For a thousand and one nights, with a guitar case in hand, I've had to walk in and out of certain “territories” as a total stranger making my way across the urban landscapes of the world's most famous cities. The case is a license for passage, a toll paid or a liability. For instance:
I'm in London; the year is 1997. I'm hangin' out in Camden Town, back in the day when I use to smoke various recreational materials. I'm approached by a Jamaican lad who spots me carrying my guitar case–a knapsack style “gig bag” with all kinds of pockets and zippers on the outside.
“Hey dhem t'ing bring dhem party now?” he said. (trans: Hey that thing brings the party now?)
“Yeah,” I said. “I just play on the street right now. . .'just got here,” I said.
“Oh, ya do a lil bit o' buskin' do ya?” he asked. (trans: buskin'-playing on the street)
“Yeah, I be buskin' down in Nottinghill, West Indians for days,” I said.
“So dhen, I figger you lookin' fa'dat gunja huh?”
“Word,” I said.
“Wait here for ten minute',” he said, and I did.
The Jamaican returns and says: “Twenni pounds mon.” ( about $45 USD) I give him a twenty pound note and he puts a little package in the zipper of my gig bag.
I catch the subway, affectionately referred to as The Tube, to Bayswater Road toward the west side of London. I walk on down to my hotel, The Columbia, enter the bar and bust out the package for a table full of friends. To our amazement, there's nothing but cut up newspaper in the sack. My friends, who are really strangers think this is some kind of magic trick I'm doing and I'll turn it into weed shortly. Nope.
Here I am, a veteran hippie who lost his innocence to Mary Jane in 1967, being “Murphied” by a youngster from Jamaica in 1998. The case attracted him. If I had had no case, I'd be “twenni pounds” ahead this very day. I never saw him again.
That never happened again either, although I tried to return a sorry package to a peddler in a neighborhood known as “The Jungle,” located just below Baldwin Hills, off Crenshaw Blvd in Los Angeles.
I said: “Hey man, I want a refund. This don't taste right?”
The young black man just shook his head quickly and slammed the door. If I had protested further, I'd probably be preparing for reincarnation, or back on earth as someone else.
Wherever I carry my guitar case, I always attract attention. Everybody knows that a guitar player, playin' little gigs here and there may be broke most of the time, having spent all of his loot on something temporary except maybe, for yet another guitar.
When the case is carried as if you know what to do with it and you add a little strut to your step, potential muggers are not interested because they think you're a pro, on the way to play for a party or an important gig somewhere. Even a killer likes a good party, with a live band–not a dead band. Nobody wants to bother anyone who brings on the nightlife. The expression: “Don't shoot the piano player” has not survived for nothing.
The rascals will leave you alone on your way back too, except they may have been watchin' you make money on the street, like the Jamaican had cased me, and rob you in a more gentle manner.
Some of the street folks just wanna just identify with somebody who's trying to make money the hard way, playing music somewhere until three or four in the morning.
So come with me now as I step into my Jules Verne Time Machine and spiral just past George Orwell's famous year 1984, into '86. . . MMmmm–Plop! Hmmm. . . that was a rougher ride than usual; 'hope it's not a bad sign. Baltimore huh? Okay. , ,
Chapter II
So here I am in “B-mo” walking to work on a Saturday night in November. I feel myself tense up, listening to the echoes of my footsteps, looking back now and then to see if it's my shadow following me or a predator. I'm looking out for imperfections in the sidewalk because I'd hate to “toe” the edges of these hexagonal concrete plates sticking up here and there.
They would tear the soles right off these $600 DaVanzanti boots I'm wearing. The soles are so thin, I can feel every little rock. Everybody knows, that next to Ostrich, Italian leather is the softest stuff out there but these boots are not made for walking. They are made for stylin' not mylin'.
I reach into my right pants pocket. I touch a quarter and a dime–'may been a little short on cash, but tonight here in Baltimore, Maryland at least I'm sharp: boots a' shining, and razor creases in my trousers, lookin' like the footlights will radiate with joy, once I get all of this onstage.
I'm halfway down the steep hill, from my room at The Treemont Suites. I see that I am due to pass thru one of the entertainment districts again. I'm headed in the direction of the most feculent area in Baltimore: the “red light district.” There are shadows and silhouettes moving about, looking for victims and suckers. Why didn't I catch a cab tonight?
I'm just following earlier advice that this route is the shortest to The Fishmarket, where I've been gigging all week. Tonight, just like Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, I'm going to avoid the sleeze avenue and take a detour through the darkness. Monday night's foray through the district was quite enough. My guitar case drew flies once more.
When I'm carrying my guitar case, anywhere in the world, a select few people are going to heckle, or just ask me:
“Whatcha got in that case man. . .a Tommy gun?”
On this particular Saturday night in B-mo, the last night of this this gig, I'm walking down N. Charles Street. It's late November, 1986 and I'm headed to The Fishmarket to play at a jazz venue known as Eubie's, named after vaudeville great Eubie Blake. I was flown in last Sunday on recommendation from Gladys Knight's regular guitarist who had turned this gig down .
All week long I've been finding out why he turned the gig over to me. I should have passed on it too. I'm the wrong man for this gig. I don't know anything about the bandleader I'm working with.
This entry is being written way up in 2007, 21 whole years later. Now I can Google his name and find out who this man is, a man who really wished I had been someone else. In his bio, it is reported that he was a founding member of Earth, Wind & Fire and was also music director for Marvin Gaye. His first trumpet was given to him by Benny Carter and his dad played with Louis Jordon who may have been the inventor of Rock n' Roll with the hit Caledonia. Missing that first boat I'm sure, is a source of regret and consternation.
I've had music director gigs–they come and go. Well known promoter of Jackson 5 concerts Leonard Rowe once told a friend of mine “he missed the boat,” referring to me. He was both right and wrong. I missed several boats, but it was because I didn't have the right ticket.
I wasn't ready and I thank God I stayed on dry land. Yes, I caught one or two fancy liners, but they were boats that belonged to big artists. When they are through with you, they let you off at the next port. I know all about it. God bless the child whose got his own–as the song goes.
So here in 1984 The guy I'm playing with is a trumpeter named Leslie Drayton. Leslie is an accomplished musician from California who so far this week, has not been diggin' my playin' style, or me, at all. I was excited about playing tonight because this grueling six-night gig is almost over, but I ain't looking forward to more stage politics, or shall I say posturing. I didn't fit in with this league. It's not his fault, just a mismatch.
Nevertheless, I've always tried to be naturally excited on the way to play somewhere, anywhere. People see musicians on the bandstand smilin' and jivin' enjoying their free-spirit natures, and its mainly because we're working. We have a few dollars in our pockets so applicable excesses can be fed right along with everything else, depending on individual appetites. The rent? Well. . . That's what they make vans and girlfriends for. Right?
If we are single, and most of us male musicians are, we can finally go out on dates and spend some money, pay for someone else's bar tab and all that; so we tend hold onto the moments on stage, as hard as possible. I say most of us are single because as soon as you tell a girl you are a musician. . .well, unless you are gonna feed her habits and neurosis, you will not be her man.
Conversely, some ladies are inclined to feed the habits and neurosis of the musician too by telling us how great we are and how we are gonna make it big someday and become rich–standard ego food. When I was seventeen (it was a very good year) a girl named Lisa Debro told me after a gig at the Elk's Club in Montgomery Alabama:
“You got a million bucks in your hands.”
I must have been blind–I didn't see it. Although I don't need nearly that much money for myself, it'd be nice to have that much to give away. Anyway, maybe she is a psychic and I just had to mature so it wouldn't all go up my nose, or burn up in a pipe, or blown on the myriad of things that happen to a young undisciplined artist, as I was in my teens, twenties and thirties.
I didn't start growing up until age 44 when I added some peaceful tenets of Islam to my collection of religions. The five daily prayers curtailed my drugging, drinking, and smoking. I subsequently won a music scholarship and returned to school. I could never be a full Muslim because most of the immigrants and imams told me:
“Music is haram (forbidden) . . .your occupation must be halal (legal)”
If I had my way, I would burn my guitars and become a Tibetan Buddhist monk, meditate all the time, and not have an occupation at all, per se, but my genes are very powerful and I must play music and go to hell with it–though I don't necessarily believe in hell. It doesn't make sense to me.
I respect all faiths and after all, it is all faith. Personally, I find refuge in philosophy and reason, then religions. Vendanta is most pleasing to my nature (based on The Vedas–oldest written holy books extant) . I love philosophy even more.
Pythagoras allegedly invented the word philosophy which according to the book: Divine Proportion-Phi In Art, Nature, and Science by Prya Hemenway–means lover of wisdom. The Greek philo means love and sophia means wisdom.
In my personal wisdom I am also like the Hindu who understands that all religions are talking about the same God, ultimately. How did I get into this? Oh, yeah. I was talking about cleaning myself up from the excesses of show business–not just the physical substance abuse, but the crap I allowed to ferment in my head. In my quest for wisdom and success in music, I discover that lying to myself is the first danger.
Yes, I relapsed, which is a part of recovery, when I went to Amsterdam in 1998, back again in 1999, and back yet again in 2000, but here at age 57, oxygen and green tea is about all I can stand. I no longer need discipline to stay away from former bears and snakes. What happened was the development of new desires. A trumpet player, dear friend, and philosopher Avery “Handsome” Beavers once told me:
“Desire is better than discipline.”
I didn't get it when he told me because the statement is quite “Tao.” I get it now. You have to live it to get it.
So I'm not a registered member of any religion although I got my name legally changed to a set of “magical” Arabic words in 1991. Zafar (victor, triumphant) Saalik (traveler on a spiritual path) Sa'Oud (felicities). My name is my mantra.
I chose Zafar because my given name is Victor and I wanted to at least be consistent with the name I was baptized with. As for “Saalik,” I don't know if I am spiritual or not, but I seek it. To say that I am spiritual would be a prideful boast, which would denote that I am not so spiritual after all–just my philosophy. With Sa'Oud
( Saud, Saood) The goal is felicity, a state of happiness that has no contingencies. It is a state of being that must be as natural as breathing.
That means my happiness must not be dependent upon an event. It is a happiness that comes to me when when I know God loves me, knows who I am, and has intentions for me that are honorable. That one is hard to attain.
My life was going to require that I be a Victor, a Zafar, as it were. I like the sound of Zafar. it has some fire in it. Mystical. Anyway, I paid for it and it's mine. When I was music mentor for Andre 3000 of OutKast (2000-2003) I was given the nickname “ZaZa” by C-Bone, a rapper in a group known as Konkrete Law. It's all good, Dog.
Although I seldom attend services, I'm at home in any temple, mosque, church, synagogue–doesn't matter. The ritual is always beyond the rhetoric. Even science knows we share the same “Y' chromosome–traced to an island just off Kenya. If there is a God (and so far, I do have enough evidence–for me) then it is my opinion–and opinion only–we are all creations of It. I just want to get that stuff out of the way before continuing with my story. Musicians, yes, are a little whacked. We are for the most part, thinkers, believers.
I have never met a musician who was an atheist. I fully understand atheist reasoning and respect it, but it doesn't get me through my day. Musicians are always begging God to help them. I know I do, and I give gratitude for what I have as well as what I do not.
The Almighty comes through at the right time–not before, not after–right on the dot. That is the essence of my religion–arguments to the contrary, notwithstanding. There are great arguments in The End of Faith by Sam Harris, which I highly recommend. It is a reincarnation of the Age of Reason. His thinking could get him killed, but I truly understand what he's presenting.
Another good book for the religion scholar is Mythic Past by Thomas L. Thompson which elucidates mythical premises for today's Middle Eastern-Western belief systems. Both books are not bereft of personal bias. The books are quite scholarly though not incendiary. If I learned nothing at all from the study of science, I learned that we are entitled–at least–to our biases. Here is another bias. . .
We giggers (people who play music for a living with no day job) are probably the most neurotic folks in the workplace because we “just can't be satisfied” as Muddy Waters would say. By neurosis, I'm talking about that aspect of self-talk where you have to lie to yourself, throughout your career, to stay motivated even when false motivation models pop up more than real opportunities.
Most of us are always trying to make it–to realize a dream, and once we make it to some level of financial stability; our talents ands wits have to keep us there with no clock to punch and no retirement to look forward to. We can't retire. We have to have a reason to wake up. We know the average street-road gig won't last forever so we live in the moment and for the moment, instead of worrying so much about the gig runnin' out, or the lack of admirers.
It's not all so bad. Giggin' can ignite new relationships. I'm going to report to you that my present girlfriend Denise confessed (in 2006):
“I fell in love with you because you play guitar as good as my daddy.”
Her daddy is the great Puerto Rican guitarist Neftali Pineiro. What a cool name. I heard his tapes. He is quite a master. I've found a home for my heart with Denise because she respects my life as a musician. She also took a thorn out of this tiger's paw. That is another story, a part of my memoir: Walking on My Hands- Landing on My Feet.
Whew. Thank you for your indulgence. I just wanted to tell you a few personal things so you'd know me a little better, before returning to this Baltimore adventure–Where was I? Oh yeah, okay–I was talking about this little night stroll, on the way to play the last night at Eubie's.
I'll always remember last Monday night walking this beat because I am heckled on the street with a challenge I've never heard. As I'm entering the valley at the bottom of this hill on N. Charles, Monday night replays before my mind's eye:
I turn my attention away from my own thinking and cue up on my B.S. radar screen. The first blip reveals a cocky young Italian man with straight black hair and dark eyes. He sees me coming and starts rehearsing for my arrival, dancing about with both hands tucked deep into the pockets, bobbing up and down pretending to be chilly. His timing is good.
After he gets the attention of his cohorts nearby, he steps from the door stoop of the strip club where he works as a door barker, waving his hands in the air. First I'm thinking these are gang “signs,” but he's just trying to show off some cool gesturing to disarm me . He smiles broadly and offers:
“Hey homes, you'z carryin' that guitar wrong. Dah thing's gonna fall right out on the street man! Hey….Thass dah wrong way man! Don't you know dhat? You suppose to carry the latches to the inside man!”
I smile, look down at the case and hold my tongue. He turns to his pals, knowing that he's breaking the monotony of a slow trickle of “tricks,” into the whorehouse they're are fronting. They don't quite get the joke, but they all share a high rank of hilarity. Slowing my gait, I chip in some accommodating chuckles.
The dude, well he's right about the guitar case. If indeed you grab up your case while in a hurry, chances are you can miss securing all of the buckles before you leave and yes, it could open later. I've had that happen just picking the cased guitar up from a table or couch, it opens immediately but slowly enough for me to catch it.
I use mostly gig bags now because they look hipper, they're lighter, and some of them are subtly military, brief and cool. The sharper the gig bag the better the projection of personal completeness. That's the first thing guitar players notice when they see another player–the gig bag or the case.
It's kinda like wearing the right clothes. I've had people at venues in Hilton Head check my gig bag before entering, long before homeland security became salient because yeah, it looks like a rifle is in it. I'd really be messed with, if I took my violin case around. It'd be obvious I had a machine gun in there.
So I turn around, toward the Italian person, and bounce slightly with his rhythm a couple of times. I throw a peace sign and keep walking without correcting the way I'm carrying the case–after all, the latches are secure anyway.
I can hear hooting laughter as I turn the corner hurrying to get out of view and range. Since I'd paid the price of allowing ridicule, I decide that I'm welcome in the neighborhood and intend to go back to the hotel by the same route, toward the end of the gig, with the latches to the outside just to rile him up again.
But I'm dodging him on the first trip down tonight, as I have been all week, just cutting across into the darker regions just to avoid having my flow interrupted. After walking several more blocks of boarded-up shops, I hurry on across the street to get to The Fishmarket at last. Not going through “the district” made it a fairly dull stroll, but I haven't been in the mood for heckling this week.
As I watch for traffic, I remember Leslie telling me that trumpet icon Freddie Hubbard is coming by to see him, so I'm thinking I should show off a little, since we only have just this night left to play. I've already been a misfit, so now I'll just play whatever way I want to play. Earlier in the week, Matty, the drummer admonished me for being interpretive.
“Hey man. . .er. . .the cat knows how he wants his music played.” (referring to Drayton)
“Hey man, I thought I was supposed to feel the stuff like I always do,” I said. Wrong answer.
Safely on the other side of the wide street, I slow my pace, stop and lean against a lamppost. I'm a good hour early so I just want to hangout here, smoke a cigarette, and harness some early memories of this gig. The first thing comes to mind is thinking about how puffed up I felt when I heard my name being paged by limo driver, right after I got off the plane and entered the lobby.
Chapter III
Everybody wants to see who the limo is for. Nobody recognizes me as I wave to the driver. Of course not. I'm just a gigger. I can hear the crowd's telepathy, in joint consensus:
“Hmmm. . . Who dhat is?. . . Hmmm, don't recognize him. . . He cain't be that famous.”
The limo driver who comes to get me, introduces himself as Zack. He obviously thinks I'm somebody important so he is eager to chat while we're loading my stuff. He remarks he'd heard the advertisement on the radio for the gig. Zack tells me about the Fishmarket, the harbor, and other little nooks of Baltimore that he thinks may appeal to me in my off time.
With all his suggestions, he left out the most important little dive: the late night breakfast place which I found on my own, just ramblin' roun'. Quiet as its kept. It's a secret place in a secret town. It's where the hippest folks in the whole town end up.
From here, you just walk up hill on N. Charles to North Ave., then go right for about a good mile and a half then start sniffing for bacon and eggs. It's a good place to hang 'til daybreak. I don't know if it's still there now. You know how scenes change, and the good stuff disappears.
For instance, my favorite coffee shop “Easy Times” in Amsterdam (coffee? . .yeah right) is all closed up, at least it was last time I was there in '98. I go all the way back in 1999 just to sit, chill and watch the boats go by. No cigar. I still have my pictures of it and that'll have to do. Nothing stays the same but change. The concept of entropy reigns supreme.
Here as I write this in 2007, I remember someone once telling me that The Fishmarket is closed. People who like jazz have aged to the extent to where they don't even go out anymore. Hip hop and DJ's have replaced those pastimes.
Maybe there will be jazz and blues on Mars once the Russians get there and (gulp) colonize the place. They love jazz and blues–hip hop too. Zack, my limo driver is lucky to be living in an era when people still learn to play instruments and become Wynton Marsalis, Wes Montgomery, Ray Brown, Ramsey Lewis, Freddie Hubbard, and the rest of the cats. That trend has faded like dixie cups and nickel sodas.
I ease on into the back of Zacks' limo and pour a straight tumbler of Hennessey and pretend I'm a star, crossing my legs, holding my chin up and enjoying being “rode roun.” For the simple length of the ride I'm some kind of star anyway–somebody had to pay for this–just for me.
The ride from the airport doesn't take too long. We take the uncluttered freeway and enter the city proper with ease. The snow on the ground is in stark contrast to Atlanta's mild winter. I actually have some butterflies. I'm thinking this must be some really big group I'm supposed to play with.
As we near our destination, Zack shows me where some of the food markets are since I told him I'm addicted to fresh fruit. For me, those rows of funky markets hold enough variety and color as to not reach a point of diminishing returns.
I carefully note each turn and understand that this market area will make for good strolling. I'm to come back and peruse this strip as a daily routine. It'll be fun to watch the women seriously picking out fruit and weighing the goods. They're all business.
Zack turns to go uphill, then “across the top” on North Ave of downtown, turning onto N. Charles, to get to the Treemont Suites Hotel. I look out and see nice huge snowflakes drifting through the air causing me to adjust my perception, like watching fish in an aquarium. The only snow I've seen in years is on a snow cone. Somehow, I allow the limo window to turn into a television screen. This is the famous City of Baltimore.
The limo, with brakes scrunching–resisting the lure of gravity and forward inertia due to the steepness of this hill, eases over to the left side of the street to the front of the Treemont. As I watch the heads turn to watch us, I let down the window so I can be seen. . .Star time! The driver opens my door. I get out as if I have stiffness and bone trouble, as I milk this moment.
I tip Zack five bucks and want everybody to see me do it. The groping stops as soon as people are certain they aren't missing anything. They probably think I'm a ball player because of my height, but that is put to rest when the guitar is handed to me. My afro is too big anyway.
I walk on inside the hotel towards the desk and marvel at the pictures of famous entertainers who had graced these halls back in the day. Now I'm here, the great Victor Vick (as I was known back then) but I have no picture to give them. However, my picture is on the wall at Melo-Meloe in Amsterdam. If you ever go there, ask the owner Jer:
“Where is the picture of Zafar So Good?”
I check in, grab my key, and take the elevator to my room on the fourth floor. This is the first time I'd ever stayed in a “suite” hotel, with a stove, ice box and cupboard. I've got a phone message waiting for me, saying to meet in the lobby at 3PM to go to the rehearsal at the venue.
Chapter IV
Leslie had sent sheet music in advance so I rehearsed my part for two weeks and thought I was ready. I was not ready–not even close and I arrived broke. I had to get an advance on my Visa card. I ended up having to get advances totaling almost the all the money I'd be making for the whole week.
The gig at Eubie's pays $750 for the week with no per diem (daily food allowance). Before leaving Atlanta, I had parted company with $200 to have my friend Errol to fashion a custom travel case for the “Chet Atkins nylon string guitar,” which I was asked not to play, and I had bought a brand new Galen-Kruger amplifier from Rhythm City in Atlanta for $250–had a case made for it too, for $100. So that's $550 before I even left, then I run up $500 in cash advances. Easy math on that one.
My attitude? I was making a long term investment in case this happened to be a big break and I was going to stay out on the road with this group that went by the name– “Fun.”
I can't understand how I spent an average of a hundred dollars a day. Where on earth did it all go? French Fries? There was a shop down at the harbor that specializes in nothing but French Fries–buckets of them cooked in different oils, seasoned with different stuff. I think that's where the money went. Yep, sure of it–with that paprika, black pepper and vinegar. Yum. I want some right now.
So here in front of The Fishmarket, leaning against this green pole, I'm trying to make sure the memories are imprinted. I look at my watch. It's thirty minutes before show time. I put out my cigarette and make my way through the throng of folks. Like I said, I didn't go all the way down N. Charles. I cut across to avoid the Italian guy. I'm saving him for the trip back, if he's working tonight.
I snap out of my dreamy first day recollections, stopping just outside the glass doors–peering in, watching the “silent movie.” As soon as I crack the door, the joyous noises of this immense musical carnival make another imprint into my bank of cherished memories.
It's pure gorgeous chaos listening to seven different tunes going on all at once, with crowd noise that makes the music sound as if it's all coming from several old phonograph records played at once. It's like a carnival where you hear the sounds of all the rides and attractions, mixing in together. I'm thinking:
“Wow, look where I'm playin' tonight! Eubie's! Baltimore! This is a town where people come out all week long to hear and see some shows!”
The smell of beer, popcorn, and gyro wraps rush out as I open the door wider and enter the massive indoor venue. I can see why John Lennon used carnival sounds in some of his music juxtaposed, against some kind of sonic order. The experience becomes intuitive, and I allow myself to pretend that I'm in a dream or wonderland at best. There are several shows going on at once in several different theme venues.
Once inside this carnival, I slow my pace, dapping hard, with a slight lean to the left, like I have a cripple in my left foot. I look like a cripple crab crossing a cripple creek with a cripple crutch. I swing around to a cafe just across from Eubie's and mentally return to where I was in my earlier sentiments.
I again recall the tension of the first day getting together with these cats. They already knew all the charts in their muscle memory which made it worse.
In that first rehearsal and on subsequent nights, I had a hard time comping (strumming) the chords. Leslie cringed at me because often times I'd simply miss the chord change–train wrecks as he called them, and train wrecks they were. They were bad train wrecks, but at least the cars stayed on the tracks. As I said earlier, I had brought my Chet Atkins Gibson (electric-acoustic, nylon stringed) to the rehearsal, he didn't like the tone and asked:
“Do you have a Stratocaster? (very popular Fender guitar used by Hendrix, Clapton, Jeff Beck, etc.)
I replied, “Naw man, but I did bring my hollow box Fender D'Aquisto.”
“Does it sound like a Strat,” he followed, grinning profusely, with some spit flying.
“We can tweak it.” I said calmly with winking with assurances.
He expresses his disgust, just as the amplifier I bought for the gig blows out, It's a Galen-Kruger. So I had to take some more posturing for brining a raggedy amp.
Leslie said: “Hey man, this is the kinda gig where they supply the amps man, lemme get you an amp up here.”
Now I'm beginning to think this cat is important. Ten minutes later, one of the stage hands delivers a fair sized Yamaha amp. The thing did nothing for my tone. It sounds like an amplifier that wishes it had been incarnated as an oversized transistor radio. I hate it. The sound was too chunky for the guitar I had. That was my first lesson in big time gigging, that is–equipment is provided. They probably would have given me a Strat if Leslie had ordered it in advance.
I had stopped playing Strats by the time I was 18, the sound is too thin and nasal and I thought it was a one-trick pony in terms of delivering that one wonderful patent sound. I broke down and bought another one at age 48. It had Texas Special pick-ups and I was smitten.
It's a very good guitar, but I'm through with 'em. I sold my '98 Anniversay model Strat back to Mars, where I worked, for twenty cents on the dollar. I'll admit–it was the best solid-body guitar I'd ever played and I've played everything from Zim Gar to Danelectro. Just talkin' about this makes me wish I were back at the store, selling guitars and teaching. Mars went under in 2001.
The electric classical sound didn't go with Leslie's music at all. The classical guitar sounds too distinctive and stands out too much in the live mix of his music. Frankly, he doesn't even need a guitar in this band. He doesn't seem to really like guitar. Mine anyway. Now for further conflicts.
Chapter V
We're playing the first song on the first night. He keeps looking at me, while motioning to the bass player to hand me his stage tuner. I don't even know I'm out of tune. Three songs later, he walks over and hands it to me himself. Bandleaders just make you want to just whack 'em. I wanted to take his trumpet and just pulp him with it and force it. . .well, that's enough.
A sax player named Sidney Bechet was known for half-killing arrogant fellow musicians. Billy Eckstein, as pretty as he was, would beat up a band member for this and that. There are times where I wish I could have been a jerk. Some people don't respect anything else, but no, I'm the “softest touch in town.” It's in my freakin' genes, which has got to go back to the age of gentlemen–somewhere.
Some of Leslie's behavior was designed to detract from an inner frustration that I've sensed. It's easy to see because I've had the same disease. I perceive that he doesn't think much of his own ideas and does not want me evaluating him. My psychic senses tell me that he has suffered rejection for his recordings and has not been able to get a real break and it's being taken out on me.
Back on Monday, at the end of the first gig night, my huge professional ego is smashed. I can't tell if the other cats like me or not. They fake it, just being polite. A guy who I will refer to as Benny, the piano player has played with Whitney Houston. His piano case had Anita Baker's name on it. He was hot to tell us who they both had been doing the wild thang with.
That's all he had to talk about. Benny had a very disarming personality, nice lookin' cat too. We never really clicked onstage or off. I didn't jell with this group, and conversely, they didn't jell with me either. We cooked anyway, with no Jello. I was Rodney. . .Dangerfield at his best. Matty, the drummer and I, did manage to hang just a wee bit. More about that in a minute.
Still, I'm in the habit of being a cheerleader of sorts and I would blurt out an earned “yeah” when anybody played some hot licks and of course, that inspired all of them. I did that with everybody, including Leslie when he played some good lines. It pushed him and made him feel it more. My criticism is that he played thoughtfully and with good tone, but not enough abandon and spontaneity for my ears.
That's part of the way I enjoy gigging most times. These are west coast jazz cats; so my demeanor in their eyes is slightly on the crude, “country boy” side. They'd act like I'm being uncool, so I decided to stop emoting so much. I quit doing it, just standing at the music stand and reading the chart like I was in a big band.
No train wrecks at all accompanying this particular demeanor. All business, all notes in place. Less was more. The creative temperature goes south. The food gets cold. The gig is dead as a doornail. Bless their hearts. I didn't detect much passion in the playing, all around. Guys just playing tunes.
Chapter VI
Show time is in fifteen minutes. I have time to tell you another anecdote while I'm waiting for my milkshake. From this band, I'm reminded of when I played a big outdoor show attended by down home, working class folks, with Freddy Cole, Nat King Cole's brother, in 1985, a year before this gig. We're doing a moderate tempo blues in the key of F. I'm playing in a down home style as Freddy turns around and looks at me like I'm doing nothing short of passing wind in his direction. Thinking back, it was indeed a hokey solo for his smooth bourbon blend of jazz.
I never had anybody to look at me like that during a solo. Maybe it was because I beat him on the golf course earlier that day where he had the same frown for 18 holes that closed up when he putted. To make matters worse, during intermission I go right to the mike in front of 12,000 people sitting on the concert lawn and plead:
“Hey ya'll, we don't have no beer up here. . .somebody be so kind as to bring the band a beer or two. . .Anybody got some extra beer!”
The audience was delighted with my request and I ended up beggin'-off a whole case full of varieties; everything from Rolling Rock to Pilsner Urquell. Cole is not amused. He pulls me to the side:
“That ain' cool man, don't do that!”
The rest of the band didn't mind including Marcus, the drummer and Jiles, the bassist. Marcus just laffed with that big smile of his and said, “You' crazy,” while enjoying my beers–he and Jiles for that matter.
I knew Cole wasn't gonna keep me around, and I was mad for the way he looked at me, and I wanted a beer and I got beer. In our rehearsal I marveled at how much richer his voice was than Nat's. It sounds very bassy and raspy with the addition of that classic Nat King Cole sound that brings to mind something exotic like satin licorice, flavor for days.
He's become a big star with Jerry Byrd, a friend of mine, on guitar playing with just the right style for Freddie. Freddie Cole is a man who has indeed paid his dues, living in the shadow of Nat. He deserves the review he got in the New York Times where he is heralded as “maybe the best ever.” More power to ya Freddy or Uncle Dinky, as Natalie calls you.
That's why I play solo and sit in with blues bands from time to time. I don't fit in that well with jazz bands. If my chords don't match the piano, they'd rather I just lay out. When I solo, the piano lays out. That means to play like a sax man and just solo when my time comes. Ha. I did that once as a teenager in 1967 playing with now-famous string conductor Benjamin Wright. I came onstage and said:
“I ain't playin' no chords tonight and I ain't repeating myself.”
So after the first gig on the first night up here in Baltimore, at Eubies', we all take a big cab back to the hotel. The limos were not to be seen again until the last night. I don't like limos. They remind me of my grandmother's funeral since that's the first time I ever rode in one. I hate 'em. I like to drive anyway–when I can.
After the first hour in the lobby of the Treemont, I meet Matty the drummer. The first thing he talks about copping some weed. He has an friend, a white dude named Terry who had played State Department tours with him, living in DC, who's gonna bring over some nice fat $20 bags of grass. He arrives, they exchange exuberant pleasantry.
Matty rolls up a nice tight doobie and we all proceed to hog the joint. I notice that they are not eager to include me in this exclusive conversation but they would need me later to chip in on some “steam” –vodka that is. I purchased two bags from the guy and he warmed up to me a little more. We all decide to go for a ride down to the harbor and kick it with the locals.
As soon as we reach the bottom of the hill, I'm amazed at how the town is laid out, the old with the new, sharing distinct borders. The weed wears off much too quickly and I consider asking for a reefer refund. Eventually I just give it away to pay extortion fees to the band. I'll just drink this week.
The road makes you spend too much money anyway. To keep from being bored on the road, you gotta have some money and you gotta spend some money, buy some things, eat fine meals in cool restaurants, go to movies, If that's what you do.
Down in the bottom, we find a liquor store. The three of us pitch in on the steam as we wind up with Hennessy, Absolut and of course, Mad Dog 20-20 a real street corner, lose your mind wine. .
When somebody on the road is into hard drugs, they usually keep it a secret from the non-users. By then I had outgrown the sundry drug experiments and by now, as I write this, I report that I meditate, write, play music, sculpt, paint, and ride my bike to get high. Breathing deeply is the best joint for me.
It's easy to appreciate breathing at age 57 after a long life of sucking up all kinds of smoke. I'm glad that's over, at least until I go back to Amsterdam; but with the Iraq situation, I hear that Americans aren't welcome there anymore. See, everything changes. It keeps me out of trouble.
Speaking of trouble: I know you heard the joke about the guitar player: “What do you call a male guitar player without a wife or girlfriend?” Homeless, what else?
Chapter VII
I finish my milkshake and crab my way back across the venue to the stairs leading to the dressing rooms here on the fifth night. Climbing the stairs to Eubie's dressing rooms, I think once more about my purchase of all of that stuff before I left Atlanta assuming I would be hired into a regular situation. I had a habit of expecting something good to happen even after many false starts and false situations. I bought those stupid road cases. Arrrggh. I didn't play the guitar nor the amp I had the cases made for. Arrggh. The weed stunk.
I arrive at the dressing room. Everyone is here except the boss. Sal, the bass player asks to play my guitar he strokes a few chords and comments on its wonderful quality as he notices a bottle of Rogaine in my travel bag:
“This stuff any good?” he said.
At that time I had a nice thick afro, although afros went out of style with the advent of Superfly and dreds. His 'fro was one of those see-thru 'fros so I could understand his interest. I told him he could have it because I really thought the effect was psychological, with a little thickening effect for good measure.
He has ant licks all over his head so I figure this would help the dude to like me a little more, but we would not have enough time for the Rogaine to kick in so he could thank me.
It was about time we started talking because the gig is almost over. We'd hardly spoken all week. Its like being in the Army where you don't get too personal in case the ax falls on the battlefield and it had fallen on my neck several times that week. He had to stay on the bosses side, after all he is a California clique man and knows how to stay that way. I
t's no telling what they said about me, but I was feeling like the ugly duckling all the time. Poor baby. At some juncture in the talk, Sal is so up on his ego that he attempts a slight after I say:
“Well I'll be back in Atlanta next week.” I said with exasperation, not really wanting to return.
Sal quipped: “Oh yeah, thass in Georgia, ya'll drank well water there in Atlan'na don't cha'll ?”
Leslie arrives and leaps in. Cogitating on the classic faux paux of walking into a conversation in progress, intentionally interrupting, ma' man starts up that grin of his and goes on the attack. The first words out of his mouth are:
“Hey man, you need to buy yourself a stage tuner, I'm surprised you don't have one.”
“Why does your guitar go out of tune so much?” He continued, the grin turning into a practiced snarl, just like some of his solos. I become defensive, even breathing harder, really getting mad but remaining composed, I tell him:
“Man, I' been holed up in my studio and playing solo mostly. I manage to correct my tuning in that setting. This is a sudden challenge and I'm as annoyed as you are.” I meant that.
Leslie, sensing that he has eased me into speaking properly with crisp, measured phrases, interrupts, blurting:
“Ah man, I wuz jess screwing with you.”
He knew I was trying to get a permanent gig because I'm giving too much giving deference to his daily dissonance. He knows that and sucker-plays it as far as he can. I know if he reads this he is going to get a good laugh out of it, because it 's all true and I suspect he'll be amazed that I remembered so much. I was such a nightmare, that he may have thought it was all a dream, or wished it so.
Leslie tells me to tune up again before we hit the stage. He loves to hand me the tuner. I hate tuners. My ears usually win out, but in this situation I don't get a chance to use them that much. The temperature difference from the dressing room to corridor and backstage area will cause my strings to tighten up by the time we start. Every time the air comes on, my strings go sharp.
This is not going to be a gig that I will ever be called to do again. He is suffering with the finest art of meanness I've ever experienced. The audience though, has been enjoying my playing and presence–maybe even a little too much. These folks clap really loud for me. . . all week long, smiling up at me with cool posturing and gestures–jazz style.
We take to the stage and I see the great Freddie Hubbard on the front row smiling and nodding. After noticing that I had to tune up again, Leslie introduces him and asks him if he wanted to play. Freddie said:
“I didn't bring my mouthpiece.”
They play it off and we break into “In Walked Bud.” I'm too slow in deciding how to voice a chord, by the time I have what I need, the change has gone by and either I'd play it and wreck the train, or miss it altogether. Freddie saw the whole thing. He can tell I'm not into the music. The music itself is sincere, I understand the essence even though the syntax doesn't inspire me.
Later on I lose my place again trying to read the smudgy pencil- rendered charts. With Freddie still on the front row, Leslie walks by my stand real slow and says softly,
“Lay out.”
Everyone in the audience can see what's up as I place my forefinger across my mouth to look like I'm thinking deeply. He makes it obvious that a scolding is in progress. He walks to the edge of the stage turns and makes his way back to my little area, while still into his own solo and points on the chart as to where I'm to come back in–holding his finger there for a small eternity whilst blatting. Arrgggh. I can still see his finger.
Eubie's is a well laid out listening room with two tiers of balconies, so the people in the audience have a bird's eye view of what could have appeared to be mere theatrics, but they know it is a shot. I should've told him to roll up this music and use it for toilet paper. Since he has my check. . .well, what can I say. That would've been a time to end up on the floor with people trying to pull me off. It's only a four piece back up band so the negative attention makes my omission all the more obvious.
I haven't felt embarrassment like this, ever in my life of playing live gigs. To let off steam I wait for a spot to jump into the fray of the jam. I'm thinking, screw it and launch into a blistering solo, taken out of place and arrogantly served up. I get 'holt of a fast lick I like to play and it's a thrill to listen to it comin' again and again with different dynamics every time.
I look over at Hubbard; he's smiling and clapping loudly with all others in the packed house. He knows I'm an odd man out and probably understands Leslie's ways as well. I'm feeling that Leslie apologized for me in advance or rather told him that I was all *%#@)! up. For his purposes, that was true.
Tensions simmer on some of his other originals like “Sausalito Ferry” and “Monday Afternoon” which by the way, I heard playing on the Muzak in Kroger Foods on Moreland Avenue in Atlanta, three years later. I was happy he getting his music out there. At Eubie's I played nice solos on those pieces, the applause was earnest and loud.
As the night is winding to a close, a few cats in the band start looking out into the audience for stray girls.
There's a very attractive, very dark-skinned girl over in the right corner of the club. She has kept her eyes on me all night, never moving her head to the left or to the right.
That was convincing enough to encourage me to think about inviting her to just come party with us. After the gig, the other guys head professionally towards the stage door as I jump right off stage straight over to the girl with the stiff neck. I told her I was married, not interested in anything but company, and that she was welcome to come up and party with us. I told her there are single guys in the group. I tell her we'll be at The Treemount in an hour or so.
Her mother appears out of nowhere, so the whole vibe is neutralized. After five minutes or so, the rest of the band comes on out and surrounds me and the two ladies, vying to get the sound of their voices into the mix. Leslie shows up to pay everybody and calls us all to the side, away from the two ladies, and as other girls gather roun' for choosing rituals.
Bossman called us into a huddle, leading with,
“Look man, you cats don't be spennin' no money on dese women. I'm jus' tellin' you that before I give it to you, so nobody is going back to the hotel but us. “Ya'll just gonna spend ya money before we even get outta here. I'm payin' ya'll when we get back to the hotel.”
With this, he walks away to find Freddie Hubbard. The guys are dumbfounded by the admonishing, or shall I say, having a new rectum chewed into them.
Chapter VIII
I still made the decision that I'm enjoying myself and I had played some damn good music this week. I'm still beaming as I walk over to Leslie and Freddie Hubbard holding court with each other after the boss had sufficiently slapped his agenda on us. As soon as I step up next to the great Freddie Hubbard, he snapped his head in my direction and shot:
“Hey, I know you!”
I was like a child interrupting two grown people talking. Then he turned right back into what he was talking about with Leslie I tried to compliment Freddie on his movie role in Roun Midnight the great jazz film starring Dexter Gordon and he just looks at the ground and shakes his head as if to be embarrassed and to signal that he did not want to talk with me any further.
It was okay. He had been one of my heroes especially with his work on Eric Dolphy's Outward Bound album. I like that best of all, even better than Red Clay. I was just glad to hear him say something. . .anything. Wow, Freddie freakin' Hubbard, I thought.
Now I'm sure Leslie told him I was messed up. He may've told a lot of other cats because it got back to me from Gladys' guitar player to Jimmy Calhoun, a friend of mine who helped to hook the gig up. This article is not my revenge. This is just an anecdote from the road.
There were no other girls left for the cats to hit on–Leslie ran 'em off so we all decide to walk back to the hotel together, I know the route, so for once, they had to follow me–going back past the whore house on N. Charles. When we get there, even though I have a gang of band dudes with me, my Italian friend jumps out again, points to my guitar case and says:
“Jeepers man. Where've ya been? You still don't know how to carry that thing. What the #@*% is wrong with you dude?”
Sal asked me, “What's that all (about)” The Italian points to Sal's gig bag, strapped on his back like a knapsack.
“You need to get a case like that dude' got, he knows what the @#%^is up!” he said.
We all fake a giggle. Everyone is confused but me, so I entertain the band with the story, the rest of the way up the hill, with the whole deal pertinent to what went down when I was on my way to the gig last Monday night. Out of the blue, Leslie offers some syrup laden placation:
“Elvin Jones said that it ain no way you gonna feel it every night, but you cats was groovin' good man, even Vic (my name then) was gettin' off tonight.” Even me–imagine that. Even me. Holy Macka'mo'le. He's right. I was gettin' off all week.
So we have a little party at The Treemont Suites. The one girl shows up and is actually more interested in Benny and finding out if anyone has any white powder. I don't know how that turned out, otherwise we all drank some steam. I played some of my recorded music for Leslie in case he would at least call me for a recording session. I remember one particular piece where he asked me:
“What's the name of that one?”
“Rescue,” I said.
“Rescue ME,” he said.
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