[Dixielandjazz] Don't Shoot, We're American 1

[Steve Voce]

I just found this piece that I first wrote in 1960. It was reprinted in 
Robert Gottlieb's "Reading Jazz" in 1997.
It's long so I'll send it in two halves. West Coasters might find the 
bits about Jimmy Giuffre and Paul Desmond interesting, whilst I hope the
Dixieland people will be regaled by the adventures of Condon, Wild Bill 
and Barrett Deems.
Steve Voce



The man with the tenor-saxophone got down to business right away. 
Without any words of introduction he cruised smoothly into an up-tempo 
exploration of "How About You?"

With unbelievable precision and an articulation which left the audience 
boggling at one chorus while he swept on through the next, the James 
Dean of the saxophone cast his pearls of sound around the cinema.

Stan Getz was making his provincial debut.

But the pearlsof sound bore no relation to the chunks of indi­gestible 
gristle, the glutinous mass of pastry which, an hour before, had been a 
transport cafe meat pie and which were now fighting inside him to 
over­throw the Getz circulatory system.

The hazards which beset the American musician on tour in Britain are 
such that it is only by great fortitude that he survives his visit. The 
fact that he manages to maintain high musical standards in his concerts 
is quite inexplicable. Contributory causes are certainly not plastic 
fried eggs and meat pies that would bring a U-2 from 12,000 feet to 
ground level in a mat­ter of seconds.

Away from his natural habitat of all-night bars, drinks with meals in 
cafes, apple pies out of the slot machines, he becomes a forager in 
desperate need. He finds, with furious incredulity, that the pubs closed 
at 10 /P /.m. and that all the restaurants are shut. His hotel won't 
serve anything after seven and the bun-enclosed sausage that he buys 
from the street-vendor is no more edible

than a stuffed penguin. In answer to his question "Well, where are the 
birds at, man?" he is told that English young ladies get the hell out 
for home and family when the sun goes down. "Hell, man! How do the 
English stand it? I mean I heard about the guys on the /Mayflower, /but 
I didn't know they was still running the joint!"

During the course of many encounters with visiting Americans I

have had the chance to observe the different ways in which they react to 
the various off-stage situations in which they embroil themselves from 
the re­gal aplomb of Duke Ellington to the awe-inspiring bawdiness of 
Wild Bill Davison.

Their attitudes vary from mute disbelief to a brusque aggressiveness 
that implies that if somebody doesn't do something about this pretty 
damn' quick the offended person will overthrow the government singlehanded.

The Eddie Condon Mobmob arrived in town at the unappropriate time of 
eleven o'clock on a Sunday morning. They kicked and stumbled their way 
off the train through a pile of empty whisky bottles "travellin' high" 
is the phrase, I believe--and began soliciting the porters for 
directions to the nearest bar. They were told that all bars were closed, 
and their bleary faces paled as though the Wall Street Crash had just 
been announced.

Finally we persuaded them to bridge the gap until opening time with 
lunch at a Chinese restaurant, although this was an obvious breach of 
etiquette Wild Bill pointed out that he never took food on an empty stomach.

Once inside the restaurant Condon and Davison each produced a half of 
Scotch (how the bottles survived the journey is a mystery). Bill placed 
his on his table with great deliberation, causing much concern to the 
management. "No drinking please, yes?" asked the manager hopefully. 
"No," agreed Bill, opening the bottle. "You got glasses?"

After a lot of argument glasses were provided ("You drink water, yes?" 
"No," agreed Bill politely) and the contents of the bottles began to 
disappear into the well-oiled systems of Messrs. Condon and Davison.

The restaurant was fairly crowded and we had been unable to get adjacent 
tables. I was seated with Bill while Condon and his associates were at 
the other end of the room.

Bill ordered a fruit salad as a concession to the management to show 
that he hadn't simply come to use their glasses. I believe he did 
actually eat some of it, but don't remember. I do remember the whisky 
disappearing with an impressive swiftness, and from the other end of the 
room the voices of Condon and George Wettling were raised in mortal 
debate over who was going to finish the bottle. Finally the Davison meal 
was concluded.

Bill wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and got to his feet. "A 
lot of people think Eddie Condon is an asshole," he announced loudly. 
The diners fell silent. The manager, with commendable tact, dropped 
behind the cash-desk as though he had been pole-axed.

Condon, looking like a miniature but very angry bull, slowly lifted 
him­self from his chair at the other end of the room. "How's that 
again?" he asked.

"I said a lot of people think Condon's an ass-hole." A Chinese waitress 
stopped in full flight with two dishes of chow-mein. "But it's not 
true," Bill continued. Condon began to sit down.

"He's /two ass-holes." /He sat down beaming.

One of the gifts that American musicians seem to possess is the ability 
to handle waiters -especially the kind in evening dress. These people 
have a certain protocol which always frightens me, and rather than upset 
it I will move down the road and eat in the snackbar, or even go 
without. Not so our American guests who have a no-nonsense way of 
short-circuiting the grand­est of Grand Hotel staff. I have seen drummer 
Barrett Deems paralyze an of­fending waiter just by looking at him.

There was some trouble over an Irish pound note. The Louis Armstrong 
band had just returned from an Irish tour and had been paid in Irish 
cur­rency. When trombonist Trummy Young offered the Irish note the 
Hungar­ian waiter embarked on a tirade of mid-European abuse which 
implied that he had never before been so insulted.

Barrett Deems turned round in his chair and impaled the waiter upon his 
death-ray stare quite sufficient to put Flash Gordon and a whole army of 
Dhreens in bad trouble. The waiter, who was really only a man, blanched 
and reeled off with the pound note, mewing and mouthing like a tortured 
cat. "That guy looks unhealthy," said Deems sourly, adding his favorite 
two­word phrase.

The service improved remarkably after that and the waiter's colleagues 
couldn't do enough for us. Deems let up on them and when he was going 
out distributed half-smoked packets of cigarettes amongst them. "Poor 
guys, I feel for them," he said. "It must be hell for anyone having to 
live in this place."

This endearing ritual of the cigarette packets was carried out with 
mag­nificent impartiality. During the afternoon and evening which I 
spent with him he handed packets to most of the people he met. I still 
have a couple ly­ing about in a drawer somewhere. Deems explained as he 
reached in his pocket: "I try all the brands, but I ain't found one that 
I like yet. I think maybe I'll kick the habit," he added, passing over a 
packet of mentholated king-size filter-tip monsters.

Jimmy Giuffre agreed to be interviewed with pleasure, providing we 
didn't mind if he ate while we talked. Was there a good hotel nearby 
where he could get a meal?

We went to one of those select chrome-and-glass places which only 
em­ploys waiters with public-school educations. Dick Huddart, the Rugby 
League international forward (he plays Rugby the way Wild Bill Davison 
plays cornet) came with us, Giuffre, who is a quiet, immaculate man, 
took a lot of trouble selecting the right table. We were favored with 
the personal attention of the headwaiter, a formidable man who managed 
to convey the impression that he had just come out of conference with 
the Prime Minister. He looked over his nose disdainfully at the rugged 
bulk of Dick Huddart (uneasy in a dainty little chair) and across the 
table at me. His nostrils quiv­ered with distaste as he took note that I 
was wearing a green shirt. Giuffre was in evening dress, so the 
headwaiter figured that he was the one who could read. He handed him the 
menu, a piece of cardboard approximately the size of an average 
single-bed sheet.

"I believe I would like some orange juice to start with," said Jimmy, 
"and just two coffees for my friends. They've already eaten."

The headwaiter jumped as though he had been slapped in the face. "No 
sir," he said firmly, "you can't do that."

"I can't do what?"

"Your friends must have a meal."

"But I just got through telling you, they already ate."

"I'm afraid the rules of the hotel don't permit guests to make use of the

dining-room unless they intend to have a meal, sir."

"Well I am making use of the dining-room and I am having a meal. You go

get those coffees."

The headwaiter's face reddened. Obviously the Prime Minister never spoke 
to him like this. Sensing impending disaster, Dick and I got to our 
feet. "Never mind, Mr. Giuffre," I mumbled, "We'll see you afterwards."

"In a pig's valise you will." Mr. Giuffre was roused. "Sit down," he 
rapped out.

We sat.

"I want a glass of orange juice to begin with, and two coffees for my 
friends who already ate. Would you please go and get them?"

"But sir, if I did that it would be establishing a precedent." This was 
to be a fight to the death.

"In that case I wish to establish a precedent. If you find yourself 
incapable of taking my order, will you please bring the manager."

Muttering to himself and with very bad grace, the headwaiter beckoned to 
one of his underlings and gave the instructions. "... and two pots of 
cof­fee for these ... gentlemen," he said scornfully.

The waiter returned with the coffee and a large glass of orange squash. 
"One moment," Giuffre held up the glass and looked at it curiously. 
"This is orange juice?"

"No sir, that is orange cordial." The waiter looked embarrassed.

"Well look, I want orange juice. You know, like you go out in the back 
and jump on an orange." Giuffre was prepared to draw a picture.

The coffee wasn't very good. The meal was worse. However, to Giuffre 
went the final victory. When we were leaving he tipped the waiter. The 
headwaiter was standing by the door, still glaring threateningly at the 
person who had dared to challenge his authority. Giuffre noticed him and 
called the waiter back.

"Oh, and give this to the red-faced guy who establishes the precedents," 
he said loudly. The redness increased. He handed the waiter a sixpence. 
"Is that enough?" Giuffre turned to me.

"It's enough," I croaked.