Breakfast.
The diner is busy. The smell of bacon and the pungent aroma of coffee
fill the room with nostalgia for days when hunger was the only worry.
All the talk is of the attack on Pear Harbour. Everyone has a
relative or a friend of a friend who maybe at the end of a Zeros
sights. I have left Big Sal sleeping and find a booth with one empty
place. In the booth are fellow musicians who greet me with hand slaps
and howya doing. Lester Young, the “Prez “ is next to me elegant
and slim enough to allow me and my big ass to sit in comfort. His
pork pie hat rests easy on his head. I order bacon three eggs muffins
and maple syrop. My belly rumbles like the engine on track nine. Prez
is talking shop. He has no interest in anything military. His world
is the invention of jazz slang and lyrical sounds. He is the cat that
lays it down.
To talk to Prez is like talking to a cat who invents a language. More sophisticated than French and more descriptive than Shakespeare. If you get into his groove he can transport the mind. As with his sax playing, it is a light touch that a single word can be a paragraph as a single note can be a symphony.
Prez speaks. “Hey Fats, see you're barrelhousing with the bagnio.”
“Home from home, Prez.”
“Hear your special squeeze is a hummer.”
“Sure is Prez. She keep me warm at night.”
“She your barbecue now.”
“When I'm in the Apple.”
“You beat it out in the sac?”
“Like a timp mans foot.”
Sitting opposite is Lee Young, Prez's younger brother. He plays the suitcases for him now Prez has left the Basie outfit. Lee plays for me too, so we are acquainted, in my guise as Fats that is. He is one hell of dresser. Lapels so sharp you could cut paper with them. A little pencil moustache on his upper lip and pomaded hair slicked back. His teeth gleam as he listens to his brother beat out the jive.
The freedom I feel amongst these cats gives me the notion that Harlem is a great district in which to live and so long as I can afford to eat drink and whore around I don't want to be anywhere else. Anywhere else being the Stork Club, Mars or my extended apartment at 1000 Red sea Boulevard . These cats from the Big Bands are my kind of people prossed as Fats or just myself masquerading as a Limey key man I am one of them. Maybe I should ask Doil to put the real Fats on ice for ever so I can be him for the rest of my natural? My grease arrives, the waitress, a yellow high cheek with lots of attitude, places the platter in front of me and gives me the come on. Now fats is not a looker, he has charm and a wallet of C notes, but high yellows are supposed to be classy and above his station. So what gives? Prez has the answer, and tells me she wants to be a singer with the bands. Up from Tennessee on a one way Greyhound, her only other option is open her legs for a greenback, or stay a waitress. She turns and wags her ass. I like what I see but I like my grease too. So she will have to wait. Before I notice my plate is empty and am wiping my mouth with a napkin. Prez says.
“That's why I call it grease.”
Lee laughs. “No it aint brother, you call it grease since I was a knee high to a base drum. You always were in another country.”
“You sure got your boots on brother.” says Prez.
I could translate but if you got this far I needn't. The waitress comes over with more coffee. The other seat in the booth was occupied by JJ, but he stood for the John, so she takes his place. “I could be as famous as Billy Holiday, all I need is a break.”
“We don't need another Lady Day, but try some woodshedding and you could be your own.”
I try to let her down gentle. Countless songbirds have bussed it into Harlem to make a name for themselves only to end up disappointed.
“Or the Amateur night at the Apollo, let the populace decide. If you survive that you're home and dry” She pours more coffee and stands up.
“Tried that, I bombed.”
What can I say, the Apollo can be a testing time. The audience know their music. If they call you off you might as well give up and go home. It's a hard lesson from which it is difficult to get back onto the boards. JJ comes back and calls her over for more coffee. She has the grace of a dancer and maybe that should be her calling. I tell her so and JJ agrees, Prez and his bro are talking shop. I order apple pie and ice cream. This is the life.
To talk to Prez is like talking to a cat who invents a language. More sophisticated than French and more descriptive than Shakespeare. If you get into his groove he can transport the mind. As with his sax playing, it is a light touch that a single word can be a paragraph as a single note can be a symphony.
Prez speaks. “Hey Fats, see you're barrelhousing with the bagnio.”
“Home from home, Prez.”
“Hear your special squeeze is a hummer.”
“Sure is Prez. She keep me warm at night.”
“She your barbecue now.”
“When I'm in the Apple.”
“You beat it out in the sac?”
“Like a timp mans foot.”
Sitting opposite is Lee Young, Prez's younger brother. He plays the suitcases for him now Prez has left the Basie outfit. Lee plays for me too, so we are acquainted, in my guise as Fats that is. He is one hell of dresser. Lapels so sharp you could cut paper with them. A little pencil moustache on his upper lip and pomaded hair slicked back. His teeth gleam as he listens to his brother beat out the jive.
The freedom I feel amongst these cats gives me the notion that Harlem is a great district in which to live and so long as I can afford to eat drink and whore around I don't want to be anywhere else. Anywhere else being the Stork Club, Mars or my extended apartment at 1000 Red sea Boulevard . These cats from the Big Bands are my kind of people prossed as Fats or just myself masquerading as a Limey key man I am one of them. Maybe I should ask Doil to put the real Fats on ice for ever so I can be him for the rest of my natural? My grease arrives, the waitress, a yellow high cheek with lots of attitude, places the platter in front of me and gives me the come on. Now fats is not a looker, he has charm and a wallet of C notes, but high yellows are supposed to be classy and above his station. So what gives? Prez has the answer, and tells me she wants to be a singer with the bands. Up from Tennessee on a one way Greyhound, her only other option is open her legs for a greenback, or stay a waitress. She turns and wags her ass. I like what I see but I like my grease too. So she will have to wait. Before I notice my plate is empty and am wiping my mouth with a napkin. Prez says.
“That's why I call it grease.”
Lee laughs. “No it aint brother, you call it grease since I was a knee high to a base drum. You always were in another country.”
“You sure got your boots on brother.” says Prez.
I could translate but if you got this far I needn't. The waitress comes over with more coffee. The other seat in the booth was occupied by JJ, but he stood for the John, so she takes his place. “I could be as famous as Billy Holiday, all I need is a break.”
“We don't need another Lady Day, but try some woodshedding and you could be your own.”
I try to let her down gentle. Countless songbirds have bussed it into Harlem to make a name for themselves only to end up disappointed.
“Or the Amateur night at the Apollo, let the populace decide. If you survive that you're home and dry” She pours more coffee and stands up.
“Tried that, I bombed.”
What can I say, the Apollo can be a testing time. The audience know their music. If they call you off you might as well give up and go home. It's a hard lesson from which it is difficult to get back onto the boards. JJ comes back and calls her over for more coffee. She has the grace of a dancer and maybe that should be her calling. I tell her so and JJ agrees, Prez and his bro are talking shop. I order apple pie and ice cream. This is the life.
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