Hollywood Takes on Benny Goodman

 A recent DVD purchase at a garage sale brought back a pleasant memory. While “The Glenn Miller Story” was the movie that fascinated me decades ago, “The Benny Goodman Story” follows a similar path and provides 90 minutes of pleasurable viewing, and a mix of fact and fiction. Watch the trailer here.

“The Benny Goodman Story” was produced in 1956, 21 years after The Benny Goodman Orchestra’s unexpected success at Palomar Ballroom in Los Angeles. This event, often cited as the birth of the Swing Era, was played to good effect in the film. Benny’s band had bombed across the country, their brand of “hot” music (as Benny called it) falling on deaf ears and mystifying the dancers. The band was unaware that their previous East Coast radio broadcasts had attracted a following on the West Coast, and enthusiastic fans saved the band.

Like most Hollywood biographies, it is highly fictionalized and, as the website “Rotten Tomatoes” says, is more of a series of musical highlights than a biography. Indeed it is. We get to see and hear real musicians (not actors) doing their thing, including drummer Gene Krupa; trumpeters Harry James, Buck Clayton, and Ziggy Elman; pianist Teddy Wilson; saxophonist Stan Getz; and vibraphonist Lionel Hampton.

Steve Allen was the right man to portray Benny. It helped immensely that Steve was an accomplished pianist and songwriter, and he grasped the clarinet “finger syncing” more than adequately. He spoke about the process of obtaining the leading role in the film in our 1999 interview in Los Angeles:

Steve Allen, in 1999

SA: By the time the thing was brought to my attention it was a firm offer, “we’d like you to do the picture.” I later heard partly how that came about. We will never — at least I never knew — how long the casting list was. I’ll explain briefly to people who might not know about the movie business, that whenever you have a script ready to go you don’t just call up somebody and say, “Get me Tom Cruise,” or whoever. You make out a list. Because although you might like to have Tom Cruise in your movie, maybe you’re ten million dollars short and he’s not available or there’s a lot of reasons he’s not going to do it. Whatever. So you make out a list. Well if I can’t get Tom Cruise, how about John Travolta? If he’s not available, whoever. So we’ll never know whether my name was ninth on a list or was number one on the list, I don’t know. The only other name that I ever heard was in contention was Tony Curtis, and Tony and I are obviously not the same individual. He’s a very handsome fellow, and he had the advantage that at that time he was under contract to Universal, so he was sort of one of their stock leading men, and I’ve been told that some people at the studio wanted him to play the lead. But that was vetoed by Benny himself, who I’ve been told said, I’m just paraphrasing of course, I wasn’t there when he said it, said I want Steve Allen for this because first of all Tony doesn’t know anything about music and he won’t seem real, he won’t seem legitimate as a musician speaking, also what can he do with the clarinet, you might as well hand him a tractor. I’m punching up Benny’s dialogue, but that was the thrust of his message, the other thing was a little less flattering. He said also, Tony Curtis is a pretty boy. He said I’m not a pretty boy and Steve Allen’s not a pretty boy. And it turned out that I did look more like Benny than — Tony looked nothing like him, so that had a lot to do with it.

Steve also spoke about learning the clarinet for the role, and about Benny’s real-life absentmindedness

SA: Yeah. As soon as I agreed to do the movie then of course the question was even though I was a musician I knew nothing about the clarinet, so we had to hire somebody to teach me, and somebody knew about Sol. Our mutual friend Bobby Rosengarden once said something hysterically funny, he described Sol Yaged as quote the Jewish Benny Goodman. For you young people, Benny himself is Jewish. But anyway Sol was the perfect choice, and a very easy guy to work with, so he gave me several weeks of just basic lessons: how to hold it, how to blow and all that stuff. And the reason I did have to go through all that, some people have said well why did you bother? Why didn’t you just go like that and pretend to play? The answer is my fingers had to be on the right holes. Now if you’re taking a shot from the back of a ballroom, it doesn’t matter, you can hardly see my hands. But on a close up I can’t be playing this if the real notes are over here. So I did have to have my fingers, and I did have to learn the instrument, and I learned it well enough to do a little playing in public. I once played a duet with Benny himself on a little tune I’d written. Benny himself that night was in a fog as usual. Benny Goodman lived in a fog. He was Mr. Absent Minded and often didn’t know what he was doing. He’d walk on stage with his fly open and stuff. He was just a careless man and didn’t think much about the world. He was just the greatest clarinet player of them all. So just after the movie, NBC and Universal Studios got together to do a little promotion going in both directions, so that meant booking Benny on our show, which was on the air Sunday nights at NBC at the time. So Benny himself played for a few minutes, and naturally was thrilling as always, and then our production group decided that Benny and I would do my little song with the two of us playing clarinets. It was sort of a riff thing, an easy thing to play. So in the script I walked in after Benny had played his marvelous numbers, and I said, “Benny that was terrific.” And his line was, “Well thank you, Steve, say, I see you brought your clarinet, why don’t you and I do something together?” A pretty simple line, and he’d had a whole week to work on it, he had one line with a week to work on it, and he forgot my name. Now it was my show, I was playing him in the movie, you might figure if there was any name he wouldn’t forget it’s mine. He might have forgotten his own. But anyway he did, on the air, and he did what he always did, because he was always forgetting people’s names. He had the world’s worst memory for names.

Benny solved his memory issues by calling everyone “Pops.”

Sol Yaged, who was chosen to teach Steve Allen for the film, was also interviewed in 2000 for the Fillius Jazz Archive. He related his experiences with the film and spoke of his extreme admiration for Benny:

MR:   Tell me about getting hooked up with Steve Allen.

Sol Yaged, in 2000

SY:   I was working at a place called The Somerset Hotel on 47^th Street off Seventh Avenue. I was there with a trio. And he used to come in every night to sit in with me, Steve Allen. This was before he had a show. He had just come to New York from Chicago, and we used to let him sit in with us all the time. And we became very good friends. And I’m indebted to him quite a lot because he’s done a lot for me. I’ve been on his show many a time. I was on a show with Benny Goodman, Urbie Green, there’s pictures of Stan Getz in the band, Buck Clayton. And he’s been very kind to me, Steve Allen. And whenever he’s in New York and he has to do a musical thing he always calls me. Great guy. And we got a lot of mileage out of the “Benny Goodman Story.”

MR:   Right. Was he a good student?

SY:   Excellent. The best. It was unbelievable. After a couple of lessons he was able to pick up the clarinet and play a blues. He was very astute. That’s a good question you asked.

MR:   Did Benny like the movie?

SY:   Benny Goodman did not like the movie.

MR:   It was Hollywoodized quite a bit.

SY:   Believe it or not, Monk, the picture did very well in Japan. I found out some time later after we made the movie that it stayed at one theater for over a year, that’s how popular it was. It was very, very big in Tokyo. Universal International Pictures selected Steve Allen, and Benny Goodman gave his okay, but then I think he regretted it. And then Steve Allen selected me to be his coach, and Benny Goodman had to give his okay also.

MR:   What was Benny’s personality like for you?

SY:   What can I say? He was the king. I don’t care what he said or didn’t say. I was happy to be in the same room with him. I used to go to all of his rehearsals, every one of his recording dates, Monk. And one day I came in late. He started at a certain time and I came in about 15, 20 minutes later because I was living in Brooklyn. He says “Sol, you’re late,” like that he would say that to me. I felt very elated that he even said that to me. He was very nice, very gracious and warm to me. His wife Alice was a very fine woman. His brother-in-law, John Hammond, was very nice and warm to me.

Goodman himself provided the clarinet solos, and his real bandmates provided added excitement. The film’s musical moments more than compensated for the rather slow-moving romantic sub-plot, although it was true that Benny married promoter John Hammond’s sister, Alice.

Goodman’s next triumph after Palomar was his 1938 appearance at Carnegie Hall. His band and the special guests rearranged the acoustics of this formidable classical music institution. Serious jazz fans and sociologists who know the role of jazz in society will be displeased over the film’s lack of attention paid to the historic racial integration in the joining of Benny Goodman, Gene Krupa, Lionel Hampton and Teddy Wilson, comprising the Benny Goodman Quartet. This was the first integrated jazz group to gain attention on a national scale, and predated by seven years Jackie Robinson’s entrance into the world of professional baseball.

In real life, Benny Goodman was irascible, self-centered, and occasionally downright nasty. The film’s only acknowledgement of his now-legendary personality was a focus on his stubbornness. The producers cleverly worked one of Goodman biggest hits, “Don’t Be That Way” throughout the movie. The script was peppered with fellow actors beseeching the world’s greatest clarinetist, “Oh Benny, don’t be that way.”

Flaws aside, the music, the dancing and the portrayal of an exciting musical period carries the film. I have written other blogs on Benny, A Social Hero from February 6, 2009, and 100 Years of Benny, on the hundredth anniversary of his birth on June 3, 2009.

The Color of Jazz

The Benny Goodman Quartet

Our interview strategy for the Hamilton Jazz Archive was without an explicit agenda. We hoped to provide a comfortable venue for musicians to share recollections and opinions formed from a life in music. It became clear early on that certain topics appeared frequently. These themes included life on the road, learning to play jazz on the bandstand, improvisation, swing, and the role of race in jazz. It is this last topic on which I would now like to shine a spotlight.

I like to think that race does not matter in jazz, or at least that we have outgrown the time when it did, and that the world of jazz is now as democratic as the music, by definition, has always been. I also would like to believe that race does not matter in politics, sports, obtaining an education or in any aspect of American life. Or, in the sunny optimism of singer Jon Hendricks, “So when somebody asks me about race, I say what time does it start?” For Mr. Hendricks, the word “race” indicates someone or something moving quickly around an oval-shaped track. As we will see later in a more complete quote, Jon Hendricks refuses to recognize a racial problem exists. While I have the utmost respect for Mr. Hendricks’ outlook, eloquence and humor, I fear that it is not reality and probably never will be.

Nevertheless I am heartened by the message voiced repeatedly by many artists interviewed for the Archive. Their stories inform of us of the racial inequities that accompanied bands in their cross country tours, the ludicrous situations with venues, restaurants and hotels, and the social mores of the time that were enforced by peacekeepers and bean counters. But the stories also put forth a unified message that once musicians make it to the stage and studio, talent and personality trump age, gender and race.

Jazz musicians and band leaders were not immune to whatever racial inequalities and restrictions were in place. These impositions varied from one decade to the next and from one region of the country to another. Making a living as an entertainer could be an adventure in more ways than one. Interviewees shared some of their stories about incidents that happened before one note was played.

The most beloved couple in jazz have to have been Milt and Mona Hinton. Milt “The Judge” Hinton played bass on thousands of recordings, circled the globe with Louis Armstrong and Cab Calloway, and blessed us with photographs of his fellow musicians that only an insider could have taken. Mona and Milt opened their door and hearts to countless musicians and could invariably be found at the center of a circle of friends and admirers. Mona Hinton accompanied Milt in tours with the Cab Calloway band in the 1930’s and spoke of those travels in this interview conducted in March 1995:

MH: Well, unfortunately, due to the climate of our society, the blacks and the whites were segregated. And it made it very difficult, especially when we were traveling in the south. Because frequently we would run into Glenn Miller’s band or Tommy Dorsey’s band, or some of the well known white bands. They were staying in nice hotels. And unfortunately the black musician would have to stay on the other side of the tracks, usually in someone’s home, or in a hotel that was not very good. And as I say unfortunately, frequently the owners of the hotels, they would take advantage I mean of the black musicians. They knew that we could not stay in places, and we’d run into places with rats and with the roaches and with the bed bugs and whatnot. So under those circumstances it was not good. Frequently we would go in towns and I would have to go out in the black community and try to help find rooms for the musicians in Calloway’s band, and sometimes it was very, very — the places where we had to eat were just intolerable. And as I say, we made it.

Both Cab Calloway and Duke Ellington often solved this problem by hiring their own Pullman cars enabling the bands to travel, sleep and eat on their own terms. When confronted with such slights, Duke was known to say, “no one is going to make me change my pretty ways.”

Sometimes just arriving at the gig could present an obstacle. Trumpeter Joe Wilder was a member of the Lucky Millinder Orchestra in 1947. Like Milt Hinton, Joe Wilder emotes a sense of dignity and class with a wry sense of humor that served him well throughout his career. I asked Joe about touring the south with Lucky’s group in this interview from October 1998:

JW: We were in South Carolina [with] Lucky Millinder. Lucky was a very nice fellow. He was not a musician, but he had a lot of natural talent for selecting the right kinds of tunes and tempos and things of that nature. But we had — I think six of the members of the band were white. And we arrived early in South Carolina at this hall where we were going to play, and suddenly up drove the sheriff with his deputy in the police car, and he says “who’s in charge here?” And so Lucky said “I am.” He said “well I’m just here to tell you there’s not going to be any mixed bands playing down here in Charleston.” And Lucky looked at this guy, and Lucky — you know the reason I think they called him Lucky, he would take a chance on anything — he looked this guy dead in the eye and said “this is not a mixed band.” And some of the guys were blonde with blue eyes you know, there was no way in the world anybody would have mistaken any of these guys for being blacks you know. And so he went to each guy. I think if he had said “are you black?” he might have gotten a different answer. But he went to each of these guys and asked, he said “are you colored?” And each of the guys, going along with what Lucky had said, would say yes. And so he would shake his head. And finally the last of the guys he asked was Porky Cohen, who was our first trombone player. And he had a slight lisp. And when he asked him, now Porky is responding more emphatically than the other guys, and he said “why thertainly” with this lisp. And at this point we had all been starting to chew on our tongues and everything, trying not to break up because it was so ludicrous. And you could see the ground tremble, we were trying not to let the sheriff see it. But anyway he turned to the deputy and he said “well I guess if they all say they’re colored, there ain’t nothing we can do about it, is there, Jeff?” And so he said “no sheriff.” And they got in the car and drove off. And we played that dance that night. It was very funny. And it might, as I mentioned to you, it might have been the first time that an integrated band played there. It’s very possible that that was the first time.

Despite the best efforts of law enforcement and promoters, the music had a way of overriding the rules, both written and understood. Vocalist Ruth Brown made her mark in jazz, blues and R&B. As a band leader, she experienced her share of troubles on the road. Arriving at the gig did not mean those situations had ended for the night. In March 1995, Ruth related what a typical gig could be like:

RB: Well most times we worked warehouses and barns, and nine times out of ten that didn’t have what you call the “second balcony.” If we were lucky to play a county hall or an auditorium sometimes, they had a balcony, and in that balcony was called the spectators. These were the whites who bought tickets to come in to hear the music but were not allowed to come on the dance floor. Sometimes it was vice versa. The whites would be down and the blacks would be up in the balcony and not allowed to come down. But in places such as barns, warehouses, where there was just one level, they would separate the races with a rope, and I say, a clothesline was what it was, an oversized clothesline. And most times someone had taken a huge cardboard and written “Colored” which was the definition of our ethnic group at that particular time, and on the other side the card would say “white.” And the white spectators were allowed to dance on that side of the rope, and the black on this side. But what they did not anticipate was that the music generated such a joy, people got to dancing, the ropes would fall down, I seen it happen many times. And people would continue to dance, and just wander in to each other’s space. Nobody would say a thing for a moment, and then it would occur to some official that, uh oh, the rope is down and they’re dancing in the same space, and we can’t have that. And then somebody would run up on the stage and say “stop the music” you know and they’d just stop the music and go back and put the rope in place, and you had to go back on your given side.

Ruth and her band were once pulled over for going five miles over the speed limit. Suspicious because of the high priced car they were in, the troopers made the band prove they were musicians by getting their instruments out and playing on the side of the road.

The race card could be dealt both ways as drummer Louis Bellson learned. He was the only white player in Duke Ellington’s Orchestra in the early 1950’s and was once asked to become “non-white” so the band could keep him on stage. His quiet manner only gave more weight to the wisdom of his words when I met with him in April of 1996:

LB: In 1951 they had the Big Show of 1951, which consisted of Nat King Cole, Sarah Vaughan and Duke Ellington’s band. They were the three big stars. Now besides that they had Peg Leg Bates, Timmy Rodgers, Stump and Stumpy, Patterson and Jackson, all these wonderful acts — tap dancing acts. It took us a week to rehearse that show, playing with Nat King Cole and Sarah, Duke, and all these acts. So after we finished rehearsing for a week, Duke finally discovered that hey, we’re getting ready to go down to the deep south you know? And in those days, you had segregated audiences. The whites couldn’t play with the blacks at that time you see. In those days it was “colored,” you didn’t use the word “blacks” see? So now the big problem is, Duke called me in the dressing room and says “what are we going to do? I can’t find a drummer to take your place, because it would be a week’s rehearsal and the guys that can do it, they’re all busy.” So Duke says “you mind being a Haitian?” I said “no, okay, that’s all right” you know. So we got through it okay. It was a little tense, because the situation was still down there, and the audience, because they told Jack Costanzo with Nat King Cole he couldn’t appear because of the racial thing you know. But some spots it was a little rough you know. But we got through it. I think through Ellington’s peaceful ways and the wonderful attitude that the band had kind of rubbed off on everybody. But still it existed.

MR: Well it’s nice that the music had a part in helping that situation to move along a little faster I guess.

LB: Well we played a gig in Mississippi and there the townspeople were wonderful, they came to the rescue, where we couldn’t stay in certain hotels and so forth. I mean these people came from wealthy families too. They had Strayhorn and Duke and Clark Terry stay in one house, and Carney and Russell Procope and myself in another house, and all on down the line. Beautiful homes and they fed us. So along with the bad there’s some good too. And these were situations that we got over, we dealt with it. Sometimes it’s almost like a slap in the face but you realize what the situation is and you go straight ahead because you’ve got something to do that’s valued and I think when you do that you realize that none of those things should bother the musicality of something. It’s the fact that whoever’s playing that music doesn’t make a difference, let’s play it and show where the peace and love is.

Trumpeter Red Rodney pulled off a similar ruse when he became an “Albino Red” for his southern tour with the Charlie Parker Quintet.

In the 1930’s, when big band jazz was the popular music of the day, an important breakthrough occurred. Pianist Teddy Wilson often played intermission piano between sets of the Benny Goodman Orchestra. Because he was black, he left the stage when Goodman’s musicians entered. At the urging of jazz promoter Helen Dance and despite warnings from his management, Benny Goodman thwarted convention and hired Teddy Wilson and Lionel Hampton to perform with his band. With drummer Gene Krupa, this quartet become one of the most recorded small groups of the decade. Jackie Robinson’s entry into major league baseball nine years later drew more press, but Lionel Hampton and Jon Hendricks both touted Goodman’s integrated quartet in their interviews, conducted back to back on October 18, 1995:

LH: I was the first black musician to play in a white band. See and Teddy Wilson was playing with Benny, but he used to play when Benny used to take intermission, and no white musicians was on stage, then Teddy would play, by himself see? So I was the first one, legally, to break that tradition down. But you know the funny thing about it, there wasn’t no black and white playing together no place. Not in pictures, moving pictures, not in baseball, or football, no kind of sports. The Benny Goodman Quartet was the first mixed group and we were the first integrated group, the first black and white group.

MR: Was that ever a problem playing in certain parts of the country?

LH: No, no. Because we all played good music. And Benny presented us in a professional way. We were four in his organization, and it would be noticeable that we were soft. And the people liked that. Some of the ovations that he used to get, it was the sound.

MR: Jazz especially was so important in breaking some of the racial problems down.

JH: Absolutely. Benny Goodman is an American social hero. He is a hero in the development of American society. Outside of music, Benny Goodman is a social hero. Because his love for the music was so pure that he just did not understand why he couldn’t have Lionel Hampton in his band, and then Charlie Christian and then Teddy Wilson you know. He just didn’t understand that. And the bean counters and the accountants and the lawyers, they tried to explain to him, “Benny, you’ll lose your show, they will not renew you on the ‘Camel Caravan’ if you do this.” So they gave him all those very hard and fast business reasons. But he refused to understand it. He said “I like those guys.”

MR: They play the music I want, so they stay, right?

JH: So he did what people have to march now to achieve. And it’s because of the power of the music, a love of the music.

Eventually the integration achieved on stage found its way into the New York City recording studios in the person of Milt Hinton. At a record date, every studio musician had to prove they could get it right the first time, could handle any kind of music placed on the stand and be punctual and versatile. In the studio, ability is color blind. In his book Bass Line Milt relates how a chance meeting with Jackie Gleason helped make this happen for him:

MH: It was during my slow period that I ran into Jackie and his manager, Bullets Durgon, on a street corner downtown. He asked me the usual kind of questions, “Whatta ya doing? What’s going on?” Instead of giving him the standard show business answer I said, “Nothing.” Jackie turns to Bullet and said, “We’re doing a record date tomorrow, put Milt on it.” Bullets tried to explain about contractors but Jackie didn’t want to know. “I don’t give a damn about contractors. Call whoever is in charge and tell him I want Milt there tomorrow.” The next morning I showed up at Capitol. There must have been 50 musicians in the studio. I’d recorded before but never anything this size. Besides, I knew from the minute I walked in, I was the only black. After the first few takes, we took a break and a couple of the musicians came over and introduced themselves. By the time the date ended I felt much more comfortable. The contractor came over, complimented me, and asked if I’d do the next session to finish the album. I didn’t even wait to get the date and time — I just nodded yes.

After all the societal hang ups are acknowledged and stories are told, the question of ability finally arrives. The comments and anecdotes I listened to in these interviews on this subject seemed genuine and heartfelt. The experiences and influences that set these musicians on the jazz path ran the gamut from the church they attended as a child to what station the radio in the house was tuned into at night. To these artists, qualifying a jazz musician’s success by adding or subtracting points because of their race would be an insult. By championing the ultimate importance of the individual, these musicians bolster their own accomplishments and give us a reason to take faith in the power of the art form. Early in the project, I admit to feeling ill at ease bringing up the question of jazz and race. I soon understood that it was okay to talk about it and that there was nothing awkward about the subject that these men and women had not lived through and had long ago drawn their own conclusions.

Selecting the “best” quotes from the rich material in the archive collection is an exercise in futility but I have settled on one from a musician who’s career included being a bandmate and a leader and who shared the stage with both the first and the current generation of jazz musicians. Saxophonist Frank Foster visited Hamilton College as an artist-in-residence after stepping down as leader of the Count Basie Orchestra. He shared these thoughts with me in April of 1998:

FF: I don’t think every person born into this world is a jazz musician, and I don’t agree with — somebody’s got something out that says anybody, everybody can improvise. I don’t go with that.

MR: Oh that’s right, there’s a series, Anybody Can Improvise.

FF: Yeah. I don’t subscribe to that. But it’s an individual thing, it’s not a racial thing. We have such a melting pot here, we’re all into each other’s culture. Okay, I contend that jazz was born in America as a result of the black experience. Now nobody in the world could ever convince me that that isn’t true, okay? But now as I said before, we’ve got this melting pot where we’re all into each other’s culture. We can emulate one another, and we can relate to one another, and talent wasn’t just given to whites or blacks or Latinos or Asiatics or whatever. Every racial ethnic group has talent. And all God’s children got rhythm, some more than others. Look man, I know some black folks who can’t clap on two and four. One-two-three-four. ONE-two-THREE-four. I know some cats who can’t do this [claps]. On the other hand I know some white folks, every time will say [claps] and vice versa you know. So we’ve all got talented people and we’ve all got some no-talented people. Every ethnic and racial group has somebody blowing a horn that should put it down and forget it and be a plumber or a postman or something. But when I hear somebody who’s not black perform on an instrument and that person is good, they are good, regardless of what somebody else black might say — oh he can’t play, she can’t play, that’s it. Man, it hurt me years ago, one of my trumpet players, are you familiar with Lew Soloff? Well this guy just put Lew Soloff in the garbage can, “he can’t play, he never could.” And Lew Soloff is a monster. Lew Soloff can play anything, can play jazz, can play lead trumpet, he can play in a section, you know, he can just do anything that’s necessary for a jazz trumpeter to do. Big band, small group, whatever. So when one of us can do it, give us the credit. When one of them can do it, give them the credit. I don’t feel threatened by anybody. If you can play and you’re white, great, let’s play together. If you can’t play and you’re white —

MR: Go play with someone else.

FF: Yeah. If you can’t play and you’re black, get out of here.

Frank’s comments remind me of my own feelings about playing music when I had the good fortune to play a series of gigs in 1998 with Claude “Fiddler” Williams. If you had attended one of our performances you would have seen then 20-year-old blond bassist Genevieve Rose swinging next to “The Fiddler,” who toured with the Terrance Holder Band in Oklahoma in 1928. Claude and Genevieve were bookended by two middle aged white guys, Syracuse guitarist Mark Copani and yours truly. The dynamic quartet was the perfect blending of musical and cultural elements, and musically one of the most satisfying of my career. Or as Louis Armstrong summed it up, “There are good cats and bad cats of all hues.”

Earlier I alluded to the wit and wisdom of Jon Hendricks. He is an artist worth studying, either in the recordings of Lambert, Hendricks and Ross or with his own recent releases. In our second interview in January of 2000, he talked about his father (a member of the clergy), his hometown, and the big picture:

JH: My father had an aura and an authority about him that people immediately respected. When he died, by that time I had married an Irish girl. When he died I took my wife to the funeral. And when I drove into town the town was buzzing, because it was in Kentucky. And they stopped me a couple of times and says “whatchall doin’ here boy?” And they’re looking at my wife. And I says “I’m Jon Hendricks, I’m here for my father’s funeral, Reverend Hendricks.” And they said “oh Reverend Hendricks, okay.” And I went to the funeral. It was incredible. And at the funeral, half the town was there, and fully half of the people in the church were white people. That’s how respected my father was. And I remember sitting with him one night and there was a local white preacher who used to come over in the evenings and sit and talk to my father. They would be sitting in these rocking chairs on the porch. And one night the preacher says “Reverend I just wanted to discuss something with you.” And my father says “what was that?” He said “well I just can’t help it,” he said, “I just feel that my people are better than your people.” And the rocking kept on, and I’m waiting. And my father said “well Reverend,” he said “do you believe in God?” And so the white preacher said “well you know I do.” And my father said “well then what’s your problem?” And the rocking kept on. And not another word was spoken. And I said whooooh. He got right to the heart of the matter. Because that’s the key. We still talk about a problem. There is no problem. There is no racial problem if you acknowledge God. Because if you acknowledge God then you are looking at another child of God. So what are you talking about? If you’re going to separate from that other child of God because of this mythical term you have here, you are acting in an ungodly way. So when people ask me about race, I say “what time does it start?”

At jazz conventions and festivals we witness the current jazz melting pot. Thousands of musicians, educators, students, promoters, producers and publicists of every race, age and gender converge in the name of jazz. Many of them hope to grab a piece of the small pie that jazz — now officially recognized as an art form — occupies in the music market. It is an uphill battle, but as in any artistic endeavor, originality and skill will earn the spotlight.

Societal shifts often occur imperceptibly. Music frequently serves as a catalyst for social change. The sentiments expressed by these interviewees are now being evidenced in the political arena, where the ability to compete is now unencumbered by ethnicity or gender. Talent wins the race.

Tales of the Big Bands: Sidemen Stories

The previous parts of our Tales of the Big Bands focused on Ellington and Basie. In my opinion, Duke Ellington and his band represented the pinnacle of big band composition while Count Basie and his men achieved the essence of swing. I am constantly amazed, when I listen and read about the swing era, at the number of bands that existed and managed to find work, and the players who literally engaged in musical chairs, moving from one band to the next. Our last installment on big bands features a sampling of sidemen anecdotes and perhaps will include your favorite big band.

We’ll start out with arguably the most popular big band of all, the Glenn Miller Orchestra. Saxophonist Jerry Jerome was with Glenn’s band in 1937, a short-lived group that broke up and then reformed without Jerry. He never enjoyed the hits and the popularity of the second Miller band, but has no regrets:

JJ: George Simon had given me an A minus rating in the band [with the Cliquot Club Eskimos]. He said “George Seravo and Jerry Jerome would be the outstanding players in the band.”

MR: You mean in print he had done this?

JJ: Yeah. He was the editor of Metronome Magazine. So Glenn came over and said he liked my playing and would I like to join the band. I said “Glenn, what does it pay?” Because I was still interested in going back to medical school. He says “$45 a week.” I said “that’s that I’m getting with Harry Reiser.” And I couldn’t see any advancement that way. He says “yeah, we’re going to grow and I’m recording next week.” I says “really?” “Yeah” he says “recording at Decca.” “Oh, that sounds pretty good to me.” So I made my decision, I left Harry and went with Glenn. And this is a cute story, Monk. I went into the studio to record the first thing with Glenn. And I got to recognize some of the musicians: Manny Klein, Charlie Spivak, Will Bradley. This is the kind of players. I says “oh my God what am I doing here?” And Glenn says “now Jerry in ‘I Got Rhythm’ would you take 32 bars?” “Wow. I’m playing jazz? Hey, this is it. It’s worth the 45 bucks.” And I played my first record with Glenn with “I Got Rhythm,” with Hal MacIntyre. We were the only two people that had been with the new group that Glenn had gotten up, and I couldn’t figure what I was doing with this band, until I got up to Raymour Ballroom to rehearse for opening that job, there wasn’t any of these guys, just Hal and myself, and all new players. I said to Glenn “what happened to Charlie Spivak and Manny Klein?” “Oh” he says “they’re buddies of mine you know, and I wanted to make a real good record for my first big band record.” So he said they came in.

MR: He got the ringers.

JJ: I didn’t know. And then we went to work. And it was work.

MR: He was a task master?

JJ: Oh, unbelievable. I didn’t mind, you know it was all new for me you know. He was a task master but he wanted perfection. And he was also struggling for an identity. You know in those days, band leaders had identity, a hook.

MR: A sound.

JJ: A sound, something. You know even a guy like Kay Kayser would ... his sound was his personality. Just introducing the band, “Here comes sassy Sully Mason to sing a tune.” But that was how you could identify him. Or Shep Fields blowing water through a straw, you know a bubbling rhythm. Whatever pleases. And Glenn had trouble. He was not a trombone player like Tommy Dorsey. In fact he was rather pedestrian I thought. You know I didn’t think his jazz amounted to very much. And proof is, he never really fronted with his trombone, playing. He would lead the band up front and go back and play with the section. And so he had to use his arranging acumen.

MR: Because he wasn’t a really outgoing type personality, right? So he couldn’t push that part of it.

JJ: Oh, not at all. But Glenn was a great learning experience. I learned what playing notes properly is and how to really play by the mark. Glenn would say “crescendo — diminuendo” and he says “keep it under — keep it above.” But one thing that comes to mind that’s so cute, when I played my solo for “I Got Rhythm” with Glenn, I listened to it and it’s a chorus and you know you can do a thousand of those on a recording, you never do the same thing, you’re improvising, you know. So we went out on our first one nighter after we did our recording somewhere along the line, and I got out and played, and played a totally different chorus, which is a soloist’s preference I would think. Glenn came over to me and he said “Jerry, when you stand up and play your solo, I wish you’d play the one that’s on the record.” I said “why?” He says “well” he says “I consider that part of the arrangement. People expect it. They buy the record and they expect to hear that.” Oh, wow.

MR: I sometimes wonder, some of those classic trumpet solos in some of the Miller arrangements, were they improvised first and then someone actually wrote them out? You know like in “String of Pearls?” Even though it might have been improvised first, it became a part of the arrangements.

JJ: Without question. There have been a lot of Miller bands that have come along the line and I notice that most of them that stand up, play the solos that are on the record. And I think that’s for identity. It makes it sound more like the Miller band. So he had a point. But the Part B of that statement is when I joined Benny Goodman, and I got up and stood up and played “Undecided” on a one nighter, and I played what I’d played on the record, and Benny came over to me and he said “did you like what you played on the record?” “Oh,” I said “thank you, Benny.” Yeah. See that’s the difference. Benny didn’t — you know.

MR: Glenn Miller was not jazz band per se, it was more of a dance.

JJ: Yeah. And the best. Really he was great. His tempos were great, and he strove for an audience reaction too. What do you like? What can I play for you?

MR: Well you went from one tough leader to another with Benny Goodman.

JJ: Well that’s a relative word, Monk, “tough.” Because they weren’t tough as far as I’m concerned. I understood Glenn. I was a confidante of Glenn’s. Glenn and I were close. I might tell you this it’s an interesting bit of history from my point of view, and that is I stayed with Glenn until he broke the band up. I think it was New Year’s Eve that we had our last gig. And he said “I’ll call you when I reorganize.” He had to get some more money and get his second band started. He called me three months later in March, and I met him at the Rialto Bar in New York. I’ll never forget that, on 49th Street, which is sort of Musician’s Alley at that time. All the hotels where the musicians stayed and the bars and all of that you know, sort of a little place. And Glenn said “I’m reorganizing and I’d like to have you come back. But” he says “I want you to be a third partner with me and Chummy MacGregor” the piano player. He says “we’ll draw the same salary, put up a car, split gasoline ... the third bona fide partner.” And I had just joined Red Norvo. And I loved that band. Just a small band, I think it was nine men, but it had a lot of tenor saxophone playing, and playing with Glenn was very restrictive, it was reading a lot of music, and an occasional 32 bars, but he’d never let a guy blow. In other words if he’s cooking, forget about it, it was never a situation like that. I turned him down. And he was very crestfallen. He asked if I would come and rehearse the saxes for him at the studio that night, which I did. And in the sax section there was a kid who came out from I think Detroit at that time, was Tex Benecke. And he took my place in the section. And he was the right guy for that band, without question. He did better by getting Tex.

When I interviewed saxophonist and arranger Dave Pell in 1996 I could tell that he was a bit of a cut-up, a man who never lacked in confidence or the willingness to take a chance. Much of his early career was spent with a lower tier of big bands, but he and his sidemen always wanted them to sound as polished as possible. Their efforts to ensure this could even include upstaging the leader.

DP: Oh, it was fun. But a lot of players that you play with, I was in Bobby Sherwood’s band and I took Zoot Simms’ place. He moved to first alto and I played his tenor chair. Well I’m sitting next to Zoot all night. I mean what could be bad about that? We’re both kids you know. This was in the ‘40’s. And I quit the band I was with in the ‘40’s and stayed on the West Coast and got the job in the relief band. And Stan Getz, myself, you know, great players were sitting in the relief band, a Latin band. And we’re having a great time. But you’re learning from the guy, like Stan was the greatest dressing room player that ever lived. He’d get out front and he’d choke.

MR: No kidding?

DP: Oh he was terrible. He was so insecure and such an introvert that he couldn’t get up like me, no, I don’t give a damn, I’m going to get up and play you know.

MR: For our students that will watch this, can you explain relief band?

DP: A relief band is — the main attraction has got to go out and get a 20 minute break, and you had to have a live band on stage. And usually a different kind of band so that you could do the rumba, like we had a Latin band playing a Four Brothers type tenor book. And then we’d play Freddie Martin style and then we’d play Latin and then we’d do this and then the other bands, whoever the name band was at The Palladium, which was every four or five weeks, we’d just sit there and said hello the guys and you know it was great. But I stayed in L.A. and I didn’t have to go on the road so I really enjoyed it.

MR: And then you went with Tony Pastor later on?

DP: No I was with Tony Pastor getting there. And the story about Tony Pastor, I get to California and I say, “Gee Tony, this is great. Good-bye. I’m quitting.” He says ‘you can’t leave me in L.A., this is wilderness. There’s no guys.” I said “Good-bye.” And so he says “well stay with me until we leave California and then you can quit. So six weeks later I left the band. But I had fun with Tony because I’d run out the microphone to beat him to his own solos. Because he didn’t really like to play. But the only way I could get to play was to be a cocky kid and run up to the mike when he’s ready to play and I’m up there playing already. “Sorry, Tony.”

MR: Sounds like you didn’t lack for self confidence.

DP: Oh, no, I was a smart ass, it was just terrible. But that’s kind of a thing that you have to do. It’s almost like the sidemen on the band, they keep watching the leader. And watching all the mistakes he makes. And all the wrong things he does. Because in the back of his mind, I’m going to be a leader some day and I ain’t never gonna put myself — I mean Les Brown, I had a great time with Lester’s band and played on every tune, you know I had a great book to play, and we had [Don] Fagerquist and all the good players. And I remember as I went out every time to play a solo out front, we’d just didn’t stand up, we’d go out front — show biz. And I remember kicking over Lester’s horn at least once a night. “Oh, I tripped, ohhh, I’m so sorry, Oh, Les I’ll fix it later.” Well he didn’t play too well. And we didn’t like him playing in the band with us, because the saxes sounded so good. But when he played he played awful. And so if his horn didn’t work, he wouldn’t play. And Les after years and years he finally figured out I was doing it on purpose. You know, “I’m so clumsy, Les, I’m sorry.” But I was kicking over his horn so he wouldn’t play. Terrible, terrible. But I always wanted to be a leader and you know, even in the worst way, you want to be a leader somehow, and you want to be able to so “no, no, my tempo.” And then the drummer in the back says “no, Dave, that’s the wrong tempo, you’ve got to kick it up here.”

MR: Well when you became a leader I assume you kept your horn out of the way.

An elderly gentleman who often comes to my gigs goes into his own bit of heaven when I fill his request for “Intermission Riff.” He never fails to tell anybody around him that Stan Kenton was a genius. The Stan Kenton Orchestra probably was the most controversial of all big bands. Stan’s idea of what a big band should sound like didn’t necessarily include the basic parameters that were normally expected. Trombonist Eddie Bert spent time with Kenton and was shocked to learn what Stan wanted and didn’t want from his band:

MR: I wanted to play a little piece here — see if it jogs your memory.

[audio interlude]

EB: Well I know it’s Stan’s band.

MR: Yeah.

EB: It’s probably Maynard.

MR: “Cuban Carnival.”

EB: Oh yeah.

MR: And you’re on this, I think around ’46 or so.

EB: No, it must have been ’47.

MR: Okay.

EB: I joined him in ’47.

MR: All right. ’47. What did you think of his music?

EB: Well he featured trombones. That’s why I wanted to go with that band. And he was very popular. I mean guys were poll winners in the band, like Shelly Manne and Art Pepper. So I figured well let me go. Because Kai [Winding] had done great on the band and Kai and I were friends. So I went with the band. And it was like a family that band. He was a great guy to work for.

MR: Some people didn’t think he swung very good.

EB: No. That he didn’t. One night we played in Mankato, Minnesota. Mankato Ballroom. And generally Stan would like spread out. But this night the bandstand was small. So we were like this. And the band started swinging. And of course we all wanted to swing. So the band was swinging and he stopped it. He said “this is not Basie. This is Stan Kenton.” So we were looking at each other like — damn.

MR: That’s really curious.

EB: Yeah I don’t know, he just didn’t understand swinging.

MR: I never thought about it backwards though, I mean like at that point how would you stop swinging?

EB: I know. We all looked at each other like what is he talking about. I mean Shelly is a swinger. You know, Shelly Manne. Well we always used to go out after the gig and go blow somewhere, wherever we were. But when you get on the bandstand it was Stan Kenton.

MR: But people who came to Kenton expecting to dance, was that a problem?

EB: We used to play the “Concerto to End All Concertos” and that was like all different tempos. And I swear I’d see people dancing. I don’t know what they were doing but they were dancing. You know you’d have the crowd in the front they were all standing there, and then in the back would be people dancing. Well maybe they caught the changes, I don’t know.

MR: Interesting.

EB: But his band was very popular. He had like a machine. In other words, he had a guy that would go out a month in advance and set everything up, have pictures in all the music stores, have the records. It was his advance man. Then Stan would leave after the gig, wherever we were, he’d have his car, and he’d leave and do interviews and be on the radio in whatever city we were in, and it was like a machine. So it all kept rolling like that.

There certainly was rivalry between the big bands during the swing era. The competition for gigs and for the best sidemen were much like sports teams are today. Two of the most celebrated big bands were, interestingly enough, led by clarinet players. Their playing could be distinguished from one another, but they did share a certain lack of social grace. Trumpeter John Best is one of those musicians who made the rounds in almost all the best big bands. He was not a man who took kindly to insults, and may have landed in the wrong spot with Artie Shaw. He also speaks about the power of the Musicians Union during the big band era. George Simon’s influence in advancing a musician’s career is again shown here:

JB: I also enrolled in Duke that fall [1932] and I stayed there six weeks and left again. But Les [Brown] graduated from Duke four years later. In the meantime I went back to Chapel Hill, ten miles away, at the University, the campus. And I was playing with Les’ band and also a campus band, and that was the end of my schooling after that. I wound up going to Chicago in 1936 with some fellows that I had met with the Biagini band in Savannah, Georgia. Hank Biagini had a band down there. And I came down to join the band, but I had laid off for three weeks and I had no endurance. So I didn’t get the job. But I met all those guys — they were the nucleus of a band that was organized in Chicago that fall. That would be 1936. It was a pretty good band. It was reviewed. We played Frank Dailey’s Meadowbrook. I got an honorable mention write-up by George Simon, and Glenn Miller was with George Simon and they came in there and that was the first time I’d met Glenn. I had heard him before and seen him before. But they heard me play and it was favorable mention.

MR: The first time that your name showed up in print as far as the music magazine?

JB: Yeah. And that band broke up at the end of ‘36. So I decided I’d try to get a New York card. You have to sit out six months time, residence. You are eligible to work after three months, certain type of work. So you’ve got to sweat it out. Well I was sweating it out for three months. And I got a knock on the door and a trumpet player that I had played with, Biagini. He had Artie Shaw with him. Well I had heard of Artie Shaw, in fact I had a record that I had bought of Artie Shaw, with strings on it, and Peg LaCentra sang the vocal on it. And a song called “I’ll Remember” I think it was. And Artie said he was organizing a new band. And he had had string bands and lost a lot of money on it, because the people just wouldn’t go for it. He was going to organize a band with the same instrumentation as Benny. And he had an opening for another trumpet. So I said well — maybe I shouldn’t say all this, Artie might listen.

MR: Please, do.

JB: Anyway well I’ll go ahead with it. I said “Artie, I’ve been here three months, you know, starving. And I don’t want to lose the three months time.” He said “I’m a personal friend of Jacob” — I don’t remember his name — the President of the New York Local [Musicians Union]. He said “I’ll see that your time goes on.

MR: Because if you left New York, then you’d lose your three months? Is that the idea?

JB: Right. If they pull that card out, the union card out, your transfer card. So I said well that’s fine you know. Well at the end of the six months, I asked the manager for my card. He pulled it out and it said withdrawn, March 31^st. So that kind of upset me a little bit. It was a while there that I was pretty angry at Mr. Shaw. And in September of that year I left Artie and I went back to North Carolina.

MR: So you never at that point got into the New York Local. Because they just pulled your card and you had to start over?

JB: Well in a way I’m glad I didn’t because the way it turned out it was good. And you get mad — I got mad at Artie. He had a recording date and this was in the 1937 band, September. And I’d been in that band too. But after the union card thing, I was not too friendly. So he had one of those transcription dates in New York. Like we’d play in Wildwood, New Jersey, and there was a new tune out, I can’t remember the name of it, and my part had the release on the tune. So I played it, and the saxophone player, a good friend, Freddie Petrie, he turned around and gave me the “yeah!” you know, encouraging. I got through, sat down, and at the end of the thing Shaw said “John, is that the best you can play that?” I said “Artie” — at that time it was my best attempt. He said “I’ll play that tomorrow on the recording.” And I said “well, as of right now, Artie, you can play every other solo I have in the book.” And that kind of shook him up. He said “well what does that mean?” I said “two weeks or tonight, any way you want, either way I’ll leave tonight.” And I did leave in two weeks. I went back to North Carolina. Eight months, I worked in a furniture store and did local, you know, playing around Charlotte, Spartanburg, and a couple of colleges there. Eight months, and Artie had told me and some of those guys that I didn’t hear enough of the early Louis Armstrongs, which I didn’t. And meantime I had bought a lot of those records and listened to them and I finally realized what they were talking about. Like “Wild Man Blues” and all those old things. So I wrote Artie a letter somewhere in that time. He called me up and said “do you want to come back?” So I did, I went back to join him in Boston, to Roseland Square Ballroom I think. Billie Holiday was in the band. And I stayed in that band until I joined the Glenn Miller band. Three or more years.

Drummer Sonny Igoe could be listed as the definition of a journeyman musician. He held down the drum chair in many of the best bands of the era, reminding us that very few big band musicians ever got close to being rich. Sonny relates his experience with the other great clarinet player, Benny Goodman:

SI: I can remember when I started with Benny Goodman’s band, now we’re talking 19 — what would that be, — 19 —

MR: ‘48?

SI: ’48 and ’49. That’s right. I was going to say ’47. And there’s a long story concerned with this, and it’s the thing I told you before. You can’t do anything alone. Somebody’s got to help you. So I had come off the road playing with three what we would call back in those days B bands. They weren’t like the Benny Goodman or that sort of thing. They were like a guy named Tommy Reed who had a band that was made up of all ex-servicemen. I went out to San Francisco to play with him. And then I was with Les Elgart’s band at the Meadowbrook, and then I was with a lady bandleader named Ina Ray Hutton, I don’t know if you ever heard of her. She used to have a girl band but now she had a guy band. And then all those jobs fizzled out and then from one to another you get a call, “would you like to audition for Ina Ray Hutton?” Sure, because I don’t have a gig. And I wasn’t married yet or anything like that. So those bands, Tommy Reed, Ina Ray Hutton and Les Elgart were 90 dollar bands. That’s a week on the road with hotels and meals you had to pay your own.

MR: You had to pay your own.

SI: Yeah. And you know you wonder, 90 bucks, how did I ever do that? So okay now a long thing goes on, and I know that Benny Goodman is rehearsing a new band. And I had also heard that he was getting a drummer every day. He didn’t like anybody. So guys were telling me — there used to be a hangout in New York called Charlie’s Tavern, where everybody used to go because beers were a nickel and we could hang around there, drink beer, lie, you know tell a lot of lies. So anyway, this guy goes “hey Sonny, you ought to go up to Benny’s rehearsal” he said “he’s having trouble finding somebody he likes.” I said “he’ll probably hire Shelly Manne or somebody like that.” But I thought about it and it came to me that I had the acquaintance of a man who was an insurance executive who was a friend of Benny Goodman’s. He loved musicians. He loved to talk to us and all that kind of stuff. So I asked him. His name was Eddie Furst. And I said “Ed, do you think you could introduce me to Benny Goodman so I could audition?” He said “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that, I’ll call him.” So he called me the next day and said “we’re going up Thursday at 11:00” or whatever the heck it was. Right? So he takes me and we go up there and he’s rehearsing at MCA in New York. They had an auditorium. And they were rehearsing in there. And I had a very good ear. I memorize very quickly, luckily. It’s another lucky thing, you can’t teach it. So anyway we go up there and the band in playing and they were rehearsing this one tune three or four times through, five or six times through, whatever. And I’m listening to it. And I’m getting that down pretty good already, and I’ll see if I can play that tune. But you never know, you might have to go up there and sight read. So anyway I could read passably. But anyway they take a break. And so Benny said “Eddie, how are you?” And he comes over and shakes his hand. And he says “this is the young man I was telling you about, Benny.” And he said “oh, nice to meet you Sonny,” he said “why don’t you play the next set,” he says. He says “we’ll take a ten minute break” or something like that and he says “you play the next set.” The drummer was from Philadelphia and he was very inexperienced. Scared to death. Not that I wasn’t nervous, Benny Goodman, my God, this was a whole new strata for me. And this kid, I don’t think he played with anybody. But anyway he was so accommodating. I said “do you mind if I use your drums to play the next set” or something. He said “oh please” he said “please.” And we introduced ourselves and all that kind of stuff. A very nice guy. But he wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t sure I was, you know because I was going like this [taps], but I knew several guys in the band from Charlie’s Tavern and around town. So anyway okay I sit in. And they play that tune that I had sat through five or six times. And I had the part up, like I pretend I’m reading it. And so anyway I didn’t have to really read much of it, it wasn’t that complex, but there was a couple of starts and stops and a few things in it. And I went through it [claps] just like that. So Benny looked up like this. And he said “stay up there, Pops.”

MR: Pops. He called you Pops already.

SI: Everybody. Yeah he called everybody Pops. So anyway he says “stay up there, Pops.” So anyway I stayed up there and I played a few more tunes I got lucky enough to get through. And then he said “okay, everybody’s through, we’ll play with the quartet.” So he said “stay up there, Pops.” So Buddy Greco was the piano player and Benny, and bass player was a fellow named Clyde Lombardi. And so we played with just a small group for about an hour. And so then he packed up and walked out. He didn’t say a word to me, that was it. So oh he did say “come back tomorrow, bring your own drums in.” Something like that. So I go back tomorrow, and then I played the whole rehearsal. And then again at the end he goes through the small band, because he loved playing with the small group too. And we played that. And so it’s going on three weeks now. And I get a call from another clarinet player, a guy named Jerry Wald. You ever hear that name? Anyway he was going into the Paramount Theater. And he asked me if I’d be interested in doing the Paramount with him. And I said “I’m rehearsing with Benny.” He said “well did he hire you yet?” I said “I’ve been doing it for three weeks he hasn’t said a word.” He says “well listen, I can give you another couple of days and then I’ll have to get somebody else. He says, “but the job is yours if you want it.” And I said “okay, thank you, very nice of you.” So anyway the next day I’m at rehearsal with Benny, right? Now Benny used to walk around as I call tooteling all the time. He’d go [scats]. And he comes up to me and gives me a nudge, and he’s tooteling. Like this. He says “get your suit yet, Pops?” And I said “what do you mean get my suit yet?” He says, “you know, your uniform.” Because the band was going to Sacks Fifth Avenue for tuxedo coats. So I said no. He said “why don’t you get your uniform?” I said “nobody told me I was hired.” He said “nobody told you you were hired? You were hired the first day.” He said “nobody said anything?” I said “no, you never said anything.” He said “he’s supposed to — where’s what’s his name —” the manager. “Come up here. Talk to him.” So okay. Now the big decision of my life comes up, right? So the guy says “oh Sonny it was my fault,” he says, “I apologize.” He said “you got the job” and he said “you’ve got to get your uniform.” And he said “now how much money do you want?” Nobody ever asked me that before. Right? I can remember Gene Krupa saying “if you ever play with Benny Goodman he respects you if you ask for a lot of money.” But I didn’t feel as though I was that secure you know. But that ran through my mind. So I had come from these, like I said, these 90 dollar bands. Never made more than 90 bucks a week. So I kind of haltingly said “how about 125?” He says “well I think we can make that.” And I could almost hear him going chuckle-chuckle-chuckle. So anyway that’s the way that went. I was the lowest paid guy in the band. I would have swept out the bus, I don’t care. But I spent a year with Benny until he broke up the band. I spent a year with him. And I really felt as though I learned a lot, I came a long way experience-wise and how to really play in a band and gee to have somebody as good as him. A lot of guys said he used to be very bad on a lot of people. But he never once said anything to me about my playing. He never said you’re playing too loud, you’re rushing, you’re dragging, you’re doing this, you’re doing that. Never said anything. So that put me over the top from the standpoint of having to audition with other bands if I went with — so I went from Benny Goodman to Woody Herman, you know and that was my next step. But it was funny in those days the way everybody said you’ve got to watch “boy you’re working for Benny — did you get ‘the ray’ yet?” I have a story about “the ray” if you’re interested.

MR: I am.

SI: The thing is that he would, he even said to us one night at the Palladium in Hollywood he says “you’ve heard a lot about the ray” he says “I’m not really mad at anybody.” He said “sometimes I daydream and my mind wanders and I just happen to be looking in somebody’s direction. I’m not trying to stare them down or anything like that.” So now we’re in Canada doing a whole string of one-nighters in the hockey rinks. They used to put the boards down on the ice so people could dance, and then they would build this tremendous movie set for the band. They’d have the saxes down here and each section up. The drums were like up there. Way up at the top. You couldn’t hear anything. You couldn’t hear the band you were so far away. And so and Benny’s down there. So we play the first set and Benny, he’s looking around and puzzled. And he looks up at me, and I had another small set down in front for the small group. So he looked up at me and he goes — you know what that means. You come on down here and play down here. So not a word was said. So I pick up my sticks and brushes and go down to the other set. And I played a set down there and I’m in seventh heaven because the whole band is right here in my ear. Oh what a feeling that is. That’s why when people play music today all they do is turn up the bass. You hear bluh-bluh-bluh. It doesn’t sound like music. But when you have the brilliance of the brass and the saxophones right, oh man, it’s hi-fi, the original hi-fi. So anyway okay we take a break. Now we’re coming back up and I’m down front now and I got a little closer and got myself comfortable and I have my music stand here in case I need some charts. And Benny’s right over my music stand like this, eye level. I’m kind of kitty corner to him. If I look there, there he is. Now he had the habit of having his clarinet under his arm like this, holding it this way. So he was in that pose looking right at me. And I could hear some murmurs in the background, guys in the sax section saying “uh-oh, look’s like it’s Sonny’s turn in the barrel tonight” or something like that and all these kinds of things. So he’s just looking at me over the top of my stand. Just staring at me. And geez I’d had enough. So I stood up, and this is true, I stood up and I went like this in front of his eyes. He never budged. And the band, everybody’s having hysterics. They thought I’d get canned right then. He said “sit down kid, what are you doing?” He never knew I did it. So he says “okay let’s go.” And we went on to the next number. That story got around town in New York even. “Geez I heard what you did to Benny.” It was funny. He never even acknowledged it. But I did see him ride some guys sometimes and I felt sorry for them. I think it was one of those things that every once in a while if he got in that mood if he knew he could ride you he’d ride you.

In 1964, as a 14-year-old aspiring saxophonist, my parents took me to see the Glenn Miller Orchestra under the direction of Ray McKinley in a Rochester, NY auditorium. The band sounded much like the records I had come to know. I stood at the front of the stage staring up at the saxmen in their matching blue sport coats, picturing myself as a member. At the time it didn’t occur to me that I was born too late and had missed the era where such gigs were prevalent. Conducting these interviews for the jazz archive has enabled me to vicariously experience the thrill of the sound, the challenge of the travel, and first-hand stories of the colorful characters of the time.