RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,057
('stay steady and just dig the chance')
So, once outside the studio
doorway, on the third level
of the building, was a sign that
read 'Matador Productions
- Management and Booking:
fine art and jazz ensembles.'
Believe me, it sounded and
read bigger than it was, for in
actuality it was merely a booking
agent for 'talent' - which in this
sense meant jazz quartets of
whatever merit, which were
often booked around town at
any of the various nightclubs
and cabaret/restaurants that
wanted to 'trade' on the Jazz
name. Not that it was, really,
anything that definite; nor was
it in any way an assurance of a
crowd, or even of 'quality' music.
Sometimes it worked. Others,
not. I'd stumbled into all of this
mostly because there was an
all-night 25-cent slice pizza
window out to the sidewalk.
I'd often queer-folk waiting or
lined up there, or slumped over,
even, eating their sustenance,
and fighting their alcohol wave.
The 'jazz' next door, at the venue,
was easy to hear, and some liked
it, and stayed. Like getting an
unseen concert, and food, for
25 cents. Not bad. I think, but
can't remember, if you went
inside, or tried to, there was a
cover-charge, and the booze
was pricey too.
-
This wasn't any big-deal crowd,
sluggards who'd gotten left behind
in some ballooning culture-gulch
they couldn't figure out. 196o's
takeover tactics had pretty much
spread into everything - even the
rotten jazz world had gotten a little
flowery. Frills and showmanship
somehow getting more importance
than the music. It never really
grabbed me, any of that. Crossover
crap that tried, it to was annoying;
from Blues Project to Janis Joplin
to Herbie Hancock and the rest.
It seemed it was all messed together
and the lack of purity had become
deadly. Well, hello, and welcome
to the '70's.
-
Defiantly, the definitions had all
been changed. Much like today,
in its way, but flavored with reality
instead of the sick puffery of today.
Vietnam and death. Cool jazz lurked,
but I was gone by then.
-
As I started saying, these weren't
hardcore, knowledgeable jazz fans.
All that as accidental. They were more
than happy with second or third tier
acts that no one really cared about,
and this is what I had been listening
to - another set by another small
group of guys heading out for their
night's gig. It was all run, as usual,
by some chubby guy in a cheap suit
and plenty of sweat and humidity:
Booking agent, blowhard, and usually
'taker of 20% for the efforts.' And
mostly named Goldsmith, or Goldberg,
or Marshall or Merman. Same names;
do nothings, no talent, except for
rubbing bills and signing lousy deals.
For all I ever knew they were failed
perfume salesmen, or sixth-grade
history teachers, who'd chucked
one career for another but got by
in both cases by doing nothing
and trading off the work of
others, and they'd sit around
and throw promises like darts
and wait to see if anything stuck;
so that there were always people
around dumb enough to believe
all that crap, and who figured
they really were on the verge
of stardom and discovery by
playing maybe just two more
weeks at Hanley's Chop House
or Trolo's Bistro and Cabaret or
the Big Fixx Club or whatever.
It was all the same, and nothing
ever mattered. They got their 50
bucks a night and they stayed
,late probably three or four nights
in a row messing with the girls or
getting laid easy and then just
walking off. ('Never met my Daddy,
no. They say he was some kind of'
jazz-master'). And then they waited
for the next one, to do it all again,
and Goldsmith or whomever it
was always got the big take and
always talked big and got the
next schedule card to fill out
all over again. And - yeah, yeah,
it just went on. These were always
cheap green offices, with poorly
painted green or ivory colored
walls, and extension cords and
phone lines brought in on temporary
hookups - all cheap and all tacky,
just like Goldsmith or Goldfine
or any of the rest. What I'd do
was, for tenbucks a day, some,
was move things around or pull
wires from here to there or hammer
together another pedestal box for
some jazz-cat to stand on and
limelight his solo.Once in a
while I'd get to plink away on
a piano as some form of
accompaniment to whatever
I was hearing. Hardly even a
tune, and no one cared and no
one stopped me, though I was
never sent out with a job-crew
or anything. II never cared. But
there was one time I was let
out to fill a drummer's roll in
a tune or two while the 'drummer'
was out doing whatever. No
grand jazz-solo stuff, just a wiry
beat, best I could, and twenty
minutes later he was back and
I was done. That was at some
east-side club out by the UN,
in the e50's somewhere, and,
yeah it was fun but I had no
card nor license or nothing of
that nature, so it was on the
sly anyway. And, then, yes
fame and stardom, like all the
rest, it eluded me too but I
was able to stay steady
and just dig the chance.
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