he played he just let the note comeout anyway, whether he had the right valve or the wrong valve. Weused to laugh 'cause he was funny. Me and Dizzy used to laugh. We'dsay, "See that cat?" He'd be playing in the key of G, and he wouldn'tbe using the first valve. He'd be playing everything in the second orthird, and you gotta use the first one in the key, but he just bent thenote into 'em. Now, Charlie Jacobs was one of my inspirations besidesRoy Eldridge. He would take a four-bar modulation and change keys,and most of the time he didn't use nothing but augmenteds, but it wasvery effective, and I heard him doing it, and I said, "That's nice, Igotta use that," and I started using some of it. Every now and then I'drun across a modulation: going to use an augmented, takes me intoanother one , then back into the key. And that really sounds good.

TRUMMY YOUNG I was kinda bred with guys like Louis, and then alongcame Prez, and I was fortunate enough to work with Budd Johnsonin Earl Hines's band in 1934. Now, Budd was getting into somethingdifferent then. And I hung out with Budd a lot, so I started pickingup on a lot of the things that Prez and Budd were doing. Because Buddplayed with Prez many years before he ever got to Chicago. And Ikinda liked what they were doing. It was a little different from whatwas going along then.

Well, later, we used to go into Kansas City and play quite often. Therewere some young musicians in Kansas City that we all admired. Oneof them was Fred Beckett, a trombone player. I thought he was oneof the finest trombone men I ever heard in my life. I remember whenhe was playing things that guys today are playing. And he was doingit back then, and he was a; wonder. It's unfortunate that he got in abig band. He got to working with Lionel [Hampton], and he lost a lotof things that he had when he was working in the bands around Kan-sas City because, in a big band, if you get one chorus, you're very lucky.You get eight bars here, sixteen here. And it was really an injustice tohim being in a big band. I would have loved to have seen him in asmall band, develop in a smaller group. I thought an awful lot of him.

, He died in New York, incidentally.So, Fred told me about Charlie Parker, a guy around Kansas City.

But I didn't know Charlie then, but he says, "There's a guy aroundthere that plays an awful lot, man." So next time I went to Kansas CityI looked up PrezI mean, I looked up Parker. I get Prez mixed up

30 SWING TO BOP

because Bird really got it from Prez. But then he extended it. He wenton and did something of his own.

Now I met Charlie Christian before he ever left Oklahoma. Longbefore John Hammond or anybody knew him. Well, I knew him be-cause, traveling with Earl Hines, I went through all those territories,and I knew all the guys that could play. I knew all the territory bands.A lot of guys didn't know those territory bands. Some very good play-ersBuddy Tate was in those territory bands. I've met some awful goodplayers!

In each town you went into, you didn't have to look for musicians.They'd bring their horns and look for you. "Let's get it on, man!"They'd come and tell you. That's the way things were in that day. WhenI went to Oklahoma City, Charlie Christian and an alto player namedRedI never did know his last namecame up to my room with aguitar and an alto. And I was in bed. And they brought a bottle ofliquor up there and said, "Come on, man, let's play something!" AndI had to get out of bed, and I didn't even brush my teeth. And I gotout of bed, and the three of us just sat there and played for a coupleof hours. This was the way the road was back there then. So after that,we'd go and eat a little lunch, and then we'd go somewhere else andfind somebody else and play some more. I used to be tired all the time,but I was young, and I didn't pay no attention to it. If you were in aband, and the band was known, well, they'd look for you. Because theydidn't have names, but they could play, and they could outplay a lotof us in the big bands. And this was an exchange of ideas. This washow I knew about people like that way before the writers or anybodyelse knew about 'em.

I wouldn't take a-million dollars for the guys I came up with around5and Street and even prior to that. The guys that I really knew andcame up withguys like Budd Johnsonwe go all the way backandVic Dickenson when he was with that band over in CincinnatiZackWhyte; and Roy Eldridge when he was with McKinney's Cotton Pick-ers. These are the things that I go back to. And they bring some won-derful memories to me. Milt Hinton, when he was around Chicago;and Ray Nance, when he was around Chicago. I just happened to havecome up with people like this, and to prove that these people musthave had something, they're still doing pretty good today. And that'sbeen a long time ago. I'd hate to tell you how many years ago thatwas. You know, there a lot of flash-in-the-pans come up. But forsomething to last like thatthe longevity of the thing, you have to havesomething special. You have to.

>:That sunny camaraderie was one facet of the road in the '305. Amore desperate aspect was what musicians used to call being "ona panic." In the '408 there were more than a few of these situa-tions.

THE ROAD 31

JOE ALBANY I know a cat that played alto from Bird's hometown, a friendof Bird's named Cliff Jetkins. I stayed at his pad at nth and Paseo. Iwas stuck in Phoenix. I had a run-in with my first wife's parents, andI split, and that's how I got to Kansas City, 'cause first I was aroundthirty miles of Pawhuska, on a farm in Oklahoma. See, my daughterhad just been born, and I had to split because my wife's father camein and was gonna have me busted. So some cat gave me a ride andsaid, "Okay, you sell asbestos siding." So I'm tryin' to sell, a dollar aday to eat on, this asbestos siding. This was '47 or '48no, it was later,'49. I'm really broke, so I'm passing as an albino like Red [Rodney] ina place called Greenwood Avenue, which is the black section of Tulsa.

The only house where I came close to selling was a black chick whoplayed piano, an entertainer. She had a little place. She might havebeen singing, but I don't know what happened to that, and then Wal-ter Brown came to a place called the Green Frog or something. AndErnie Fields was the territorial band out there. And Walter said, well,lookbecause I know I was going to go back into lifting out of cars.And he gave me a fin. I had a fin and got it together. He gave meClifford's address and he said, "Go there." Clifford put me up for acouple of weeks, and from that I went with some past friends to Chi-cago. Shelly [Manne] was playing with Kenton and said hello then. AndI got the money from loans to finally get back to California. I was bornin Atlantic City but from seventeen on, eighteen, I was living out there.

2

Roots and Seeds

The music developed through musicians influencing one an-other, a cross-pollination of thoughts and sounds. When we talkabout the roots of bebop we generally bring up names such asLester Young, Charlie Christian, Roy EldridgCj Jimmy Blanton,Art Tatum, and Sid Catlett.

There were also many other, lesser-known players whose ideasand stylistic nuances were woven into the great tapestry of jazz.Some were recorded, and some were not, but musicians remem-ber them well for the way they helped shape their musical think-ing.

**JAY MC SHANN Bird loved Lester. Anytime that Basic was doing a broad-

cast or anything, he would always say, "Man, Basie'll be on at such andsuch time. What time are we gonna take intermission?"make thathint for me so we'd take intermission so he could rush out and hearhim.

**On the recordings that Charlie Parker made with Jay McShann atthe Wichita radio station in 1940 (First RecordingsOnyx 221) hesounds exactly like Lester Young in certain passages.

HOWARD MC GHEE First time I heard him, he sounded like Prez; in factthe first records that Jay McShann made he sounded like Prez. That'ssayin' that he had a lot of Louis in him,"'cause that's where Prez gothis.

**Armstrong influenced everybody, directly and indirectly. It didn'tmatter what instrument you played. You had to listen to him, tocome through him. He was the first great soloist in jazz and broughta new beauty and continuity to the solo line.

32

ROOTS AND SEEDS 33

TRUMMY YOUNG You never do get away from your roots, but I do thinkevery musicianthe ones I knowI know all of themthey're work-ing constantly on improving themselves, even on what they know howto play. It's always a way of doing it a little-different way. Louis waslike that. I'd hear Louis play the same solo, but when I listened to it,I'd say, "But he changed it right here or right there!" It would be al-most the same solo, but he always thought a little different way, andI've never worked with nobody that had the feeling that Louis had. Idon't care who it is. I've worked with some great guys. But I've neverworked with nobody that even approached Louis for feeling. And, man,this is something you can't buy in a music store.

Another thing about him, he didn't care if he got through to people.He got through to himself. You see, you can't fool yourself. He lovedpeople, but he told me once, "Trummy, when I go on that bandstand,I don't know nobody's out there. I don't even know you're playing withme. Play good and it'll help me out. I don't know you're up there. I'mjust playing."

Somebody asked him once. "Louis, you know you've had some aw-ful bad bands that played with you?" He say, "I did?" And this was hisanswer to him, he say, "I'll tell you. When I played with Joe Oliver atfirst, I was a pretty bad player myself. Joe didn't bawl me out. He saidI could play good but there were a lot of things I didn't understand.And Joe would take time and show me. Well, when you got there, he'dsay, 'You shouldn'ta done this. You should have done that. Or this.' "

And, man, Louis say Joe Oliver told him once, in a loving way, "Youknow,"after he made a couple of mistakes, he say, "Son, you got ahead on you and so has a glass of beer."

HOWARD MC GHEE I had heard Louis at the Greystone in Detroit; I snuckin a dance there one night when he was playing. He was an inspira-tion to me, really. I had never heard any horn sound as pretty as Iheard Louis play, like high Cs, Gs and shit like that. I guess I alwaysgo for the exciting sounds, most things that a person would automat-ically hear. I heard him make a G. I never heard it made as comfort-ably or anybody else hit a G that pretty, then or since. He taughteverybody. You had to listen to this cat, boy. I know I learned "BasinStreet." It was probably the first thing I ever knew. One of his famousrecords"West End Blues"I heard that, I says, "Goddamn, this isbad." He made that intro. I didn't know a guy could play horn likethat; I didn't know nobody who could play horn like that. Only thingI'd ever heard was church singing. That's about the only thing I liked,I guess, was to hear people get into it when they were singing. All theother horns dial I heard didn't impress me much. In fact, I don't knowwhether I did hear a Dixieland band originally.

*

34 SWING TO BOP

Armstrong's introduction to "West End Blues" has, in its magnif-icence, certain phraseology that prefigures bebop. Charlie Parkerliked it well enough to quote a portion of it during a solo on oneof his own blues, "Visa" (Bird at St. Nick's). Then there is Arm-strong's introduction on "Struttin" with Some Barbecue" with thebig band on Decca; its melody and rhythmic contours contain abebop feeling.

*>EDDIE BAREFIELD What do you think about "Laughin' Louie?" Did you

remember that record? It was way advanced for Louie's timethat wasway ahead of its time.

And then he did "West End Blues," which was more in keepin'. But"Laughin' Louie" was really way ahead of his time.

**

If Lester Young learned from Armstrong, he also favored C-mel-ody saxophonist Frankie Trumbauer. Veteran musicians who goback to the igaos feel that the move toward modernism that co-alesced in the 19408 was already in motion when flappers flow-ered.

**

RED NORVO I don't think you suddenly woke up one day and there it was.No. Because I go back with guys like Bix and Frankie Trumbauer. Inthose days, I think they were harmonically and all equipped to dowhatever was in the bebop era. Actually, Bix was, I know Frank was,and I know guys like Roy Bargy were. He and Tatum studied fromthe same teacher. Frank Trumbauer influenced everybody. But in thosedays the style was to play melodic; that was the style. That was the waythat set it. It wasn't a technical style or anything like that, it was moreof a melodicbut when it got from the big bands and started tothebig band as a band became more technical, arrangement-wise, and theygot higher up on the scale, and the trumpets were doinglarger bands.I think it was just a natural outgrowth. It was bound to happen. Youfelt it was happening all along.

When Benny Carter soloed on "Boppin" the Blues" with LuckyThompson's Lucky Seven in 1947 (RCA Victor), he played somelicks that he wouldn't have played before the advent of CharlieParker.

**

BENNY CARTER I may have been unconsciously influenced by what I washearing, because I was listening. I certainly don't know now or neverdid have anything against playing something I had heard if it fit. If Ifelt good doing it. Not that I consciously attempted to copy anyoneever, other than when I copied Frankie Trumbauer's solo on "Singin"The Blues," which was back in the 'aos. There was nobody else to lis-ten to really at that time, unless you wanted to try to play what BoydSenter was playing. But what Frankie did was very interesting to me,

ROOTS AND SEEDS 35

and that's probably the greatest reason I wanted to play a saxophone.Of course, at first I wanted to play trumpet because of my cousin [Cu-ban Bennett] and Bubber Miley, who lived in our neighborhood andI knew quite well.

EDDIE BAREFIELD I had been playing with this band around Minneapolisfor about three months. Finally a fellow named Clarence Johnson, whowas a piano playerhe had got a joty up in a hotel up in Bismarck,North Dakota, for the winter at the Spencer Hoteltook me and"Snake," the trumpet player, Roy White; and the banjo player, Lan-ders; and he had a drummer from St. Paul. It was five pieces, we wentup to Bismarck.

Well, this was fifty-five below zero weather up there that winter. Thishotel we played in, the Spencer, was right on the corner. And thenthey had an annex where we stayed, and we didn't have to go out-doors. We only played two hours a day. That was from six to eightfor the dinner hour, and that's all we had to do. And the job paidthirty dollars a week. In this annex, where we were stationed, LesterYoung's father had his family band. Lester Young and his little brotherLee, who wasn't big enough to play then but they'd dress him in atuxedo and he would conduct that band.

Irma, his sister, was a saxophone player; and his mother played thepiano; and his father played tenor. Lester was playin' alto. But he waslearnin' to play then. I had my records, my Frankie Trumbauer rec-ords, and I used to play them. One day, I hadn't met him yet, and Iheard a knock on the door, and he opened the door. "I'm LesterYoung," he says. "I heard those saxophones," he says. "Who is thatplayin' saxophone?" I said, "Frankie Trumbauer." He says, "Do youmind if I listen?" "Come in." So he came in, and we met. He startedto borrow these records. He used to tell me that he had an old beat-up alto, but one of these days, when he learned how to read good, hisfather was gonna buy him a new Selmer. We became good friends then,and he used to come over every time he got a chance when they wereout. This was in '27. We stayed over through into '28, through thewinter. And that next spring we left Bismarck.

LESTER YOUNG I had a decision between Frankie Trumbauer and JimmyDorsey, you dig, and I wasn't sure which way I wanted to go. I'd buyme all those records, and I'd play one by Jimmy Dorsey and one byTrumbauer, you dig? I didn't know nothing about Hawk then, andthey were the only ones telling a story I liked to hear.

Bud Freeman?! We're nice friends . . . but influence, ladedehump-tedorebebop. . . . Did you ever hear him [Trumbauer] play "Singin'the Blues?" That tricked me right then, and that's where I went.

BUDD JOHNSON I think he [Young] hadn't been playing tenor too long then.That must have been, oh ... '28 or '29 or something like that. I don't

36 SWING TO BOP

think he'd been playing tenor much longer then that 'cause my brother[Keg Johnson] used to work with him. When my brother left KansasCity, he went to Minneapolis, and he was working with Grant Moore,Eli Rice, and all those bands out there. And he went, and he told me,"Say, man, there's a cat out here, he plays a lot of tenor, he soundssomething like you." He said, "But this cat can really play, his nameis Lester Young." I hadn't heard him, 'cause he never hit like KansasCity or nothing. He was out in,Minneapolis with his family and heplayed out there. I probably would have run across him, but I hadquit traveling up through the Dakotas then.

BENNY CARTER I did hear Lester Young in 1932 in Minneapolis. He wasplaying alto. He had not yet gone to a tenor. And I have told manypeople that, had they heard Lester Young play alto at that time, theywould have heard a lot of what Bird was doing. Believe me. They wouldhave. Taking nothing away from Bird really, because I think he wasfantastic in all these years since he came on the scene. His things stillhold up beautifully, and it's still a joy to listen to. But Lester had adifferent conception than he was blowing later on tenor. He had somuch of it covered and, of course, you heard him play clarinet, whichwas still another kind of approach.

LESTER YOUNG I was playing alto, and they had this evil old cat with anice, beautiful backgroundmother and father and a whole lot of breadand like that, you knowso every time we'd get a job . . . this was inSalinas, Kansas, so every time we'd go see him, we'd be waiting ninetyyears to get us to work while he fixed his face, you know, so I told thebossmanhis name was Art Bronson. So I said, "Listen, why do wehave to go through this? You go and buy me a tenor saxophone, andI'll play, and we'd be straight then."

So he worked with the music store and we got straight, and we split.That was it for me. The first time I heard it. Because the alto was alittle too high.

**For some people Lester Young's tenor was a little too high. Thesame kind of thinking colored a similar attitude, later on, towardParker.

:>RED CALLENDER A lot of the older guys that couldn't cope with it found

all sorts of excuses to put it down. They used to say the Bird's tonewas bad, they said Lester's tone was bad; they were used to the Cole-man Hawkins and the Ben Webster big, lusty sound. They weren't readyon the top of the sound thing.

In Minneapolis, when Young would finish work at 2:00 a.m., hewould listen to Count Basic's