Christiern

They have a George Melly thread over at the Blindmans Blues forum, so I used the opportunity to post a recollection of my first meeting with George. It then occurred to me that I might as well clutter up the Big O yet another memory lane trip. It was March 17, 1953 and I had come to London with my tape recorder, a monstrous B&O, to record Humphrey Lyttleton. The next day, I missed my boat train for my return to Denmark and Cook's told me that it would be 3 days before the next one. They also informed me that only first-class tickets were available on the boat, so I had to pay the difference. That left me with 3 homeless days and 10p, which was just enough for a cup of tea in a shop at Old Denmark Street that I knew to be frequented by Chris Barber. To make a long story short, Chris showed up, lent me £1 and a 3-day stay at his house. That serves to se the scene for the following. Chris told me to meet him at the Metro that night at 10:30 and that I wouldn’t have to pay admission if I mentioned him to the guy at the door. This meant that I had several hours to kill, so I spent the first few wandering around Soho, window shopping, eventually making my way to Dobell’s record shop for an extended browse. Ten o’clock finally came and I arrived at the Metro just in time to catch the tail end of the Mick Mulligan band’s last set, which included a Bessie Smith number sung by George Melly. What a character he was, but I would see more evidence of that later in the evening. When Chris introduced me to him, Melly said something about a jazz party and insisted that I be brought along. Then he dashed off with a “ta ta” and a “see you there” that almost sounded like an order. After the band packed up, Mick, Chris and I stuffed ourselves into a cab that already held a couple of band members, and took off. Chris gave the driver an address. “Get there as fast as you can”, he said, explaining to me that these parties were first come, first serve affairs. After what seemed like an endless ride, we finally reached our destination, a dark street in the north of London, lined with attached, identical houses. After a short wait, someone opened the front door just wide enough to get a look at us. “How many?” asked a a young man, it being too dark for him to do a head count. “Five,” said Chris, and the door opened wider, revealing a pallid man of about twenty and quite nervous. “Come in,” he said, sotto voce, gesturing for us to follow him up the narrow staircase, “but please be quiet.” As we approached the second floor, music greeted our ears, a dirge-like blues from behind one of two doors. Our host, for that was who he was, opened the door and let us into a room that, at first, seemed to be unlit. The air was heavy with the blues, smoke, and a peculiar odor that was like none I had previously encountered. Well, what did I know? I was just an innocent young Dane, getting my first whiff of weed without knowing it. Slowly, my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light and I could see that we were in a living room with people lining the walls and enjoying the show. Show? Yes, for in a cleared center of the room were two young ladies and a dining room chair. The women—fashion school students, I was later told—wore one-piece, tight-fitting black corduroy outfits, had black hair that dropped below their shoulders, and large cigars with which they made a variety of visual suggestions. They seemed perfectly choreographed as they interacted with the chair, and each other, writhing sensually under the direction of a masterful conductor, George Melly. He was having a great time, undulating his arms to the slow, mesmerizing beat of Johnny Parker’s severely handicapped upright and Bruce Turner’s Bechet-like soprano sax. At one point, the two women engaged in an erotic embrace and a languid kiss, all of which pleased the onlookers and turned my face red—but nobody could see that. As I looked around the room, I saw an odd assortment of couples, some draped over stuffed furniture like discarded clothing, others lounging on the floor, and all smoking and drinking. I had never seen nor imagined anything like this, so I guess my shock was showing, for Chris found it necessary to explain to me that these “jazz parties” were very popular, that everybody had “a lot of fun,” and that I should just relax and not worry about a thing. He added that this was our host’s first jazz party, hence the edgy nerves. At one point, those nerves were tested by a knock on the door. The music stopped as the neighbor from across the hall made a polite complaint—his children were having a hard time sleeping with that music going on. One of the guests, a lady who had the downstairs flat, suggested that we could all continue the party there. We did, but it took a different turn as she undressed herself and held court in an alcove bed. The shock I had felt upstairs was mild compared to what I was now experiencing. Chris and I found a seat and were approached by George Melly, who scanned me with his eyes. “Did you say you were Danish?”, he asked. Chris told him that I had recorded Humph’s band at 100 Oxford Street the night before and that I would be staying at his house for a couple of days. “I bet he’s got lovely legs,” Melly said. “I’ve seen those Danes at Wimbleton, they’ve all got lovely legs.” If there had been a hole for me to crawl into, I would have, but Chris and the others were used to Melly, so they just laughed. Daylight came and I felt a sense of relief as we stepped out into the damp London air and made our way to the Moo Cow Milk Bar for a cup of breakfast tea. How green I was back then! Many years later, at a New York book party, George Melly asked me to autograph a copy of my Bessie Smith biography. He smiled as he read my insciption: “I hope you admire this book as much as you once did my trousered legs.”

I love pictures like that, and it is a good thing that you don't wake up to this scene! BMm I'm trying to find info on the architect. All I can tell you now is that the building dates back to 1929 and that the architect has pelicans on other buildings in town.

I wondered where this misinformation came from, then I saw that it wasn't something made up by Phil Schaap--it was Elijah Wald. That explained everything. Addendum: I just read the entire interview w. Wald--a lot of BS there.

I had a little party for Varese back in the 60s. He showed great interest in my record (then LP) collection, skipping past the classical shelves.

This morning it snowed--for a minute, I could forget that I was in Manhattan. Guess cell phones work in the snow, too...

Funny, as much as I was around Teo, I never sensed an inflated ego. He was someone whose work I admired and whose presence I enjoyed. Here's an interesting YouTube interview with him: Good to see you back, Brownie.

Whenever possible, I avoid nightmares,BM. As you know, to me, Amy symbolizes the decline of the music industry and discriminating audiences.

Yes, we have sleeping policemen here (both kinds), and we also have nature's own--they call them potholes.

I have been listening to jazz for 60 years and there are certain artists/recordings that I will never tire of, but Lon (jazzbo) brings up a good point--even jazz enjoyment is subject to burnout. In my first 20 years of listening, the enthusiasm for what I heard often knew no bounds, but there followed three decades where that listening intensified and often became compulsory; 28 years during which it was my job to listen just about every new release, attend virtually all NYC concerts, and develop such nook-and-cranny familiarity with the interiors of local jazz venues that it rivaled my own living room. Listening to jazz became 80% obligation, but I still enjoyed the experience beyond the 20% that remained voluntary. Through obligatory listening, I made many wonderful discoveries that still give me pleasure, but listening to jazz was never quite as exciting as when it truly was what Whitney termed "the sound of surprise." It's a lot like..... well, I won't go there, but y'all know what I mean. I should point out that jazz overwhelmingly became the focus of my listening, but I have always enjoyed a far wider genre horizon. Now that my listening is no longer as tied to my livelihood, I find myself enjoying whatever music complements my mood. That can be The Carter Family weaving its country spell, Wanda Landowska tripping the light fantastic over an ancient keyboard, Aretha commanding Respect, Woody's herd stampeding through the Northwest Passage, Mozart's exquisite Requiem, Bozie Sturdivant's mournful determination to remain above it all, a ceaseless Coltrane statement, Mahalia turning a Silent Night into a flood of childhood memories, a... well, you get the idea. I would give anything for an opportunity to relive the feeling that came over me when I first heard Bessie sing on a scratchy recording and didn't have a clue as to who she was or what she represented--all I knew was that she reached out from that little radio speaker and changed my life. I would also love to experience again my subsequent discoveries, the wondrous music that made me spend close to 3 years manually turning discs on my broken HMV floor model with my index finger, because the spring was broken and I could not afford a new one. You really have to love the music to do that. The callouses on my finger have long since disappeared, but the memory lingers on. Imagine the feeling of unreality I later experienced as some of the names I had seen turn to gold and silver on my finger materialized as close and wonderful friends in a galaxy far, far away. Well, when you are a poor kid living beyond the garbage cans in a rear house walk-up in Copenhagen, Bourbon and 52nd Streets seem like something in a distant galaxy. Back to Allen's point, I am not tired of jazz, but--with relatively few exceptions--the thrill is gone. These days, when I listen to jazz, the nostalgia factor is important--too important, I often think, but I guess that's natural, the memories I associate with the sound are bonuses of a sort. I will die loving jazz as much as ever and grateful for all that this music and its creative forces have done for me: the great sounds, the wonderful friends, the fantastic experiences. I hope that I have in some small measure made a token repayment, but what I received is priceless. I do get carried away, don't I?

Marian is a sweetheart. The only artist who called me to agree with a less than favorable review I gave to one of her albums. That, however, is not why she is a sweetheart, she just happens to be a very nice, very talented lady.

Basically, Martha wanted to approve or disapprove any reissue decisions--in other words, she wanted to control the production. This is a producer's nightmare. I can understand Martha wanting to approve of any use of unissued or alternate material, but complete control is, I think, asking too much. She was a pain in the neck, really. The only reason I got along so well with her and Helen is that I never worked on a Garner project and the one time I worked with Bill Evans was when I devoted one of my TV shows to him and his trio--Helen saw that as a positive and made no attempt to dictate terms. Have I cleared this up for you?

What members did on other boards ought not to to influence how we receive them. I think bluenote was truly out of order on a couple of responses I read over there, but he is now here and I think we need to sit back and see how he does rather than pounce on him like a turf-protecting gang. We should rise above the kind of mean-spirited nonsense that recently has brought so many new members to our board.

Good view from my windows, a bit cloudy, but thin.

She was "protecting" Garner's intellectual property, which had become her's. Did I say that Helen Keane was still alive?

In view of how well Ken Burns did in that department, I'd keep your 1936 blunder to myself.

Wrong. I gave him a bar of soap. He viewed it with a puzzled look.

WELCOME TO THE BIG O, JESUS MARION JOSEPH Great to see you again, please stick around!

Kinda a mother hen thing, overly protective/possessive. Guess she didn't need the money--she really went overboard in protecting Garner's material, IMO. Was it love? Perhaps. Helen Keane was a little bit that way re Bill Evans. BTW, I got along very well with both these ladies.

Sometimes I feel so...well, out of folder.

I would work very hard to keep Ben Sidran off the air. Once gave his book, "Black Talk" a very bad review in Saturday Review. He wrote me an angry letter that said a lot about him--and it wasn't good.

I think you have that wrong, Chuck. Glaser dementia is what record producers have prayed for since Erroll passed away. Not only did Martha not suffer from dementia in the years that followed, she seemed to have a crystal ball tuned in to anyone who even gave a Garner reissue some thought.

I agree, thus deliberately left that German Shepherd out of my Bessie Smith biography.

In the mid-Sixties, when I offered Marian her own radio show, she had to be convinced that she could do it. The weekly show went very well...the rest is history.

Martha has neither called me nor sent me a note in a very long time, so I am assuming that she has moved on to a place where Errol's is just another name on the list of residents.