An interview with Phil Nimmons – Head of State (November 2005)

Clarinetist, composer, conductor and educator Phil Nimmons, was born in Kamloops, British Columbia on June 3, 1923. He later graduated from the University of British Columbia and went on to study at the Julliard School of Music in New York City and at the Royal Conservatory of Music in Toronto. Nimmons is a founding member of the Canadian League of Composers established in 1950 and was a co-founder with Oscar Peterson and Ray Brown of the Advanced School of Contemporary Music in Toronto from 1960 -1966. Along with leading and composing for his various bands, he is currently Director Emeritus of Jazz Studies at the Faculty of Music at the University of Toronto. His compositional work includes contemporary classical works and over 400 original jazz compositions.

Bill King: Reading through your discography with titles like Atlantic Suite, Harbours, Islands, Tides and Horizons, PEI, Jasper and Caribou County Tone Poem, one can’t help recognizing you have a great love for this country. Does the remarkable landscape influence your composing?

Phil Nimmons: In the beginning, as far as writing is concerned, I don’t feel that’s necessarily so. I think the creative process is in all of us in some shape or form. In my case, I think there was this drive to be creative right from my teens.

I think the landscaping tendencies started when I began writing dramatic music for the CBC in Vancouver in the late ‘40s. I wrote some things at the time for Dick Diespecker who was a war correspondent and had written a program called Anthology. I wrote dramatic music for that before I went to New York and studied. That would have been around 1944 or ‘45.

Leaping beyond that, I eventually came to Toronto to study at the Conservatory and ended up writing for J. Frank Willis, who was a producer of dramatic shows on the CBC who came from Halifax. At First, we did nothing but sea stories.

Even before I got to the east coast, I felt I had been transplanted from the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic. We did a program called the Days of Sail, which was all about the sailboats and slave trade. So I wrote about Peggy’s Cove, Luneburg and Sable Island before I got there.

Eventually, my sister and her husband became residents at the University of New Brunswick. I would say, not overtly, but by osmosis. I’m developing a relationship with the geography of the country. People still ask when I am going to do something about the Pacific Ocean, which I guess is in the back of my mind.

B.K.: Do you have a favourite workplace that inspires you - a room or locale?

P.N.: No, not necessarily. When you ask that question, I wonder how the heck I created some of those lovely things when they came from my debris-filled studio in the basement. It was a mess of papers, pens and ink with cigarette burns on the ivory keys of my piano and glass stains from drinks.

I do like having a piano handy when I get an idea. I really work it to death, trying to see how many mutations I can get into it. Eventually, I often end up doing the original idea.

I used to work at it hard and shout up to my wife, Noreen. ‘Listen to this.’ Then I’d say, ’Listen to this other one.’ Do you hear it? It would be only a difference of a 16th note or something. Noreen would reply, ‘Just write it.’

I know when I teach, I tell my students to be quite curious about the potential for variations. But I can do that in my head, it doesn’t matter where I am.

B.K.: How does the writing process begin, with a motif, an unusual harmonic sequence?

P.N.: All of those things could be sources, but ideally it is to find some kind of motif that is the seed so full of potential that once you start to work with it, it almost writes itself.

I’ve had a couple occasions where that happens. The musical seed will be strictly musical. In addition to that, I look for all kinds of ways of developing ideas, like maybe taking my birth date and make a tone row out of it. You mentioned Caribou Tone Poem, well, that’s based on my birth date and mixed with thoughts.

Being born in Kamloops, I have really vivid memories. We left there when I was seven in 1930, but my grandparents remained. We used to go back and forth all of the time.

I remember Kamloops being so hot you could almost fry an egg on the sidewalk. It’s located on that plateau between the coastal range and the Rockies where all of those cities like Kelowna and Vernon are. I also remember tow mountains, Peter and Paul, which were north of where we lived. There used to be great electrical storms with the lighting bouncing from one peak to the next.

I use my birthday as a tone row and make certain changes to it, I might come up with something that’s not precisely based on my birthday, but becomes the initial motivator to do something different. Eventually, you’ll come up with something that has potential for development whether melodically, harmonically or rhythmically.

I’m a great believer in form. It’s probably the most important thing everywhere - even our lives have to have some kind of form to communicate effectively.

B.K: If you were to sit down at this moment and begin a long form piece, what do you think the mood and tome of the exercise would be?

P.H.: Thankfulness. I’m in that particular mood at this particular time.

B.K.: What would be the instrumentation?

P.N.: Whatever the budget could afford. The experiences I had with the CBC, writing dramatic music without me knowing, was the greatest teacher I had because I heard everything I wrote at the time.Depending on the content of the show or the budget, the instrumentation I would write for could be anything from a trio to a symphony orchestra.

One of the first things I did for J. Frank Willis was The Cricket on the Hearth the Charles Dickens thing. We used English horn, harp and violin or viola. I had never written for harp before, so I got out my Cecil Forsyth orchestration book.

Even when Nimmon ‘N’ Nine was formed, the plan was not necessarily to include 10 musicians. When it first came together, there were only nine people. Then, Eddie Karam comes to town from Ottawa. I can remember Jerry Toth coming to me saying, ‘We’ve got to get this guy in the band.’ Everyone was a studio musician and they were all such great musicians that could play anything I wrote.

Eric Traugott is just mind-boggling in this regard. I have not met another trumpet player who had as great a sound from G above the staff right down to a G below the staff that can be done within a bar.

We never took the horns out of our mouths. Obviously, we were much younger then and played all the time.

B.K.: How much has your writing changed through the years and can you give an example?

P.N.: I don’t know if it’s changed so much. I still try to write melodically. I try to write interesting parts for every player right down to the fourth trumpet player.

B.K.: Was Robert Farnon around then?

P.N.: Yes, I knew Bob at the time. I had two dear friends in Vancouver while I was growing up as a teenager and working at the CBC. I worked with the Ray Norris Quintet when I first started and we had a comedian who played the piano while the late Barney Potts sang. We began lifting Nat Cole recordings.

I was also in Vancouver CBC Chamber Orchestra and two individuals, in particular, became great friends of mine – John Avison, who was the conductor and a great classical accompanist and Lawrence Wilson, who was a trumpet player who was in the mainstream back in the late ‘40’s who eventually became vice-president of the CBC. We would do shows and afterwards go to their homes and listen to recordings from Palestrina to Schonberg. Here, I was 15 years-old, hearing people talk about music all the time – I just soaked it up like a sponge.

B.K: What has been the most difficult assignment to conquer and why?

P.N.: There’s nothing specifically that comes to mind because I’ve done such a variety of things. I did a Commonwealth thing a way back that I had to research and come up with all the national anthems from all the Commonwealth countries, back when there was quite a few of them. It was a difficult assignment and I didn’t want to do, but I did.

Fortunately, I Learned awhile back I had to do things I may have not wanted to do to pay for the monkey on my back, which was jazz. I wrote some Gilbert and Sullivan things, and rather enjoyed it even though it wasn’t stylistically something I really did relate to. The same can be said for opera. I have done overtures from operas and that’s been an education.

I’ll tell you one thing I find difficult is when someone sends me a tape to lift that’s been generated electronically through synthesizer. I have to keep listening to it over and over because I don’t have perfect pitch, but instead a very good ear, and that’s like torture.

I begin to wonder if every old guy generation to generation has gone through this. I try to cope with it. I ask myself is the problem because I’ve grown up with acoustic sounds.

B.K.: I think you got caught in transition. Electronics erased the acoustic studio musician in the 1980s and ‘90s. Now, there’s a realization we can work with both. For jazz players, it’s back to acoustic.

P.N.: Fortunately, I may not be able to comment on the question truthfully because I’m 81. I’m just so thankful of the things that are happening.

B.K.: If you had a choice of musicians throughout history to assemble under one roof to play your music, who would be on the bandstand?

P.N.: That would take a lot of thought.

At first, I think I would like to get people who relate to my philosophies, but then I realize it doesn’t matter. What matters is what happens on the bandstand.

I’d like to thank Duke for setting the pattern. It didn’t matter when the band showed up as long as they got there. I was privy to a few events when we had the school with Oscar Peterson and Ray Brown. We’d go to Chicago for meetings and stay at the Palmer House. After they finished playing the London House, we’d go down to the south side of Chicago around one o’clock to hear Duke’s band play.

One night, we went down there and the only person to show up was Duke, so we went home. He was just so great as opposed to other leaders I know that just gets some uptight. I imagine a third world war might have started on Tommy Dorsey or Benny Goodman’s bandstand.

In Nimmons ‘N’ Nine, I had all of those wonderful people starting with Roy Smith, Jerry Toth, Ed Karam, Jack McQuade, Murray and Teddy Roderman and Ross Cully.

When the band changed, Rob McConnell was in the band along with Guido Basso, Freddie Stone, Herbie Spanier, Moe Koffman and Eugene Amaro. All of those fellows brought something different to the band.

I was blessed to take something from all of these people. I try to keep an open mind, which sometimes makes things difficult. But, it you do, the benefits are so great. I have lasting relationships with all of these people.

B.K.: You suffered great loss with the recent passing of your longtime companion Noreen. Has teaching and performing helped ease the pain?

P.N.: Yes, but I’m still dealing with the process. I will cope, but I’m not quite prepared at all times. I’m very lucky to be busy which gets me out of the house and away from being by myself.

At the same time, I do that because I can’t help but think this would not have been possible without her. I drank my butt off up until 1970. I did a very good job of being down in the basement writing. I’d come upstairs and Noreen would say to the kids. ‘That’s your dad, not the plumber.’ She had to put up with me and she did.

In retrospect, she looked after the kids. I came from the old school where the woman stayed home and raised the kids and the man worked. I even sold real estate for two or three years. That was not difficult to do because part of my philosophy was that when I got married, I made a contract with a young lady that we we’re going to do something together, and I would have to do whatever it took to fulfill. It’s very easy to say, but not as easy to do. You never know what will happen. She put up with so much, but I don’t think I’m unique in that respect.

B.K.: Loving relationships can be critical in freeing the soul to create and release that which is hidden below the surface. Was Noreen often the keeper of the key?

P.N.: No, I think we both were. I say that because I think that’s a deep desire as well as something I believe in. Nothing happens without two and a lot happens with three. Two people can start, but an odd number can put the vote up for grabs. It creates a lot more interest.

Being the fundamental part of the pyramid as the parents of this family or household, whichever way it goes, it really took the two of us. There has to be a lot of bending, giving and compromise because of what you want to achieve.

I think she bent a little bit more than I did, but I was eight years older that she was. Maybe that gave me a certain sense of conviction.

Plus the fact, I say with great profundity, we’ll never be as brilliant as they are. The male is such a dolt by comparison and I really believe that. Some people ask the question: ‘Would you have done things different knowing what you know today?’ Of course you would, but that will never happen.

Lorne Lofsky - Kind of Blue (2003) (Interview)

Lorne Lofsky Interview

Bill King: You point to one album as being pivotal to your introduction to jazz.

Lorne Lofsky: The Kind of Blue album. It’s one of those things that are hard to put into words. There was something about the music that touched something in me that I’d never experienced before? There was a certain mood I experienced. The fact that it was very understated. I wouldn’t call the playing hard flat-out playing compared to the Coltrane quartet when they were wailing or Miles band later on. There was this cool understatement that was happening and a sense of mystery I got from listening to it. It was something I had never heard before and there was this little light go on in my head that said wow! What is this? I quess I was ready for it.

Many years before I had a friend who played trumpet – I played bad third trumpet in junior high - put on My Funny Valentine album. For what I heard I wasn’t ready to understand what was happening. There wasn’t anything that pulled me in. Not like when I’d turn off the lights and listened to Kind of Blue and try to pick up things subliminally. I was still playing rock & roll and blues at the time and feeling rather limited. I knew my three or four B.B. King and Eric Clapton licks and just kept playing them over and over mindlessly.

Bill: Did you isolate and listen to the flow of certain instruments?

Lorne: I paid a lot of attention to Bill Evan’s solo on “So What?’ It was almost like watching a movie in another language without sub titles.

Bill: Did you search around for private instruction?

Lorne: I did take a few guitar lessons with someone named Tony Braden in the early seventies. We didn’t talk about music per se or improvising. He tried to show me the mechanics of the guitar - some scales and things. I started hanging out with friends of mine who were getting into jazz and listening a lot. We’d go out to places like George’s Spaghetti House. I used to go and listen to r Ed Bickert and Lenny Breau play. Sonny Greenwich. Ted Moses when he was in town. I was just absolutely amazed these players knew what to do and when to do it. I had no idea about listening and reacting and having a certain amount of skills to naturally react.

Bill: Did university studies with John Gittins answer some questions for you?

Lorne: To a certain degree. I was at York in the early to mid seventies as a part time student one year and took some theory. At the time I wasn’t ready for that kind of thinking. I found it to complicated and didn’t really understand it. The next year I went to a jazz workshop and in my free time played constantly. If I wasn’t playing I was listening at home or in a club or jamming. I really didn’t go the music school route. The main thing I got from university was the importance of playing with a strong time feel. The two people I learned the most from were John Gittins and Bob Witmer. Another thing that caught me at the time was that album with Paul Desmond “Pure Desmond” that took me to another universe. I was hearing a guitar that sounded like an orchestra and I had no idea what was going on. I get kind of compulsive about things and go for it. I would spend untold hours lifting Ed Bickert’s solos. I asked Ed years before in this long defunct club called Meat & Potatoes if he taught and I said he didn’t and recommended Tony Braden.

Bill: How about the live playing at the time.

Lorne: Ted Moses opened the Mother Necessity Jazz Workshop around Queen and Victoria and I did some playing. A couple years later I started doing jobbing gigs – weddings and casuals to make some money and club dates playing wallpaper music. The late great Jerry Toth heard me – this I won’t forget – I met him at Mt. Pleasant and Eglington and we were chatting about one thing or the other and he asked if I’d like to work with him at George’ Spaghetti House. I think he was the first to hire me at George’s. I was on cloud nine. It was the greatest thing in the world. After that I slowly broke into playing some of these places.

Bill: Did that opened the door to backing touring international artists.

Lorne: I was fortunate. George’s was going strong and Paul Grosney was booking Bourbon Street and I guess he took some sort of shine for me for a while and started booking me there. I got to play with a lot of great people there - Chet Baker, Carl Fontana, Groove Holmes, Jimmy McGriff, Phil Wilson, Georgy Auld. It was great for me as far as I was concerned. I was getting paid to learn. I always asked questions. I’d ask if what I was playing behind them was O.K. or if I was getting in the way or did they want me to learn other tunes. I did one gig with Bob Brookmeyer who had these great arrangements that was incredibly educational.

Bill: Is this where Oscar heard you play?

Lorne: No, that was at George’s Spaghetti House. I was there with Butch Watanabe a mainstay of the Toronto scene. Oscar came in to hear the group and I met him briefly. A month or two later he telephoned me about doing a recording. I thought to myself, why me? I was blown away by it.

When it was time to record it was a huge deal for me. I’d never recorded on my own before. I went on to do some playing with him in the early eighties in Edmonton and he featured me at the Forum at Ontario Place that doesn’t exist no more. It’s funny how things work. A few years before I remember going to hear Oscar with Jerry Fuller on drums, Neils Pederson bass and Joe Pass on guitar and sitting up on that hill overlooking the Forum and listening to the band and thinking to myself that one day it would be unbelievable to be down there doing something like this - not necessary with him or whoever. Several years later I wind up playing in Oscar’s quartet for three years and the same thing happened with Ed. In 1983 Larry Kramer and Jane Bunnett had this series at a place called Harpers on Lombard Street. One day Larry telephoned me and asked if I’d like to play in a quartet with Ed Bickert. My hero! I said, “Are you kidding – does he want to play with me that’s the question?”
Needless to say I was quiet nervous the first gig. It was fun and he was totally accommodating.

Bill: Did it take long to find a comfort zone with Oscar?

Lorne: The first gig was at the forum and he actually let me do some trio tunes. What he did in the situation was first play a few trio tunes and then he brought me out as a featured performer with Terry Clarke and John Heard. There I was before this huge crowd. All I remember was it was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. Dizzy Gillespie played somewhere earlier that evening and I’m in the middle of a solo with my eyes shut and I hear this wild applause. First of all I know it’s not for me and second I know what I’m playing isn’t that good and then I hear this trumpet chime in on the tune. It was an incredible experience.

I was out in Edmonton with Oscar and Dave Young and we started playing some of Oscar’s original tunes I’d had never heard before. I’ve always had pretty good ears and pick up things quickly. The first night he started playing on “ Sweet Georgia Brown” and he was ripping it up – definitely in his prime. There were flames coming off the piano and as he’s winding down to the last couple of bars he gets down lower and lower on this Bosendorfer piano with the extra bass notes I call those thunder storm notes cause when you’re down so low it’s not the pitch you hear but a storm system moving in off the lake. Anyway, I’m just sitting there figuring he’s going to do more and he just turns to me after hitting this low F and says you got it. So right away I had to do something so I started playing “ Sweet Georgia Brown” by myself. He got me! Every night after that I knew the routine. I’m really thankful about going through the trenches. It’s a great way to learn. Looking back it’s made me stronger player. You don’t get this in music school.

Bill: At present you teach a lot. By choice or evolution?

Lorne: I’ve been married several years and have a son and need a certain amount of stability. I can’t just pick up and run off. I guess if I were a little bit younger and still single I would probably be pursing more traveling gigs and more. The best way for me to take care of business being a musician is teach. I’ve been doing it for years. I do a fair amount at home. I’m now concentrating on just teaching at York University. They’ve instituted private instrument instruction. I can be more selective teaching. I don’t have to take every gig I get called for and realize time is more valuable.

Bill: Two videos: Approaches to Jazz Vol. One and a second New Standards.

Lorne; A few years ago I chatted with somebody by the name Bill Piburn who lives in the Nashville area and hooked up. A friend told he was getting into doing these video things. He did one for Jack Wilkins and a few others. We talked and I found he had a great heart and really supported the projects he was involved in so he arranged for me to fly down to Nashville during a Chet Atkins tribute – three or four years ago. I performed a short set. While there I went into a little studio with a good local bass player, Jim Ferguson and did it all in one day. Jim and I did the performance video first which was good since it allowed us to relax in front of the cameras. It’s not the most comfortable situation. You’re there in this little room with a white backdrop to absorb the glare with four or five cameras trained on you. You’re supposed to be relaxed, articulate and trying to be creative. I have to say most the playing considering the circumstances is quite good. We might make a CD version of the performance video.

We had about an hour break. Then I played for an hour without a break. I had these sub titles jotted down on a piece of paper on the floor so when I got to the end of whatever topic I was talking about we wouldn’t need to edit anything. I went as long as I could. I was on a bit of a roll and went and hour or hour and fifteen and talked about things that are important to me – fundamental things. Things that are practical that I use when I play and a lot of musicians use when they play. The instructional thing comes with a little booklet. They seem to be doing well. I have people e-mail me saying that they’ve purchased it.

Bill: You have a fairly sophisticated website. Does it do the job?

Lorne; There’s a good story behind that. There’s this guy Greg Blake I guess you’d say is a hobbyist guitar player who has some incredible computer Internet skills. We were talking and he suggested I have a web site. I really didn’t have the money to do something sophisticated and didn’t want to do something that looked cheesy. He volunteered to do it for me. I said, “You’ve got to be kidding?” Slowly but surely he began working on it and another dear friend Brian Behie teamed with Greg and they worked together. Greg did a lot of the technical work and Brian had some fabulous ideas. Greg is so skilled he’s in great demand from companies. I enlisted the help of Lucy Frigault. I prepared an ad hoc lesson on diminished harmony and emailed them as attachments to her and she did incredible things in making them navigatible. She posted it and made it available in such a way that it’s very user friendly. She also helped polish the look of the site and help me set it up to do business. She’s a great lady and did such a wonderful job. The lesson is there for purchase. lornelofsky.com

Jeff Healey - In His Own Words - (2002)

Healey Interview:

Bill King: From musician to managing a club. How has your world changed?

Jeff Healey: It’s a learning experience and will continue to be. I could sit here for a couple hours and go over things I’ve learned in the last eight months. It certainly has made me appreciate a lot more from the musician’s side. Also what a club has to put up with when it’s offering entertainment to the public. I try to be as fair as I can possibly be coming from a musician’s side. I hope musicians feel they can trust me being a musician. I’m going to be looking for the best deal for the musician and make sure myself and my partners are able to pay the rent.

Bill: Do you have bands that draw better than others?

Jeff. Certainly! The bands that work out the best are those who have a following. It’s not a guarantee. I’ve had band’s in I thought had a following but did nothing for whatever reason. A priority over having a following is those bands or artists who are willing to get out there and bust their butts to get people out to the show. When we see that happen, by in large that artist will be back.

Bill: Is the club sustaining itself?

Jeff: Yes! We’ve got a long way to go and we’re still in the middle of the forest but I would say we’re a little further along than what most clubs can claim from when they opened up. We’re just eight months in. We’re able to cover bills and pay the rent and take little bit of a salary out of it for ourselves. Money is slim.

Bill: Do you find there’s pressure on you to anchor the club because of your following?

Jeff: I’ve tried to avoid that. I don’t really think that’s the case. I do have musicians come to me who wouldn’t have the nerve to go to some of these other clubs looking for work thinking that I’m a musician therefore I would react differently but I have to be a businessman at this point. As far as the draw on my name – possible to a degree. It’s understood I’m not always there but I try to be there at least two or three days out of the five during the week. I want the club to sustain and people know that any night of the week when they come in, it will be quality entertainment.

Bill: You’re a guy who loves to play. Are you a bit obsessive about that at times?

Jeff: I like playing. I suppose in moments of deep meditation and totally honest with myself – I’d admit I’ve never wanted to be the center of all that attention or receive all the accolades. I like being a musician and am just as happy to sit off to one side in the back of the stage with a guitar you can hardly hear and just strum along. I love music, listening and interacting with quality musicians- and I always will. The purpose of the club was to enable me to book in quality players and get up and play and not call in the songs, tempos or keys.

Bill: How long has Sensation Records been around?

Jeff: We’ve been putting out issues on the label for about two and a half years. It’s intent initially was to be a label that specialized in reissues of vintage material and packages of artists from the classic period; the twenties, thirties and forties. Ironically, in spite of that concept, the first release on Sensation was a contemporary recording by Alex Pangman. It has done extremely well for us. In a time when it’s difficult to recoup a project cost we did it in two years.

Bill: Did the success with Alex help cover some of the expense assembling the reissues and what about the choice of artists?

Jeff: Simple! The choices are people and things I would like to buy myself. We’ve been a little slow out of the gate and over the past two and a half years we only have eight releases. We’ve got at least a half dozen in the can. One of the toughest things about doing these projects is getting the right people to write the liner notes. You can get the material together pretty easily from other people and get it transferred nicely. If you call the right people you can get more than adequate photos of the right thing.

Bill: Not enough survivors from this era?

Jeff: Just not enough people doing this job. Most are swamped. I’ve been waiting on a guy for a year that’s been working on a package and it’s been sitting here mastered and ready to go.

Bill: Do you draw mostly from your collection and a few others?

Jeff: When one goes to put this kind of thing together, you can’t work miracles. You don’t want bad conditioned discs. You want the best copies you can get preferably close to new. It’s telephone and leg work. It’s calling around the world. One call leads to another. I remember a project I did with Jazz Oracle and I was looking for a good copy of a particular performance. Someone directed me to a fellow who had copies of not only that performance but also two other takes we didn’t even know about. All of the sudden the project gets bigger. It’s the fun in the discovery.

Bill: What about re-mastering?

Jeff: My re-mastering has been done by John.R.T. Davis who lives just outside London in Burnham. He is still the master of the art although he will argue against that. He is a first class musician who has been known to play just about any instrument. His main instruments are alto saxophone, trombone – outstanding on trumpet-a bit of piano and guitar. He came to this as a collector and musician and also has the brain of a mad scientist. He has been throughout his seventy-five years trying to find the best way to get the sound buried in the grooves of these recordings to the surface, as fresh and clear as he can. I still think he does the best job.

Bill: Most people know you with a guitar in hand but I mostly see you with a trumpet.

Jeff: Thanks to your photo exhibit they see my trumpet shots here and there. The first time I sort of exhibited this after the Healy Band in the early nineties I took the Hot Five Jazzmakers into the Café New Orleans. We had a ton of people come out and we’re playing “Jazz Me Blues”, something totally different. I will say ninety-five percent stayed and had a good time, which it was meant to do. The music of that era by and large was meant to entertain. There wasn’t a lot of jazz aimed at the conosuiers- certainly not on disc. They couldn’t afford to. On a then inch disc you only had three to three and half minutes and on a twelve inch disc four minutes, so you didn’t have much time to self-indulge. You had to deliver. I think that we’ve forgotten that music was meant to entertain. There was a conscious albeit serious effort in the early forties by jazz musicians to make a left turn. They did and succeeded. From that point on jazz has been appreciated by a smaller percentage of the public. This is why I don’t buy those who moan why their art form isn’t appreciated. Sixty years ago there was a small bunch of people at Mintons that intentionally meant for it not to be appreciated.

Bill: Early on players soloed off melodies and the texture of the tune. Nowadays many recycle scale patterns.

Jeff: There is no question about it. Charlie Parker is one of the last and probably the bridge between having a strong melodic sense yet having boundless technical facility. If people would look back at what Parker was listening too rather than starting with Parker, you can hear Lester Young and others. It all comes from somewhere. It is sadly astonishing to me particularly that horns do not know how to play a melody. It isn’t something that was taught. The shift away from melody is almost complete. I’d love to find a trumpet player around that knew how to come out and do a first course of a tune like Wingy Minone or early Louie Prima or Armstrong and his big band. These players played the melody off the top- not in a square way. Most know the chord changes but that’s it. I’ve been laughed at by some for insisting on collecting just straight square dance bands from the twenties and thirties. But it’s from that I got a sense what a melody is supposed to be. I’ve got my jump off point.

Bill: What about singers? Do they pay enough attention to the melody?

Jeff: Few! Most don’t try and research where the song came from so that they know what they’re doing. No matter where I’m at in a performance that melody is going through my head. It’s like there’s an orchestra behind me spinning the tune. I work off of that.

Bill: Guitar and blues. Where’s that stand with you now?

Jeff: Let’s not fool anybody; we were essentially a rock band that played some blues, some ballads and a variety of things. I grew up with that. I had the endorsement of Stevie Ray Vaughan and B.B. King that helped the press find and easy niche for me. I got thrown into the blues category. Meanwhile, my most successful song was “Angel Eyes.”What I discovered in high school was I could take the jazz mentality, philosophy and love of it and put it through an amplifier with a lot of wattage and a fair amount of distortion and all of a sudden I turned from geek to cool. If you’re going to get any interest from girls that’s what you’ve got to do.

Bill: You had to have a passion for it. You played it so well.

Jeff: I can do it but once I got out of my teen years are started to think more along Armstrong and Teagarden when I’m playing. Even guitar.

A Word with Doug Riley - (Fall of 2001) (interview)

Doug Riley…

Bill King: You’re making a documentary with David Clayton Thomas?

Doug Riley: Clayton and I knew each other when we’re teenagers back in the 60’s.
He just drove up from New York to get me involved in this thing where we can talk about the old days. The Yorkville days and the Bluenote. They want to interview me and want me to tell a whole bunch of lies about Clayton.

Bill: You go back to the Bluenote era in Toronto.

Doug: I was there from 1962-1964. It was Thursday Friday and Saturday nights with Shawn Jackson, Diane Brooks, Sherry Matthews, Steve Kennedy in my band the Silhouettes. We used to go down to Buffalo on the weekends and buy R&B records bring that back and put them in Al Steiner’s jukebox and learn them ourselves. None of them were on the air locally.

Bill: Is this where the B3 was put to good use?

Doug: I didn’t have a B3 then but an M101, a smaller Hammond version. A year or so later I bought my first B3. It went into storage when the synthesizer came in vogue in the eighties.

Bill: Did you ever get used to that?

Doug: No. I refused to play them. I just went back to playing acoustic piano and Fender Rhodes.

Bill: Was it a time thing? The synthesizer came with a new language.

Doug: I would play it in the studio for string sounds and other sounds but if someone wanted an organ I refused to play it from one of those presets. I’d tell them get a Hammond!

Bill: What is your set up now:

Doug: I have two B3s and a C3. I have one B3 in the basement I bought back in the sixties. It was my touring organ especially when I crossed the country five times with Doctor Music. It’s a little wobbly. Otherwise I use a mint condition B3 and C3 and several Leslie’s for my live gigs.

Bill: Coming through the seventies, eighties and into the nineties when you were consumed with studio work did you ever envision a return to live performing?

Doug: No! One of the main reasons was the B3 came back in vogue. I would play piano gigs. After twelve or so years of people trying to replace the B3 all they could say was the instrument they created was lighter. It certainly didn’t compare musically or sound wise. People are hauling them around again therefore I got interested in playing again.

Bill: You don’t hear much about synthesizers anymore.

Doug: No! We know they are out there and have a use and are great for making demos.

Bill: The character of the sounds hasn’t changed much in years.

Doug: You hear the same sounds over and over again on loops and samples and sound patches. You hear the same sounds again and again on every film and television show. You’ve got to get sick of it after a while. At least when someone’s playing a piano or an organ each has a different touch. Therefore you can hear the different musicianship in each player.

Bill: When the Rhodes and Clavinet were introduced in the sixties they found specific rolls.

Doug: And they still do and they are wonderful instruments. I regret getting rid of my Wurlitzer electric piano and my Clavinet. I still have two Fender Rhodes bought the first week they were introduced at Manny’s in Manhattan.

Bill: As sounds changed and the synthesizer gained prominence, the role of the keyboardist within popular music was diminished. It was no longer about performance but coloring. It was more about posing that participating.

Doug: I started writing more and more and playing less. It was something that didn’t interest me. I liked the records Herbie Hancock did with it but it just wasn’t my thing. I wrote and wrote and wrote and made more money than I could ever expect from playing. Eventually you get sick of that and bored.

Bill: Where you writing more for commercials or films?

Doug: A combo. Besides film and commercials I was writing for a lot of artists and many different styles of music. From jazz, rock, pop, country to Placido Domingo with the London Symphony. If someone called I wouldn’t turn it down because it was this or that kind of music.

Bill: Are you still like that?

Doug: Right now I’m more into playing. I’m creating that new balance; more playing less waiting. Writing has been secondary in that sense but primary in my earning capacity.

Bill: You retreat to Prince Edward Island four months a year. Are you able to shut it down?

Doug: I’m semi-retired now. All that means is I’m not really less busy but saying no to many things and only taking that which I really want to do. I’m playing much more golf. Walking on the beach with my dogs, reading books and lying in a hammock. I still fly out of there to do concerts in fact in the four months I was there I probably flew out of Charlottetown ten times. When I go back it’s my center and I’m much more relaxed. The pace is like twenty or thirty years ago. The people are so warm and relaxed.

Bill: Is the atmosphere conducive for composing?

Doug: Oh yes. I write a lot out there. I was commissioned by the Toronto Symphonietta
to write an concerto combing classical and jazz. I’m writing with piano, bass, drums and alto sax in mind and orchestra. I started working on that in P.E.I.

Bill: Are the skills you have for orchestration something you developed early on?

Doug: I studied it when I was at the faculty of music in the sixties. Still again, that was learning from books and studying scores. The only way to learn it is to play it and be made a fool several times. I learned on the job and in the studio. The stuff sounded terrible at times then others pretty good. Eventually, you find ways to make it sound good most all the time.

Bill: Do string players scare you?

Doug: They always did and still do for many different reasons. They will sometimes get to the point in the music and won’t play. They question things all the time. I mean if you put two string players playing a semi tone apart they will always question it. For brass and reeds that’s normal in jazz. In classical training you just don’t do these things. It’s new training for them.

Bill: Do you go through periods where you have to spend a lot of time at the piano to keep the hands in shape?

Doug: When I first started working with singer Michael Burgess six or seven years ago I did a lot of practicing. His performance covers a wide breath of pianoforte. I don’t practice when I’m playing live so much. When I was in university I practiced basically eight hours a day for five years. Four hours in the morning before lectures and four hours after in the dungeons of the faculty. I lived like a monk. If I haven’t done something for twenty or thirty years I will sit down and work my way through it. I don’t sit down and play scales and arpeggios every day and I bet you don’t either.

Bill: You were once part owner of Revolution Records, partnerships with Larry Trudell and Tommy Ambrose in an extremely successful commercial house and other business ventures. Have you closed the pages on that period and work mainly freelance?

Doug: Totally! I’ve eased out of the jingle business and just write for clients I’ve had for many many years. I’m not going out hustling any new business. I did it for over thirty years in a pressure atmosphere with deadlines all of the time, constantly competing with what’s out there and always dealing with committees.

Bill: You’ve going to Edmonton in the New Year to work with PJ Perry.

Doug: Yes! We’re playing the Yardbird Suite in February hopefully in Calgary in January. I want to start recording these dates. I’d love to have a recording with PJ and the B3 quartet. He’s been wanting to do it all of his life. We played last year in both cities and it was just fantastic and had a wonderful time together. I’ve got a duo CD with Guido Basso, organ and flugelhorn that are to be released on Justin Time.

Bill: Always a pleasure.

Doug: Just one other note. I’ve put a new quartet together with Chris Mitchell on Saxes, Jake Langley guitar, Terry Clarke on drums and my son Ben when Terry can’t make it.

Bill: Jake got good mileage out of his debut with you.

Doug: He most certainly did. I’m sure all involved are happy.

The Great Western Exhibit - Road Time - Pt.2

We were naive about the necessity of approaching a booking agent. Scratch confidently volunteered to be the point man in these negotiations. He first telephoned his father seeking financial assistance. A thousand dollars arrived the following day. We hurried to Wallach’s Music City located at Sunset and Vine. There a Fender Duo Showman and a few other gadgets for the guitar were purchased. Scratch then visited a used car lot investing in a duo tone black and white 57 Pontiac sedan. From there he rented a U Haul trailer. It was beginning to look like the cross country adventure was coming together.

With three hundred dollars left we gathered around a table in the Omnibus and began charting a destination. The Omnibus was coming under continual scrutiny from the FBI and local authorities who surveyed the place believing it to be a safe haven for draft dodgers and felons. The night before we departed LAPD stormed through the building searching for a suspect wanted for armed robbery. The club owner wasn’t able to scrutinize every freewheeling outlaw passing through the doors. That night the police examine draft cards for inconsistencies. I had in my possession a student deferment card - status unclear. My name hadn’t surfaced on any lists but there were others hiding in the dark corners of the club who quietly slipped out the unguarded exits. Police had photos and composite descriptions along with the identities of young men suspected of evading the military. Everybody became extremely fearful of their persistence. I was the only one in the band with a potential problem the others received medical deferments.

Rick failed to arrive from his parents North Hollywood home the morning of our planned departure, Denny and Rick were California boys who’d never ventured beyond the secure beach communities around Santa Monica. Rick got cold feet. He had a girlfriend and a little league team to coach - major responsibilities. Scratch worked magic on the telephone luring Rick and his young love to the Omnibus. When they finally arrived we found the girl easy going. She jumped at the opportunity, besides a deal was arranged where we’d drop her at her parents home some ninety miles north of Minneapolis, Minnesota. Rick finally relented called his family - received their good blessings.

Carol was quite a calming influence. She was blond, blue-eyed, sociable, and temperate. Carol never let hardship rule choosing to always find something positive in consequence. With gear loaded we ventured down highway 10 up through San Bernardino connecting with highway 15 through Barstow, eventually turning on 40 East carrying us beyond the California border into Arizona. It was somewhere between Barstow and Kingman, Arizona when reality struck.

We’d been laughing and speculating about the future when suddenly we realized we knew nothing of booking a band. Scratch had a confident air about him convinced he could sell us anywhere in America. We had no reason to doubt his proclamation so he was assigned the responsibility.

We arrived in Fort Williams early morning to find the temperature hovering around freezing. None of us were dressed for the sudden change in climate. It was mid-July and in our minds something was drastically wrong. A service station attendant reassured us once we descended down the mountain the thermometer would rise considerably by the time we reached Flagstaff.

Upon arriving in Flagstaff we discovered funds were running uncomfortably low. We desperately needed cash to cross through the state. It was mid-afternoon when we motored through Flagstaff tired and less confident of our journey. Scratch spotted a country and western spot along the roadside and decided to approach the owner about a booking.

The lunch time crowd sported Stetsons like Hollywood Rick. The sight of four longhaired Californians sent shockwaves through the wooden farmhouse. Heads turned enlisting a series of hilarious comments. They’d seen our type on television now we’d entered their backyard knowing any moment we could be snake bit.

The owner was quite amused with Scratch’s bold front and looked upon us as a cheap diversion. He asked only one patriotic question –‘Any of you boys flag-burners?’ Rick was all-American and assured the boss we were different from those protesters. We were a true blue hardhat loving band.

Rick obtained a deferment for a gimp knee injured in a sandlot football game otherwise he’d have enlisted for Vietnam bypassing boot camp.

The guy bought our act offering twenty dollars for an evening of suspect entertainment.

Western folk piled in ready for an evening of Hank Snow classics or maybe a Minnie Pearl jamboree. When we cleared the doorway every tall hat began snickering along with their bovine mistresses. We jumped stage - tuned a few strings and spun into action. Rick executed one of those basic training pivots whipping his black mane into a swirling frenzy - the voice - strained and monophonic.

A greater portion of our opening was improvised void of hooks or potential group sing-a-longs. The audience looked on stunned. As far as they were concerned we may just as well come from some exterior planet well beyond this solar system and none were prepared to travel with us. A few tall hats began interrogating the owner as if he had set them up for a practical joke. We endured the set before being politely asked to pack up and cut the show before midnight. The jukebox was in greater favour with the patrons. They were more curious of us as travelers than musicians. We collected twenty dollars and sped away to Albuquerque, New Mexico unscathed.

Twenty dollars stretched a long distance in 1967 enough feed six nomads and fill a gas tank. Upon arriving in Albuquerque we took notice of numerous car lots and western bars. Scratch spotted one that looked safe for a car load like us and disappeared inside. Somehow he convinced the owner he needed a music policy adjustment and we were the perfect outfit to compliment the Billy Bob act in residence. The only problem - we had no steel guitar or violin.

As I began dragging equipment into the club I came face to face with the manager who in no way seemed as amused as the gentleman along the highway. He was demanding and short on instructions. “If we like you, we’ll pay you”, was his only stipulation.

We sat through a set of weepy bumpkin’ tragedies awaiting our turn. When the order was issued we crashed the stage with the rock and roll zeal of a soon to be derailed locomotive. Rick pumped and bounced - his face rarely in full view. We were loud and foreign.

I scanned faces lining the long bar - the eyes and furrowed brows told me the locals would rather stuff us in a wood chipper than tolerate much more of this nonsense. Everything about us repulsed this conservative ass-kicking brood. I assumed we weren’t going to collect any pay so I signaled Scratch to cut it short sensing greater security in the backseat of the car away from this stage. Sure enough the boss reminded us he gave us a chance and witnessed the crowd’s reaction - so why pony up a dime. Scratch resisted which only aroused an ugly response. I’d seen enough. The manager gave us a choice, get the fuck out of there or he’d gather a few buddies who’d love nothing better than beat the ass of a bunch of Hollywood queers. We still had a few dollars tucked away so we decided to cut our losses and penetrate the Texas border.

The mention of Texas always brought a shiver to my spine. It didn’t take much effort to get buried in a Texas jail. Although we were free of drugs we knew there were methods of manufacturing criminal offences and these guys were masters. Every male with hair drifting below the ear lobe was considered a commie draft dodger in need of fixin’. We knew the key to survival was not courting attention which we managed.

We scoped Amarillo looking for any evidence of shoulder length hair. On a side-street we spotted a paranoid looking guy dodging pedestrians along the sidewalk. My first thought was here’s our man. We then drove alongside and signaled him to the curb and inquired about the music scene, clubs, parks or whatever. The guy ducked his head and waved us down a side-street away from the main highway. We soon came across a low rise housing a few freaks – blinds pulled - everyone keeping a low profile.

Scratch retold our story and asked about possible engagements around the city. The fellow picked up the telephone and called around and came up with a Saturday night dance. Two hundred dollars was the award. We couldn’t believe the good fortune. That amount of money could carry us all the way to Minnesota. The guy then directed us to a military base on the other side of Amarillo. The word military sent shockwaves through the nervous systems.

‘What’s the catch,’ I asked. None, other than playing a Saturday night dance for
couples in the mess hall. We were given contact name and directions.

The thought sent the mind dancing. I envisioned armed guards with chains ready to staple us to a dungeon wall – lost for eternity in some’ hup two three four’ hell hole. Scratch seemed unfazed.

Just getting past the military police was a sight to behold. Two beef necks stop us for inspection then offered a few hippie jokes then telephoned ahead. Bingo! – we were given passage past heavy armaments and a cadre of dreary marched out troops.

The concert hall was definitely a large mess area. Tables had been removed and everyone one was in a frenzy decorating for the night’s social event. We set up in a central locale near were our adoring fans were to be situated. I thought – this ain’t so bad. Good pay – decent room and fair sound system.

After setting up we were then coaxed to hide away in a nearby foot locker far from military personnel. There were rumblings we may be draft dodgers or drug merchants determined to inject liberal poison into the veins of our nations finest. I tried not to make eye contact. What do you say to a three bird colonel with two pounds of brass dangling from the chest and angry disposition? I hope you like the tunes?

Night arrives without much aggravation. The room fills with corsage chested damsels and stiff neck grunts.

“Hey buddy, I used to have hair as long as you – look at me now. They’ll get to you.” Oh, boy. Let the games begin. “Hey hippie, do you squat when you piss.” Yeah man! ‘Yo girls – what you doin’ with those pussies. Come down here and sit with the men.”

Rick’s temper turned volcanic. ‘Shut the fuck up pecker head – I’ll beat the snot out both you and your date.” No, no, no I say to myself. This isn’t good. “Come down here turd-boy and take that funny wig off.” What wig – this is real hair.” Please – slow down Rick.

In real life Rick was one of those beer drinking anti-hippie flower child guys. The get up was more for costume not commitment.

I kept a distance even though a table of date deficient troopers kept shoving their table into us.

Time arrived for the big show and what a show it was. The band quickly lashes into the Leaves ‘Pushin to Hard’. That was one of our endless jams. With a set of ten songs and not much variety a twenty-five minute epic jam was in order.

I could see eyes roll and girls yanking the neck ties of dates. No one danced. It was if we were playing to an audience of timber.

“Play something we can dance too. Wooly Bully! How ‘bout something slow by Gene Pitney – I know ‘Town Without Pity’. I have a girl here who wants to jump my bones let’s get it going.”

What a mess. ‘We’re from California and we don’t play that shit.’ – says Scratch.

“Why don’t you guys take the night off and we’ll get someone to spin records. Deal?”

I’m thinking about the two hundred dollars. “No, that’s just fine – we’ll keep playing. “Here’s one I know you’ll like. ‘Light My Fire’ by the Doors” I say. We glide into the body of the tune without mishap then chairs start sliding and squealing. Before we could get to the forty minute guitar solo everybody evacuates to the back of the room. I could see them whispering. Soon a military spokes men draws near, “Could you guys just stop and leave. This is all wrong. For your safety we’ll help you pack up and find the highway.” Scratch looks the guy straight on and says – “We still have two more sets to play and need to be paid.” The guy pulls us aside. “Look, you’ll get your money just get out of this room – it’s a security matter now.”

“Hey big beak come over here and suck on this.” What? Now Rick and I are in whip ass mode. “Did you hear what he said,’ asks Rick. “Let’s get the one with the shit-eating grin on his face. I’ve been watching how he’s undressed Carol all night.”

Suddenly, the music began playing and couples paired off. We quickly become yesterday’s nightmare.

While packing this diminutive young soldier waltzes near. “I loved you guys – I love acid – in fact I’m so high right now I’m feeling electric – I may never come down – I want some?”

Just as we were clearing the entrance a magic hand appears and slaps the back of my head. I do a quick turn around and see three guys staring the opposite way. I thought of several key phrases but left well enough alone. Then the catcalls start. A couple military police intercede and move the square-headed boys a distance away.

We were then escorted into a room where the officer in charge apologized and told us of his love for anti-social music especially Tommy James and the Shondels. He then proceeded to write us a check. A check? What the hell?

We volleyed back in forth over this but he insisted this was the only way the military pays. Then he said come back Monday morning and he’d arrange to cash the check. The only hitch in this was – it’s Saturday night and what the hell does anyone do in Amarillo for a day and a half.

We took up residence in a roadside park. Our zombie friends downtown invited us to a party. We dropped by for an hour or so but couldn’t handle the paranoia. Everyone was on a watch list – guys and girls. It was easy getting tossed in a police cruiser and more difficult surviving with only a few bruises. Monday didn’t come quick enough.

Bright and early Monday morning we arrive at the front gates. Sure enough the officer lived up to his words and paid us two hundred in cash. He was cordial and respectful. Down the road we go making plans for the heavy haul. Next stop, Des Moines, Iowa.

The Great Western Exhibit (Pt.1) 1967

In early 1967, I found myself stranded in a woefully depressed town south of Long Beach, California where the stench of petrochemicals and burning industry suffocated the natural habitat. A search for a new beginning and desire to join a growing movement of committed young people seduced the imagination. My life in the Midwest succumbed to daily rituals of catcalls, threats and other forms of nefarious harassment courtesy the local redneck population.

My exit was sudden given to bouts of anxiety and uncertainty. Right-wing politicians instilled bitterness in the hearts of loyal patriots accusing longhairs, peaceniks and free spirits of undermining national institutions and authority. The transparent values of the 50’s hastened the erosion of symbolism giving birth to a revolution beyond the control of bankers, politicians and lawmakers.

After a few months performing in beach communities along the southern California coastline I magically wandered into the not so impressive city of Westminster. It was there I secured work in a Hispanic rock band led by the Sabori brothers who flirted with their own brand of revolution. We had three things in common; a love for rock and roll, distrust of the police and long shoulder length hair. Bassist Andy Sabori and I spent hours peering into a door-length mirror the end of a narrow hallway of a shared apartment - grooming every precious follicle. By night we’d ramble through the psychedelic hits of the day before a beer-swilling crowd of middle aged men who paid admission to spew obscenities at semi-nude topless dancers. These clubs dotted the landscape from San Diego to Seattle. This was not the life I had envisioned but it provided temporary wages enabling weekend excursions north to Hollywood.

My first visit to the Sunset Strip fifty miles north was to the legendary Hullabaloo club. I watched the weekly television broadcasts direct from the club during my final year of high school. Bands like the Buffalo Springfield, the Kinks, the Standells and Leaves exposed millions of young people to new and progressive sounds.

The Sabori’s of Westminster were imitators content with posing and lacking the minimum in basic music skills. Andy faked bass relying on a broad grin to divert attention from shallow posturing. I worked double duty playing left hand bass - chords and lead lines with the right on a Farfisa portable organ. Brother Rusty also smiled a lot while keeping a less than consistent beat. His voice emitted a sound not far from that of a coyote looking for love in all the wrong deserts.

Hollywood offered a glimpse into the future. It was home to street hustlers, pimps and voyeurs - conning the most vulnerable with promises of easy access to a world beyond poverty of the streets.

While entering the Hullabaloo we noticed the only seats available were located down front of the massive stage. As we circled we crossed paths with master of ceremonies and one time teen idol Paul Peterson. Peterson spotted us and singled us out for one of those infamous 60’s calls to combat; “Hi girls! Excuse me, they’re not girls. It’s getting where you can’t tell the boys from the girls nowadays”. He then fished for big laughs. Needless to say Peterson struck a raw nerve. In our defense we stared the grease ball down - fixed eyeballs in locked weapon position. The Sabori brothers took it personally - temporarily cancelling future excursions up the Hollywood freeway. I took it in stride, besides I’d been battered with so many inane one-liners back in Indiana this was soft porn.

I was forced to commute by thumb and foot. Rides were infrequent interrupted periodically by vigilant highway patrol officers scouting for draft-age males. I marched through drainage ditches along side freeways past oil rigs pumping minimum crude. Several wells along the way had dried casting an eerie pall over the withered landscape. The heels of my Beatle boots separated exposing tender skin orcing the binding nails upward puncturing the soft meat of my soles. I was tired and numb and rarely felt the intermittent pain.

Eventually, I arrived at the Omnibus Coffee House situated on North Cahuanga Boulevard. The exterior was covered in wood and stucco. Above the entrance was a multi-coloured sign displaying the coffee house logo. Wooden beams embraced the insides giving it a quaint farmhouse look.

I encountered a nightly flow of young people lost in a world of cosmic dreams and psychedelic intentions. This is where Scratch, Rick, Denny, Carol and I would first meet.

Afternoons were spent sketching the menacing insignia of the Hell’s Angels on denim jackets worn by the occasional artless biker who relished the sanctuary of dim lit rooms. Drawing was my thing – something I spent many hours absorbed as a kid. There was a certain sense of security around these guys but I never trusted their intentions. I gave them exactly what they asked for and let it be. Besides it was the sight of young women parading around in tight see through fabric that kept eyes occupied. Evenings spawned endless jam sessions attracting an odd assortment of players.

I took up residence a block south in a skid-row hotel. The lobby entertained a bizarre collection of derelicts - aging Hollywood damsels and habitual criminals. At times the room would erupt in violence when someone would crack up moment suddenly one or two would assault the resident mailbox or newspaper stand. This was definitely a cast of freaks. Little men with no real life ahead and mouths cocked and loaded with complaints - an atmosphere of paranoia. Women with lipstick smeared from ear to ear. Some you could communicate with while others were just insane. Jammed between the derelicts were young hostile criminals who would explode in a moment of conflict. Everyone would scatter down the hallways and hide under beds until the police arrived. I usually slipped out my back window.


The occupants of the Omnibus slept near their possessions tucked away in various corners on the rooftop and back rooms.

When I first met Scratch and Flower they were holed up in a vault-like freezer in the rear of the building. Both had been warned of danger if by chance the door accidentally closed. Both ignored the message content with the security of their surroundings. Scratch slept with his aging Telecaster resting passively in his hands. Flower would curl next to him rarely leaving his side. Scratch was tall and thin with pointed features. Long blond hair split the forehead covering one eye allowing the other partial view. A yellow tint covered his anemic body consequences of hamburger dinners and nacho lunches. Flower’s short brown hair complimented her sinuous mouth and deep set eyes. Her clothes were drawn from light weight East Indian fabric. The two fought constantly occasionally withdrawing for a session of lovemaking.


Scratch’s father was a career diplomat stationed in Panama. When Scratch sensed his financial situation weakening a call to father would bring a few hundred dollars via Western Union arriving just in time for the latest Jimi Hendrix’s side.


During one of our late night sessions a hip looking guy wearing John Lennon spectacles emerged from the crowd and asked to sit in. We’d been assaulted by an endless stream of inept conga players and resilient folkies and agreed nothing could be worse. All ninety-eight pounds pulled three drums - hi hat - ride cymbal and fixtures to the stage.

One of us called out Dino Valente’s ‘Hey Joe’ and the groove jelled. We followed with Dylan’s ‘Like A Rolling Stone’ and blues anthems ‘I’m A Man’ and ‘Smokestack Lightin’ . Denny played with all the energy and enthusiasm of the Who’s Keith Moon - possessed with a great sense of time. I played left hand bass locking the unit together. We still lacked a front man who could sing. Denny mentioned a friend from North Hollywood named Rick he thought might work well in this situation. A call was made extending an invitation to a jam - Rick accepted.

When Rick first ambled down the hallway of the Omnibus I had difficulty putting the picture together. Here was a guy with the physique of a baseball player - sporting waist length coal black hair - a three foot tall Stetson positioned high on the skull making him look like the original suburban cowboy. He was loud, friendly and ready to rock. Jim Morrison was Rick’s adopted persona complete with spastic stage moves more suited to sucking up ground balls than rock choreography. The voice was no worse than most around Hollywood - short on range and dynamics but loud in delivery. The footwork was more military in design given to frequent spins resembling a two point about face maneuver. We actually learned to appreciate his exuberance.

We began rehearsing and performing nightly at the Omnibus attracting a modest following. Eventually the club owner took over management of the band. He was involved in launching a series of concerts in Griffith Park which he called “Be-Ins”. Anti-war protesters, longhairs, musicians and bikers frequented the early gatherings. Soon, the events would transform into “ Love-ins” as the international media picked up on the number of transient young people attending these events.

The rallies were a mix of vibrant colours with young teenage girls dressed resplendently in bright rainbow colored madras - wrap around wreaths of dandelions circling the head and decorative facial paint. The boys wore painted denim jeans - long bushy hair with incense in hand. Everybody was peaceful and friendly except for the numerous Hell’s Angels in attendance. The invading gang chilled an otherwise perfect mix striking fear in the Beverly Hills kids who liked to associate with danger but turned weak once things turned un natural.


We soon found ourselves performing at a second such gathering at Griffith Park for over thirty- thousand flower children. NBC news dispatched a camera crew to cover the event. We appeared on the Huntley- Brinkley report for the 6:00 news playing our crowd pleaser, 'Hey Joe.' The news was mostly favourable focusing mainly on the free nature of the participants.

The Hell’s Angels drew their share of attention and a few comments about their violent nature. The excitement in the Omnibus caused us to fantasize grander schemes. For a time we floated around Hollywood playing one free gig after another. We tried getting a position at the Whiskey A Go Go but the music policy was dominated by dance oriented bands. Scratch came up with the idea for a lengthy tour of the United States. Accomplishing a feat like that would need to be fully thought out. This we did without questioning the logistics of completing such an adventure.


We battled our way through a democratic list of possible band names settling on the Yellow Brick Road. Weeks later we spotted a marquis on Santa Monica boulevard advertising the debut recording of a group billed as the Yellow Brick Road. We played one more love-in under that name when one of the band members found a brochure promoting a show at the exhibition centre titled, The Great Western Exhibit. We decided we could live with that even though we had no idea what it meant. Consequently, it was kind of a stupid name. What were we? A traveling western rock and roll zoo?

The Rain Tree (Short Story)

By Bill King

When news arrived announcing the accidental drowning of Amy Dickens, deep sorrow suddenly consumed ever cell in my body. Amy was a romantic link with the past, the requited benefactor of all my childhood fantasies. She was the ten-year-old princess whose every move I studied with absolute concentration. .

Life my side of the block was a painfully cold mechanical process like a scene from Fritz Lang’s oppressive film classic, Metropolis. Day in day out tedium left no area in our spiritless home sanctuary for sensitive expression. The thought of Amy was all I had.

My blood parents, Benjamin and Caroline, placed a moratorium on love, designating college graduation the date I’d be permitted the company of a young woman. No high school proms, no Saturday night dances, and no campus bonfires. It sounds strange, almost indictable, but we were an evangelical family held hostage by rigid fundamentalism.

It was the summer of 1956 and I’d just turned ten years old. Most days I preferred seclusion, avoiding any contact with father. Benjamin worked three to eleven, eleven to seven through the week, occasionally overnights.

When father was secure at work I’d position my Schwin the corner of Presbyterian and First, waiting the moment Amy would stroll towards the center of town. Consumed by shyness, I rarely spoke. As Amy passes, I muse about the scent of her skin, the feel of her embrace, the texture of her radiant hair.

Amy was an army brat, daughter of Sergeant Major Ernest Dickens of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Major Dickens was serving a two-year stint at Fort Knox, Kentucky before returning the family to bayou country. I rarely ever saw him. When I did, he’d salute and call me "little boy soldier ".

Amy’s home, shaded by a tight row of maple trees, was barely visible. The evenly square house was crafted in sun-bleached pastel shingles less attractive than what you’d expect from such a handsome family and possessing little resale value. Military families never had much say about living conditions. Most packed after two years and moved to other accommodations, either post housing or temporary off base digs, each as unappealing as the former.

Fate would somehow position Amy a seat in front of me throughout the fourth and fifth grade. Our instructor Mr.Radner arranged most students alphabetically. The maneuver would liberate my imagination, transporting me to a remote destination well beyond crumbling brick walls and asphalt schoolyard.

Radner was always watching, suspicious of every move. It was never my intent to cross the man but it wasn’t long before I became his designated whipping boy.

It began the day I brought a Parker fountain pen to class. If incorrectly engaged, the side lever could spit a rivulet of Indigo ink a meter or two. To the left of me, Cheryl Martin sat fumbling with the nine-volt battery on her intricately decorated Christmas dress, desperately trying to illuminate the miniature bulbs sewn within the stitching. With one careless slip of the thumb I released a torrent of airborne black ink striking the cotton white surface of the priceless fabric. Cheryl looked down in horror, examined the gruesome markings, and then began to weep. Mortified by my miscalculation I sat in absolute silence. No reasonable apology could undo the trauma committed on my wounded schoolmate.

Upon witnessing the heinous act, Radner belched a chain of vulgarities then charged at me furiously slapping his hands above his head. He then griped my arms and began shaking me as if to extricate a solvent buried deep in my skin, one that could possibly cleanse the stains. Putting the episode in perspective, Cheryl pleaded my forgiveness. After reciting a list of punitive measures Radner’s indignation diminished.

Amy witnesses my awkwardness then resignation. A few moments lapse before she turns faces my embarrassment and smiles. Her carefully sculpted expression releases me from the regrettable incident.

Totally consumed with Amy, I raise my pencil and trace the long strands of her coal black hair and guide down the inkwell of my desk. Amy further satisfies my preoccupation by lowering her ebony tresses on the scarred wooden desktop concealing the pages of my neglected homework. With the palms of my hands I gently stroke then caress the dense effulgent locks. Amy’s head slowly tilts permitting each brilliant strand to filter through my fingertips. The sensation was more than I could endure.

Leaving school one spring afternoon I cross paths with Amy. She was in a conversational mood. I offer to carry her heavy books. Without reservation she hands me the weighty hard covers as if they were discarded gifts, then asks.

"Are you going to be an extra in Elizabeth Taylor’s new movie?"

I hadn’t a clue what an extra was or for that matter what she was talking about.

"Mom says they’re filming a movie called Rain Tree County in town and they’re looking for a thousand people to dress like they did in the Civil War and a few lucky ones will get to ride a Ferris wheel with Elizabeth Taylor,” spoke in a distinctive southern
drawl.

Imagination lit every region of my mind before I reply.

"Are you going to ride the Ferris wheel?” I ask.

"I don’t know, we’ve got to be seen by movie people before they pick us," says Amy.

I soon reason this could be an eternal moment, possibly the closest I’d ever be to Amy. I could see the two of us high above the streets of Madison, Indiana, Elizabeth Taylor just below.

I can honestly say I was never much a fan of Elizabeth Taylor. Even the movie National Velvet didn’t strike a chord with me. I guess Taylor always seemed much older to me. Amy surely had her blue eyes and coal black hair but Natalie Wood was the real screen love of my childhood. It was "Splendor In The Grass" that cast a neurotic spell over me. Other than Amy, Natalie made me feel love so deep and true most men twice my age could never imagine such profound melancholy.

The movie Rain Tree County focused on six of author Ross Lockridge’s novel’s fifty-three years, centered mainly on the Susanna Drake figure played by Miss Taylor. According to myth, Johnny Appleseed in his travels had planted an exotic golden seed from China in Indiana, which would supposedly grow to possess a magic quality that could open all locks and heal all wounds. Unfortunately, the exact location of the tree was forever hidden in the river swamps along the Ohio.

Amy and I hatch a plan to spring me from the suffocating grip of Benjamin and Caroline. Patrice Dickens, Amy’s mother was enlisted. She told Benjamin and Caroline she’d be willing to take Amy and me to watch the making of Rain Tree County without revealing her secret desire to serve as an extra.

Father ran down a list of chores, commitments and consequences before Caroline interceded in our behalf. The two women came to agreement. I reasoned life could be no sweeter, no more powerful than the hours I would share with Amy. I could no longer comprehend homework assignments or rudimentary text. My whole being had been sacrificed to imagination.

A few days prior to leaving word spread of a change in plans. The film company decided Indiana no longer looked visually appealing therefore a new location Danville, Kentucky would be designated Rain Tree County. I was shattered, couldn’t believe anyone would intervene in my well-scripted plan. I feared announcing any change to my parents, especially the crossing of state lines, which could drive them to cancel our expedition. Danville might as well be as far away as Uruguay.

Ms. Dickens was called upon once again to work her magic with Benjamin and Caroline. Patrice assured them the Dickens’s family had cousins living on the outskirts of Danville. If things ran to late we were guaranteed a place of shelter. Patrice also promised not to drive past midnight.

Benjamin paraded up and down the front hallway reciting a litany of potential mishaps. Dad clearly saw the dark side of any situation. That was his nature. It was up to Caroline to invite light in even though on many occasions she succumbed to his brooding disposition. I often wondered if he had lost a brother or sister or perhaps a close friend during his childhood he’d never spoken about. It seemed as if he was always suppressing some cataclysmic event. He rarely expressed an opinion on world affairs reserving his most animated statements for those concerning moral and occupational issues. You didn’t fail dad but once or challenge him on anything memorized from books no matter how convoluted his understanding of the subject. I believe mother loved him more for his firmness and dependability than warmth.

Caroline on the other hand greeted everyone with a handshake and cautious smile. She kept the house in perfect order - always clean and accessible during visiting hours. Mother invited church groups to afternoons of civil discussion on spiritual matters; Christian commitment, values, and debates on the ever-popular ‘life after death’. The cheerless strains of church hymns leaked past the sitting room beneath the baseboards into my dimly lit room making it feel as if I was attending another anonymous funeral. After a dozen or so of these traumatic episodes I pleaded my way free of mother’s stewardship and stole off to the public library. The only place she found agreeable.

Ms. Dickens had this personality that could cure a manic-depressive or resuscitate the dead with an engaging smile and a few choice words. I could barely detect what was said that night. When Ms Dickens left the living room I felt certain I’d be riding front seat with Amy the next day all the way to Danville. Southern women have such natural charm that in that most improbable situation can have a decided effect.

All was not well on the film set as Rain Tree County’s male lead, Montgomery Clift found himself victim of an automobile accident in May causing an interruption in the shooting schedule. Filming would be delayed six weeks. Evidently, Cliff partied a bit too hard at Taylor’s Benedict Canyon home. Without control of his faculties wrapped his car around a telephone pole. Clift lost two front teeth, broke both nose and jaw, and tore a hole in his upper lip. We knew nothing of his escapades other than he was this enormous star. We were later told he’d faked his death, burned his fingers with a cigarette after accidentally overdosing on sleeping pills, and raced through the streets of downtown Danville butt naked. I couldn’t help but think if Benjamin and Caroline had known anything of Mr. Clift’s escapades they'd never have let Amy and I venture farther than our neighborhood. Hollywood has a way of sanitizing bad news even in a little town like Danville.


When first we arrive I see director Edward Dymchk screaming orders at everyone. He was filming the Fourth of July scene with hundreds of people running in all directions. A large brass band rehearsed the Stars and Stripes against a backdrop of confetti and banners. Several workers were busy planting fireworks. This was the big scene where Montgomery Clift and Lee Marvin were to compete in a foot race to the right of the town square near where a magnificent towering eighteenth century Ferris wheel stood.

I suggested the both of us watch from the vicinity of the Ferris wheel. Without hesitation, Amy joins me for a quick sprint around cable and cranes. We stand nearly two hours gorging ourselves on popcorn and cotton candy before a crew of about ten men draw near.

"What are you kids doing hanging around here all this time?" The carnival man inquires. Amy answers, "We came from Madison to ride the Ferris wheel with Elizabeth Taylor. You were supposed to make the movie in my home town". The man pauses then stoops near Amy. "You’re the prettiest little girl I’ve ever seen. If I were a boy your age I’d never let you out of my sight,” he says while tapping the back of my head. "Look kids, you stay right here while I ask one of the associate directors if we can use two handsome looking youngsters."

I fold my long thin fingers close my eyes and pray while my heart beast with anticipation. I don’t even remember the man’s name other than he wore more white than a hospital attendant.
He soon returns and embraces Amy and me.

"So, you kids want to ride the Ferris wheel with Miss Taylor? Well, I think we can arrange that."

Meanwhile, Mrs. Dickens was parading around in full costume, twirling a cloth-covered parasol. I’d rarely ever see Mrs. Dickens but knew she was thrilled about being in the movies. So much good blood flowed through her veins, I only wished she’d adopt me.

Most the day had passed before they decide to shoot the Ferris wheel scene. I was getting bloated from liquids and sweets and tired of guarding my post when all of a sudden hundreds of extras begin advancing our direction. Amy and I climb the rickety platform beneath the Ferris wheel making certain we’d be first in line. Director Dmytryk yells, " Where’s John Shawnessy? I want Shawnessy and Susanna Drake over here immediately."

I had no idea who these people were. I knew I didn’t want to share our precious seat with any of them. Well, it turns out Shawnessy was none other than Montgomery Clift and Susanna Drake, Miss Taylor.

I’d never spent this much time with a girl before other than my sisters, but that don’t count for much. Amy never stopped smiling the entire day. Although she had Mrs. Taylor’s porcelain white skin and long flowing black hair she looked more natural to me. In a burst of joy, Amy spontaneously throws her arms around my neck, squeezes and then giggles with excitement. Heaven, this must be heaven, I thought to myself.

For a brief moment I revive the image of Benjamin and Caroline standing like two sentries at the front door, arms folded, impassive expressions about their faces. Neither cared much for movies let alone movie stars but their presence soon faded as Mr. Dmtryk approached.

Dmytryk cleared a path to the Ferris wheel and then asked in a gruff tone, "Whose children are these? " "They’re the two kids from Madison, Indiana I told you about Mr. Dmytryk. They came all the way to ride the Ferris wheel", said the man in white. Amy and I stare at the imposing man who I would learn later in life was forever branded one of Hollywood’s unfriendly 10. In 1951, he went before Senator Joe McCarthy’s House on un-American Activities Committee fingering 26 people as communists. This came after a conviction of contempt and time in a federal prison for refusing to talk about his communist ties. After jail he was blacklisted. The confession won him renewed respect amongst Hollywood’s right wing studio heads that in turn rewarded Dmytryk with choice projects. Raintree County was one of them.

Dmytryk inspects with a crusty eye and then asks, " Son, are you here to fight in behalf of Robert E. Lee and the glory of the confederation or to find the golden rain tree?"
Everyone laughed but me. I didn’t know how to respond to such a dynamic question so I glare at him and say, " I’m here for Amy," pointing in her direction. For whatever reason those words earned Amy and I passage aboard the ornate Ferris wheel.

As they fasten us in I couldn’t help but think of the moment. The most beautiful girl in the world next to the most loving boy in the universe. I couldn’t begin to count the nights I dreamed of such splendor. I could hear my heart beat two sizes to large for my small chest. Something invisible passed from my soul through skin then hovered above us. It was a most powerful sensation like a protective shield against all unwanted feelings of alienation and fear.

Once locked in position I knew there would be no way for Amy and I to escape until filming had ceased.
As the wheel began rotating in its fixed orbit I suddenly felt uncomfortable - uttering few words until the subject of school came up. Amy and I discussed our likes and misfortunes. Our favorite teachers and least favorite subjects while my eyes remain focused on Amy's tender mouth and brilliant blue eyes. Her voice conveyed sandpaper coarseness, a timbre the sound of which further inspired fantasy.

The night wind rubbed gently across my face causing me to relax my eyelids. I tried unsuccessfully to will her to my arms, the sort of thing love struck men and women do in black and white movies, but Amy seemed more interested in the movie stars below.



It was well into the evening when poor Amy surrendered, collapsing helplessly into my arms, exactly where I hoped she’d land. With the tips of my fingers I smooth the worry from her face and lightly stroke the long black tresses. I was leery of lifting my arms fearing she would suddenly awaken and plan her escape. I held the same position hour upon hour until circulation in my arms had stilled to numbness.

Soft moonlight reflected off Amy’s lips turning pitch black as it spread inside our carriage. I realized time was quickly retreating. If I were to ever taste such sweetness it would have to be now. With arms curled I lift her upward leaving her hair to spread evenly between my chest and arms. With a second raise upward, Amy’s mouth slightly brushes past my bare cheek. Overcome by guilt and fear, I begin shivering. Suddenly, Amy comes to half-life, rises and places her soft lips, damp with the long night of humidity, near my chin. She then moves cautiously, kissing in small increments until reaching the flesh of my raw lips. She then delivers a solitary kiss, as still as the night air that lingers in my heart for what seems infinity. Amy recoils then conveniently rests her head in the crevice between my collar and neck then drifts slowly back to sleep. The whole evening becomes a surreal dream, a journey from which I wish never to return.

For a brief moment I felt passion unlike I imagine few encounter in a lifetime of promise. A simple kiss, so powerful, so unexpected relieved my heart of all disappointment and expectation. The discomfort I’d felt moments earlier all but dissipated then withdrew into unseen currents. As for the actors below; we never saw Mr. Clift or Mrs. Taylor. The many wooden slats obstructed our view and steel beams which revolved in our direction during filming further blocked our view.

The evening would prove to be a long unending affair. The hours slowly pass as we levitate above the noisy crowds, occasionally making a 360-degree spin. Dmytryk barked instructions.

"Action, slate, shoots, that’s a take___ no, no, no, do it again."

Eventually, the night drew to a close and they lowered our passive bodies to the platform below. Mrs. Dickens directed our exhausted figures towards her car and drove to a nearby motel. Amy was tucked away in one bed, me in another while Ms. Dickens slept upright in a large comfortable high back chair. Early the next morning she coaxed the two of us to the station wagon and delivered me to my doorstep.

Waiting like court appointed prosecutors, Benjamin and Caroline demanded a detailed explanation. Mrs. Dickens briefly summarized the day’s events and begged off for sleep leaving me to suffer interrogation. Through a sleep-drenched haze, I wish Amy good night. She stops, then whispers, "did you kiss me?", turns, waves over her shoulder and disappears from view. I climb the long stairs towards my room battered by Benjamin and Caroline’s verbal declarations of dire consequence, then think to myself, " The hell with it, Amy and I are in the movies. Our time together will be shown to the whole world. People will wonder who the two young lovers flying above Ms. Taylor are. We’ll probably be on the cover of True Romance or something like that.

Summer passes and autumn returns after a long drought. Amy and I were still friends, but from a distance. I still parked my Schwinn near her house but she was always preoccupied with grand parents and long visits with army folks. We rarely spoke. My dreams of her only intensify, but it was now sixth grade and we were assigned different classes. Cheryl took the seat reserved for Amy. Although just as lovely and desirable, we never shared the same moments of play.

The year passed with only the occasional smile between us. I tried desperately to capture a free moment. I’d memorized what I thought the right sentiment a few words that expressed the depth of my love. Christ, I felt I suffered an illness with no cure.

By spring, I learn Amy was about to move. I pay twenty cents for the triple horror feature at the Ohio Theater. Younger brother Gene - pal Randy and I roll spit balls and toss them at greasy duck- tail leather boys down front. When Gene and Randy go for sodas, Amy slips next to me. Two things she says nearly rip me apart; the Ferris wheel scene was cut from the movie, the other, confirmation she was moving back to Louisiana. It was if someone had taken a dagger and carved her from my heart. I’d never felt such pain.

Amy told me that Ms.Dickens and her had been invited to a screening of Rain Tree County in Louisville, Kentucky at the Brown Theater. All of the stars were there including Mrs. Taylor and her husband Mike Todd who kept introducing himself as Mr. Elizabeth Taylor. Two hours and forty-five minutes later the verdict was in. The movie was a disaster and there was no evidence the Ferris wheel scene ever existed. I was mortified. What happened to our scene, the recorded testimony of our love?

Before Amy parted, she whispered in my ear," When I come back, we’ll find the rain tree for ourselves and no one else will ever know. Will you kiss me again?"

We never kissed again. In fact, there existed no rumors of her whereabouts. It was if she had vanished without leaving a clue. That’s army life.

Though forty-two years have passed I still can’t let go of the profound feelings I have for her or explain the power she has over my soul. When I first heard the news of her untimely death I wept for the ten-year old whose smile awoke such passion in me. With the maturity of a man crossing mid-life I realize I can’t truly feel the anguish of those whose lives she inhabited daily, but in my heart, I know Amy eventually found her Rain tree. Mine will always reside on the same spot where I held her precious body untold hours fifty feet above in a darken carriage one unforgettable summer night and the kiss that will live forever.