The Bishop and the Butterfly: Murder, Politics, and the End of the Jazz Age
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    One For Jimmy

    By Wattree on Thu, 01/16/2014 - 8:46am |

    Beneath the Spin * Eric L. Wattree 


    ONE FOR JIMMY
     
    I’ll never forget the day my father brought home my first saxophone. It was on a Sunday morning. He opened the case, and there it was, smiling at me for the very first time, with its pearly-white keypads and glistening gold body gleaming in the sunlight against the deep blue felt lining of its case. Even now, I can remember my excitement as the newness of it’s smell filled my young nostrils.
    .
    But to my surprise, he also brought Jimmy home with him - for what, I didn’t know. Jimmy was the neighborhood’s quintessential dope fiend and general substance abuser. Thus, to my even greater surprise, it turned out that he had brought Jimmy home to teach me to play the saxophone. I was very doubtful that Jimmy could teach anyone to do anything but shoot dope, toss back a pint or two and nod, but I wasn’t worried about that at the time - I just couldn’t wait for him to put that horn together.
    .
    It seemed like it took him forever to extract the pad-saver and adjust the reed on the mouthpiece. Then they finally put the strap around my neck. Jimmy showed me where to place my fingers, and then I blew my first official note on the saxophone, and got one of the most horrifically agonizing sounds out of that horn that ANYONE has ever heard. It made my mother jump up out of bed and run into the living room yelling, "What is going on in here!"
    .
    I became immediately frustrated, because I just couldn’t figure out how something that was so beautiful could produce such a horrible sound. Then my father said, "Wait a minute, son. Jimmy, show him how this thing is supposed to sound."
    .
    Jimmy, as I mentioned before, was not only a dope fiend, but over the years he had degenerated into an extremely unkempt drunk as well. He had become the kind of person who was completely dismissed by even the most down-on-their-luck adults, and the kids used to like to play practical jokes on him when we found him nodded-out somewhere in the neighborhood. But when he put that horn into his mouth and began to play "Round Midnight," he became a different person. Now he was in his element - Jimmy was in command. All of the disappointments and humiliations in life slipped under his fingers and out the bell of that horn as some of the most beautiful licks that I’d ever heard before or since.
    .
    Even as a kid I could see the confidence, the focus, and knowledge reflected in his eyes. I could see the young Jimmy. I could see all of his hopes and dreams that seems to have gone astray. And to this day, I have never heard ANYBODY play "Round Midnight" with such passion and ease of facility, and I’ve heard it played by some of the greatest saxophone players who has ever lived, but not one of them has been able to touch me in the spot that Jimmy reached that Sunday morning of my youth. And this was cold, on a brand new saxophone, and he probably hadn’t touched a horn in years - and not to mention he was loaded (one of the last times I ever saw him in that condition, by the way).
    .
    I never looked at Jimmy the same way again. From that day on, he became a man to be respected and to be taken very seriously–at least, in my eyes, and later, others began to see him in the very same way.
    .
    But as dazzled as I was, I hadn't heard nothing yet. My father became so taken with the seriousness and professionalism that Jimmy brought to teaching me to play that about six months later he took Jimmy to the music store and bought him two brand new state-of-the-art Selmer saxophones - a tenor, and an alto (we won't discuss how my father knew Jimmy, and how he had so much ready cash - let's just say he was a very successful businessman).
    .
    But when they got back home and Jimmy placed his brand new Otto Link metal mouthpiece on that tenor, he took my breath away. The clarity and speed of the notes flying from the bell of that horn reminded me of the glistening spokes of a Cadillac El Dorado reflecting off the Sun as it gracefully cruised down Sunset Blvd. It was absolutely breathtaking. It was next to impossible to believe that this was same guy who just six months earlier was nodding out between the trash bins behind the pool hall.  Jimmy was undoubtedly a world-class talent - and he knew it. My father would have him play along with records, and he'd routinely blow circles around some of the best in the business, and without bustin' one sweat bubble. He could play 16th notes in double-time that were so fast that it sound like a swarm of bees. 
    .
    This one’s for you, Jimmy, because when the chips were down, you proved yourself to be the man, and without a lot of struttin' and fanfare. You just pulled yourself together and showed us what you were made of.  And I’ve never forgotten what you said - "ii, V, I is the stairway to the stars," and you were right. So thank you, my man, for changing your life long enough to give me one. I’m thinking of you this morning with moist eyes - not from sadness, but with great pride in your dignity, and how you handled coming back from the very bottom to a man who commanded the respect of everybody who knew you. You've been an inspiration to me in many more ways than just music. You had character - more character than anyone I've ever known, and class.
    .
    You showed ‘em all, my man, and you went out a winner. You and Jug blew the lights out at the Tiki (that was another night my eyes were moist), and your last gig was SRO. The people who used to laugh at you when you were on the bottom are now saying you were the very best, and they fought back tears as they carried you out of this world on their SHOULDERS. Bird didn't even get that kind of treatment, so you can't get no more respect than that, my man . . . I just hope I’m as lucky.
         .
    So rest in peace, Jimmy. You deserve it, because you showed 'em - you showed 'em all.
    .
    Squirt
    .

    .
    Eric L. Wattree
    Http://wattree.blogspot.com
    .
    Religious bigotry: It's not that I hate everyone who doesn't look, think, and act like me - it's just that God does
     

    Comments

    A beautiful piece of writing.  Thank you for sharing it.

    I remember learning to play a clarinet.  The moment when the sound I made went from noise to music was sublime.


    by MrSmith1 on Thu, 01/16/2014 - 1:06pm

    Thank you, MrSmith, learning to produce music is a beautiful thing. I no longer do it professionally because in spite of the fact that I love music, I hate the music business - too many egos, and I hate dealing with club owners.  On the other hand, writing is something I can do in absolute solitude, and I can make my own hours. But I love about being a musician most is, when civilians hear a piece of music they like they say, "Wow! I like that. I going to go buy it," we can say, "Wow! I love that tune. I'm going to go home and play it."  There's nothing like it. Sometimes I explore Youtube for hours looking for new music to play, and thanks to the computer, I can now write my own music and the computer will play it back for me to play along with - and I can select what instruments I want to play along with me.  Jimmy would have loved that.   


    by Wattree on Fri, 01/17/2014 - 3:09pm

    Well you got me crying!

    I cry from sorrow and I cry from joy.


    by Richard Day on Thu, 01/16/2014 - 5:02pm

    Thank you, Richard.

    We're two softies. I had tears in my eyes while I was writing it. Jimmy has been an inspiration to me for my entire adult life. It's ironic, considering who he was when I first met him, that he would have such a lasting impact on my life. But while he didn't realize it, Jimmy taught me about much more than just music.

    Watching his transformation taught me about the foolishness of trying to judge people at face value, and also the power of excellence, character, and class. He remained quietly humble for the rest of his life, and never once did he ever try to take advantage of his newfound stature in the community to either exact revenge for the way he had previously been treated, look down his nose at others, or get a free ride - and any, or all of which, he could have easily done.  He even walked in one day and tried to pay my father back for his saxophones, but I guess his class even rubbed off on my old man, because my father refused to accept it and simply said, "Jimmy, that was the best money I ever spent, and you’re not going to deprive me of that" - and we're talking well over $1500 here (in 1960's dollars), and my father was a hardcore man of the street, so a philanthropist he was not, but Jimmy was special.

    And by the way, Jimmy’s hero was Gene "Jug" Ammons, a jazz superstar. After I was an adult, me, my wife, and virtually the entire community turned out to see Jimmy playing with Jug at a popular jazz spot call the Tiki Island Cocktail Lounge. It was one of the most powerful and emotion-filled nights that any of us had every experienced - and especially me. I sat there watching my hero playing with his hero, and Jimmy was in top form. Jimmy and Jug were like two lions going at one another, and both loving every minute of it. The room was filled with grown men with tears streaming down their faces. My father denied it until the day he died, but he had tears in his eyes too. That night Jimmy proved, without a doubt, that he wasn’t just a neighborhood hero - he was a world-class musician, second to none, and jug could certainly attest to that. It was the night that Jimmy had prepared all of his life for, and he was on FIRE!!!


    by Wattree on Fri, 01/17/2014 - 4:54pm

    Your Dad is something else.

    But the fact that your hero would attempt to pay him back?

    Wow!

    We must sometimes, walk ten miles in another man's shoes!


    by Richard Day on Fri, 01/17/2014 - 5:17pm

    Richard,

    My father was a complicated man. He lived by his own code of honor, but no one else could ever quite figure out what it was. He was a lovable rogue. My maternal grandparents, who were devout Christians, and knew him since the day he was born, loved him dearly (my paternal grandmother came very close to marrying my maternal grandfather’s brother), but they hated everything he represented. He was a kind and gentle man to his family and friends (and he had hoards of them who didn't fear him at all), but criminals were scared to death of him. I used to get away with murder on the street. The inner city wasn't a fearsome place for me; it was a playground. That's probably why I'm so arrogant. It was like being Frank Sinatra, Jr.

    Most Black people only know the legend of the pimp Iceberg Slim - I knew him as Uncle Robbie (I had more uncles than any kid who ever lived), and I used to search him and his car every time I saw him, because I knew he’d brought some "goodies" - at the very least two or three packages of Charms. I loved that candy, and he knew it.

    And Val, the woman who was later to become my wife, came from a similar pedigree. She was the niece of as guy they called "Big Joe" Langford. The first time I took her on a date (when I was 16 and she was 14), they arranged for a hustler by the name of Shelton (I forget his last name) to dress up like a chauffeur and drive us in his Bentley (he was actually our chaperon, but we didn’t know anything about that). Shelton was a gigolo who used to be hired to escort young starlets around town, but we didn’t know anything about that either. But right up until the night she died, Val used to say, "That Shelton was the prettiest man I’ve ever seen. It almost looked like he’s wearing eyeliner and lipstick."

    But he wasn’t. He was just one of those Rudolph Valentino-looking kind of guys (He and I used to club a little bit together when I got a little older) - and he used to drive the women crazy, because while he might have looked "pretty," he was very much a man’s man, as one or two unfortunate fellas found out who became jealous over the effect he had on the women. When Shelton walked into a room, for the women, every other man there became meaningless, and there were more than a few fellas who didn’t like that.

    But anyway, while I’m not proud of my father’s lifestyle, I am proud of the fact that he climber to the top of the heap of what he did. We have a lot of wannabes around now, but they’re just ridiculous caricatures of who my father and his friends were. These guys were the real deal, and dead serious about what they did; it wasn’t for show. But there’s an irony of ironies to this story. I wonder what my father would have thought of the fact that his grandson is now a federal agent who has dedicated his life to bringing down everything his grandfather represented? Personally, I think he would have been proud, just as I am.

    Here’s the eulogy that I did for Mac. My grandmother insisted that I do it, for several reasons - I was the closest to him (when I became an adult we were more like brothers than father and son), I was a writer, and our lives most closely meshed - at least, my young life. So it fell to me keep the preachers from desecrating his body by lying over it, and to try to honestly justify who he was:

    This is the eulogy that I wrote and delivered for my father’s funeral. We had the sounds of Jackie McLean playing softly in the background, and I remember the Reverend being not at all happy with the sound of jazz wafting through his sanctuary on that somber occasion. But I pointed out to him that if there was no Jazz in Heaven, for my father, the Pearly Gates would represent the entrance to Hell.

    http://wattree.blogspot.com/2011/06/blues-for-mr-c-on-fathers-day.html

    　


    by Wattree on Sat, 01/18/2014 - 1:10am