Jazz and Justice. Gerald Horne
he and others played differently among “white” audiences. “The only time we played much of that jazz,” he said subsequently, “was around the colored places.” Thus, “in some of the western town[s], way out in West Texas out there, some cowboys would come in there and they didn’t want to let us quit playing. You got to play til they say ‘stop.’” Since they were packing pistols, their words were even more convincing. Another time in Oklahoma, part of the circuit traversed by Kansas City performers, yet another boisterous Euro-American—he “looked like a big prizefighter” when “he pulled off his shirt,” followed quickly by drunkenness, said, “I’m going whup every one of you when you come out, one by one.” Then a fellow musician grabbed a music stand, built with steel, then “folded it up” and “rolled that thing and batted that guy right in the back of the neck … batted him clean down the steps with that thing, right down into the street,” then “we all got in the car and flew!” Another time, in Palestine, Texas, a sheriff with “two big pistols on wouldn’t let nobody dance but himself!” Besides, he “didn’t want nothing but ‘Turkey in the Straw’” to be performed—“all the time. And we had to play it,” if they wanted to escape unscathed. This dangerous farce “went on for the whole night.” On another occasion, “cowboys came into the place and shot all the lights out,” and then the stunned musicians “one by one 12 or 13 guys slip[ped] out, leaving [the] piano player last,” at which point he suddenly stopped and ran and jumped in the waiting vehicle too, as they sped away.60
These chilling confrontations unavoidably shaped the musicians. Early in his career in the 1940s, the trumpeter Miles Davis, born in 1926, was playing with the band of Billy Eckstine in Boston. “All of a sudden,” says his son, Gregory Davis, “a white woman sitting at one of the front tables, yells out at him, ‘Sing it, Blackie. I love that ‘Ol’ Man River’ voice. Sing your song, chocolate drop.” The insulted singer stopped singing and confronted the woman—and “all the white folks went crazy. It was like a KKK convention … fists flew,” and since the band “had with them every kind of innovative street weapon available … switchblades, brass knuckles, picks, blackjacks—you name it,” they gave as good as they got.61
It was also Hinton who recalled that there were those who “came and paid their money just to heckle the Negro bands, like some people like to tease an animal and we had no recourse.”62 This was particularly grating for Hinton, a man of multiple talents of whom, it was announced in 1954, that “if a poll were to be taken among jazzmen of all styles to determine the most versatile musician,” the winner would be this creative bassist.63
There was a related problem. “There was a whole [lot] of black music,” said Danny Barker, the musician, “that wasn’t played on white jukeboxes, radio stations” and “Hollywood movies. This was done purposely through racism—prejudice.” Thus, there were “millions of jukeboxes around the country,” and “many did not spin black artists.” There was also the companion unsavory practice of abasement of these often proud artists: “You had to sing a river song,” Barker said angrily, “the ‘Robert E. Lee’ or ‘Swanee’—or you didn’t sing at all. That was the racist custom down South,” up North, too. Some indignities were comparably harsher. “All black show people having emergencies” of a urological nature were often “hitting the bushes on the highways and byways, because the segregation laws did not allow black backsides to sit on the same toilet as white backsides,” leading to “much trouble with many bands and troupes getting into hassles about using toilets that had signs above saying” blaringly, “FOR WHITES ONLY.”64
Once in 1944, the Ellington band had to appear on stage famished since they couldn’t find a place that would serve them in St. Louis.65 Presumably, and tauntingly ironic, there were toilets available for them to use.
Marshall Royal, born in Oklahoma in 1912, best known for his horn virtuosity with Basie, lamented that “some of the things that a black musician had to experience when I was out on the road … was pretty rough to stomach. You would have to get off a bus when you come into town, three o’clock in the morning, and go around and start knocking on people’s doors trying to find a place to stay because you couldn’t stay in a white hotel and there wasn’t any black hotels in the towns.” Like others so persecuted, he spoke longingly of exile: “You had to go into another country to even be able to be treated like a man if you were in a black band,” since “jazz in every country except the United States is put on a pedestal.”66
The vicissitudes of travel were a constant complaint among black musicians.67 It was in July 1942 that Cab Calloway and NAACP leader Walter White sought to improve the parlous travel options. “Because of Jim Crow rulings it was reported, train service is not available to … colored bands south of the Mason and Dixon line.” This was no minor matter since the “average colored band spends at least eight months of the year on the road.”68 Calloway had good reason to investigate transport options since he often had occasion to flee. Such was the case in Memphis when he and his band performed before a packed house, but, as one writer put it, he and his cohorts “drew more feminine attention than white southern male egos thought proper.” A fight ensued, and Calloway and his band were ordered out of town. After this incident, Black bands playing for Euro-American audiences were discouraged by City Hall from playing in public places.69
By August 1942, bus travel was eliminated because of fuel rationing, leading to the opinion that the “situation for colored bands is nothing short of desperate.” Many did not have vehicles of any type and were hampered by Jim Crow train travel. Even “white bands” found the situation to be “tough.”70 Assuredly, what one journal denoted as the “race segregation problem” hampered Negro bands, forcing them into layoffs, despite their apparent popularity.71
Trombonist “Trummy” Young moaned that buses “used to break down all the time,” leaving passengers stranded and upset. Baritone saxophonist Harry Carney, born in Boston in 1912, “would drive 12 hours and then go on stage and play,” inexorably impacting his performances. “You play a job and you’re riding and you’re tired,” which was “very dangerous.” Hence, “several guys got killed, like Chu Berry,” the saxophonist, born in 1908 and perishing in 1941. It was after work and the driver-trumpeter, Charlie Shavers, as he recalled, was tired.
Travel difficulties influenced the music. Young said, “I left [Jimmy] Lunceford [and his band] because he did too many one nighters … it would kill you almost”—and being paid $10 nightly. He signed on with the affluent Charlie Barnet, who also happened to be Euro-American. Barnet did “pay … well,” said Young. “He didn’t have a lot of hit records or anything but I made more money” there than “[I] ever made with Lunceford … perhaps $50 a week” or “more.” Then there was the problem that the haggardness of excessive travel could cause horn men in particular to strain unnecessarily, meaning one “blew too hard,” that is, “overblew,” and destroyed their lips.72 (The unique Barnet contrasts with a fellow bandleader, of whom Leonard Feather said: “The first man I ever heard using the word ‘nigger’ was Glenn Miller.”)73 Even “Hot Lips” Page, trumpeter, known for his vigorous playing, “used to complain about his lip getting sore,” according to Buster Smith, giving his nickname renewed meaning.74
Bassist “Red” Callender had a different problem. “When you play the bass with a big band,” he said, “you maybe have to change shirts or undershirts a couple of times a night. So this is how [Jimmy] Blanton first contracted TB,” combined with “improper care.” He continued, “You’re wringing wet and you go hang out with somebody … all night and then you get wiped out.” This could be damaging for one like Blanton, who “was very frail” in any case.
Trumpeter Herman Autrey, born in the heart of darkness that was Alabama in 1904, averred that the spouse of Fats Waller once told him, “I wish I knew my husband as well as you do,” a forced association forged by incessant travel. The “rough” treatment accorded the travelers often drove musicians closer together and compelled a solidarity and familiarity that could be translated into sterling performances. With the Claude Hopkins band in Dixie, “We had to go knock on doors and say, ‘Pardon