Chapter 52

The buildings on West 28th Street between Sixth Avenue and Broadway, house the sheet-music publishers. I have a mind to pop down there and look up some old buddies. If you want to find a muso that is where he can be tracked down. If he is not there then some cat will know where he can be found. This little area is known as “Tin Pan Alley”, you may have heard of it.

I put on my best duds and stop at the shoe shine on the corner. The shine boy is  just buffing up the two tones of  a big man who smells of pomade. I take up the seat next to him and await my turn. This man I know, but before he can recognize me I have to speak as he is blind. I wish him the time of day and he says.

‘Hey Fat’s how’s it going?’

The great, the one and only genius that is Art Tatum, is at my side and he has recognized me. I am flattered. He has the best ear in the piano playing world, so recognizing my voice is no great feat. But recognizing me is a buzz.

‘Where you headed?’

‘Downtown to 28th, see what the scene is.’

‘I’m heading that way myself , we could grab some grease, beat up the gums, and check out any new canaries.’

Now I’m hip with the jive talk, but you squares may be under the knowledge pole, so what he said was lets eat, be loquacious, and look for some girl singers. See it all makes sense if you think it out. A bit like a cryptic crossword. 

The shine boy finishes Art’s two tone’s  and starts on mine. He has a wide grin and is sharply dressed. Brown shirt with black and white horizontally stripped bow tie, a jazzy waistkit in green and white vertical stripes, dazzlingly white zoot trousers and correspondence shoes. When not shining shoes he has a dance act with his brother. When he has finished I give him a 5 note. A bit generous for a shoe shine but I like to spread it around. It’s easy come easy go. 

Art takes my arm and we stand on the sidewalk and wait for a cab. Eventually one stops for us, an old Oldmobile in yellow paintwork. It’s an ersatz taxi driven by a dodgy looking cat in a Fez. But it’s a ride. As we climb in the shoeshine joins us.

‘I heard  you are headed for The Alley and I need some intro’s’ . He’s a hoofer in a piano sandwich, not sure he can breathe as both me and Art are big men. Anyhow he must be managing as his feet begin to tap out a rhythm on the cab floor. Then he joins in his hands on his knees in a counter rhythm. Art begins to whistle. (A tune which will eventually become Big Noise from Winnetka. I know this because as Joe Coolz I have the drop on these guys as a being from the future.) However, now I am in a cab heading for 28th St.; cloned as Fats Waller on behalf of “The Agency”; 28th St. being the heart of the music publishing business and a hang out for all muso’s looking for work. Maybe the real Fats will be there? Now that would be a gas but I suspect that the IGBI will have him safely locked away, won’t they?

The cab stops on the corner of 28 and Broadway. The driver takes off his Fez and holds it out to receive the fare. Inside the Fez is a small monkey also with its hand out. I give the monkey a five spot and expect change, but the monkey expertly rolls it up into a thin cylinder and pushes it up his tuckas. The driver shrugs and boots the gas. Now I have seen everything. I tell Art what has passed and he shrugs too.

‘That’s New York for ya!’

Tin pan alley consists of blocks of small rooms that may or may not contain a piano, but will contain some budding genius knocking out the hits of tomorrow. It was given it’s name by The New York Herald who likened the  sound of  dozens of pianos all playing a different tune to the sound of  many tin cans being played in an alleyway. This is how it goes. The song team think up a tune with words. This they take to the music publishers, who if they think the song is worth the effort, buy it “for a song” and then print up the tune for the pluggers to play in the music shops to generate sheet music sales.

The proximity of all this creativity attracted all in the music business. So it became a natural place for muso’s to hang.

The buzz goes around pretty quickly that Tatum is in the street. Everyone wants a piece of him. Being a genius has it’s drawbacks. If Tatum takes a tune and applies his particular genius to it, it’s a hit. He is dragged off to the rooms of Jerome H. Remick & Co. and I am left on the stoop. Then by the magic of the IBGI who is standing next to me but Detective First Class Doil.

‘I told you not to wander Fats.’

‘You knew exactly where I was so what’s the beef. Or is your tracker a Friday afternoon job?  28th Street is not exactly Florida?

‘We have the power to keep you here for the rest of your natural. No more  Brian…’

‘Won’t be missed’

‘…to take care of your wildest whim. You will be stuck here with the eventual fate of the real Fats.’

A black and white pulls up alongside and I am pushed into the back.