[Dixielandjazz] Don't Shoot, We're American 2

[Steve Voce]

One of the most consistently good-humored groups of musicians to visit 
Britain has been that of Count Basie. Generally addressed by his 
musicians as "Base" (to rhyme with Maize) the Count is perhaps the most 
easy-going and unorthodox of bandleaders. While other men are martinets 
or suffer from "star" temperament, Bill Basie mixes in with the boys in 
the band.
On a coach trip with the band, trumpeter Thad Jones and I were sitting 
behind the Boss, who was dropping off to sleep. Wanting to attract his 
attention Thad reached over and pulled Basie's hat firmly down over his 
head. While the unfortunate Count struggled with both hands to get it 
off, Thad beat him mercilessly with a rolled-up newspaper.
After a second house concert the whole band was starving, none of them 
having eaten since breakfast. Suddenly the stage door burst open and a 
phalanx of variously bearded men (there are more different types of 
beards in the Basie band than there are obsolete British rockets) forced 
their way through the crowd of autograph hunters in search of food.
Dick Huddart and I, who once again had already eaten, had joined Billy 
Mitchell, Benny Powell, and Sonny Cohn. It was after ten and the pubs 
had closed, and at the best of times Liverpool on a Sunday night is not 
a good place to eat.
After some ten to fifteen minutes of driving round in Huddart's car 
looking for a cafe, Billy Mitchell began making comments from the backseat.
"Man," he said, adjusting his heavily framed glasses. "I sure do like 
the way this town is laid out. The fellow who laid this town out sure 
knew what he was doing." We passed two or three more restaurants which 
had the blinds drawn. "I don't know how long it's been dead, but I sure 
like the way it's laid out."
Finally we decided on a Chinese restaurant in the town center. It was 
evidently a popular decision, because by the time we arrived practically 
the whole band was there. A hint of what was to follow was given by the 
picture that presented itself at the door.
Joe Williams and Charlie Fowlkes were standing up at their table and 
shouting at a Chinese waiter. By various gestures and threats they were 
trying to make him understand what they wanted. The waiter, true to the 
characteristics of his race, remained inscrutably silent. He seemed to 
be working on the principle that it was only a matter of time before 
they discovered that he didn't speak English, and that nothing he could 
say could add any en¬lightenment. The situation was made more comic by 
the fact that the waiter was about five feet high, and Williams and 
Fowlkes are both of giant stature.
However, he had nothing on the waiter who finally came to serve us. Our 
waiter could understand a few words of English but, apparently from 
deliberate malice, brought the antithesis of any order that was given 
him. Consequently Sonny Cohn's chicken chow mein appeared in the shape 
of a Spanish omelette, Benny Powell's lobster salad became chop suey and 
rice. In Billy Mitchell's case the waiter really excelled himself. I 
don't remember what Billy ordered, but I'm sure the fiendish-looking 
concoction which was finally laid before him could never have been 
envisaged by anything but the most intensely oriental mind.
"I'll knife him! I'll murder him!" Sonny Cohn, who had no thought of 
pouring oil on troubled waiters, embarked on a detailed catalogue of 
what would be the fate of the waiter if left to Sonny Cohn. Billy 
Mitchell was more positive. He hurriedly swallowed the tragedy on his 
plate, recalled the waiter and placed his original order again. This 
time the waiter brought him a plate of fried rice. Billy gently began to 
explain to the waiter what he had originally wanted. He went into great 
detail, but the waiter had him licked. He just stood there impervious to 
everything. Gradually Billy's explanation built up into a crescendo of 
invective which had Huddart and I gasping with admiration. But the 
strain was too much and finally he sat down exhausted and asked the 
waiter quietly for a glass of water. The waiter brought him a coffee.
Meanwhile Charlie Fowlkes and Joe Williams were still having trouble. 
"For God's sake," Williams was saying. "You mean to say you work in a 
Chinese restaurant and you don't know what Soya sauce is?" Like his 
colleague, the waiter let Williams beat his brains out against an 
unruffled silence. "Boy, I need a drink after this lot." Billy Mitchell 
mopped his brow. It was then that I released the fact that the pubs had 
closed an hour before. Thoroughly beaten and suffering from various 
stages of chronic indigestion, the Count's men returned sadly to their 
hotel (no bar) for an early night.

The Ellington method of eating on tour, as one might expect, is more 
regally eccentric. In the dressing-room Duke will produce from his 
pockets the various parts of a large dismembered chicken, elegantly 
draped in silk handkerchiefs. He offers the limbs around with graceful 
elegance: "Does anyone wish to dine?"
Later in the evening we drove by taxi, in company with clarinettist 
Jimmy Hamilton and his wife, Jimmy Rushing, Clark Terry, and a varied 
assortment of Ellingtonians, to a club in Liverpool's Upper Parliament 
Street. Upper Parliament Street approximates to a 1960 equivalent of old 
Storyville, albeit a little quieter and less colorful.
The reason for the visit was that Mrs. Hamilton had heard from somewhere 
that red beans and rice were on the menu and, tired of egg and chips, 
she felt that red beans and rice were essential to her continued well-being.
We were all comfortably seated (Jimmy Rushing in characteristic pose 
with napkin tucked in collar) and ready to eat when the waitress 
informed us that red beans and rice had never been and would not ever as 
far as she knew be on the menu.
I could see one of those incidents looming up, and when Jimmy Rushing 
stood up and offered to instruct the cook on the preparation of the 
dish, I reached for my hat.
However, Little Jimmy made the journey to the kitchen and in a moment 
returned with the assurance that the red beans and rice would not be 
many minutes.
When it finally came it turned out to be West Indian red beans and rice 
which, so I am told, is just not the same as American red beans and 
rice. Nevertheless the incident does demonstrate the potential of a 
native American with his back to the wall in a serious situation 
especially Jimmy Rushing's back.

Earl Hines has the elegance and confidence which kills crises before 
they arise. When satisfied he moves his cigar to the other side of his 
mouth (Earl is seldom without a cigar in his mouth I believe he has one 
there while he sleeps) and compliments the waiter with "Good deal, 
Jack."When Earl has been directed to the bathroom, when a porter holds 
the door for him, the reply always is the same: "Good deal, Jack."
In fact, if told that he had been chosen to be the first man into space, 
I know what his reply would be.
Woody Herman has a similar elegance in his dealings with waiters who 
seem to look upon him as being the man they were born to serve.

Waiters and hotel staff combine with American musicians to make a highly 
combustible mixture, but not all the ensuing pantomimes can be laid at 
the door of the caterers. Not by a long way.
Paul Desmond, altoist with the Dave Brubeck Quartet, is probably the 
most mild-mannered and retiring American one could envisage. Nervous and 
haunted, he is a man who would go to any lengths to preserve the 
sanc¬tity of privacy and, like the retiring but well-intentioned Bill 
Harris, is much liable to be misunderstood.
During the Quartet's first tour he decided to catch the midnight train 
back to London (the rest of the group were staying overnight) a decision 
which gave us ninety minutes to kick our heels in a station waiting-room 
full of tramps and drunks.
It was February and very cold outside. The waiting-room was smothered in 
that stifling British Railways heat which knows no moderation. Sweat and 
beer fumes contributed to produce a sticky jungle humidity. Occasionally 
the drunks convulsed into two or three bars of song. Every so often one 
would fall off a chair and lie, still asleep, sprawling on the floor. 
The whole impression was that of a prison camp during the height of the 
Indian mutiny.
Paul and I squeezed into a corner and after about ten minutes had 
be¬come a part of the scenery, rendered partially unconscious by the 
atmos¬phere and the fact that we were both wearing overcoats- -there was 
hardly room to take them off.
 From outside came sounds of approaching turbulence and discordant 
voices yelled the lyrics of one of Mr. Presley's current million-sellers.
Finally the door burst open and three teenage girls rioted into the 
room, causing instant chaos and enforced reshuffling amongst the drunks 
and layabouts.
For some reason we attracted their attention, and one of them came 
across and tried to pick up Paul's alto case. He snatched it back with a 
quick movement and smiled at her nervously. He held the case on his 
knee, apparently to protect it and himself from further onslaught.
"Hey mister," the hoyden shrieked accusingly, "you're a caveman, aren't 
you?"
"Huh? Who me? No, I guess not. I guess not." Desmond's voice cracked as 
he shrank back in his chair.
"He is. Isn't he?" she turned accusingly to me. It was all rather like a 
denunciation in the French Revolution.
"Isn't he a caveman?" She turned to her two colleagues who were eagerly 
closing in. "Doris! You come and look at this feller. Isn't he a caveman?"
Without hanging around for further enlightenment we picked up our things 
and, pursued by the accusing cries, fumbled our way out into the cold. 
The harridans showed every sign of joining in pursuit, so we ran.
Paul's train had by now arrived at its platform, so I saw him onto it. 
He huddled into a corner sea`, swathed in coats and scarves, looking 
miserable enough to convince me that he wouldn't sleep so well during 
the journey.
It wasn't until I was on the bus going home that I found the solution. 
Looking through the window I saw a poster lit momentarily by the lights 
from the bus. It advertised the show at the local music-hall, and in big 
letters at the top it said:

“TOMMY STEELE AND THE CAVEMEN.”

I often wondered how Desmond figured it out.


Big Bill Broonzy was a mighty man, and while I can only relate the 
following incident at secondhand, I'm pretty sure of its truth.
Bill was being driven by car from one city to another, and he and his 
driver stopped en route at a transport cafe for a meal.
Bill pored over the menu which contained the usual heady variety of 
exotic dishes:

Sausage and Chips Egg and Chips
Egg Sausage and Chips Pie and Chips Egg Pie and Chips

Bill scratched his head and asked the man behind the counter: "Is 
everything you got with chips?"
"Yes, mate."
"Well, I guess that's it then. Bring me a double whisky and chips."