N-32 - Erulisse - Striding With The Lion
Mar. 25th, 2012 04:24 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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b2memB2MeM Challenge: N-32 – Maglor in History – The Harlem Renaissance
Format: Short Story
Genre: Drama
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Characters: Maglor
Pairings: None
Word Count: 1280
Summary: Maglor, working as an ambulance driver along the Western Front in WWI comes across one of the great early jazz musicians in the hospital and they form a friendship. After the war, Maglor comes to New York City’s district of Harlem to find his friend.
Striding with The Lion
I was on a quest to find The Lion. My chateau in France had been badly damaged by the War so I had gathered some things together planning to stay in the United States for a year or so while it was being repaired. I hadn’t been to New York City in more than fifty years and was happy to see that it has grown and developed a soul. I have only been here for a week and am already in love with its joie de vivre and the never ending music rendered by its traffic, people, and pulse. What a city!
As I mentioned, I was hunting up my friend Willie “The Lion” Smith. While serving in the War I was an ambulance driver. Willie was one of the men I took to the hospital in Boulogne. It was a long drive and in times when we had to wait before giving him his next dose of pain medication, we talked. It turned out he was a musician and actually part of the Regimental Band, but he had caught a shell while getting a bit too close to no man’s land.
I visited him now and again while he was recovering in the hospital, and found that it had an upright piano. I wheeled him up to it one afternoon and his eyes lit up. Sitting at the keyboard he started pounding the keys in a musical rhythm that I had never heard before. He said it was called ‘slide piano’. When he was due to be shipped out he gave me his address in Harlem and told me to look him up when I came over. It’s taken a bit of time and pounding the pavement, but I think I’ve finally located him.
The buildings are old, but I feel their life – mothers talking between themselves, voices singing while doing odd jobs, parks where children are playing. Although the population seems varied, the area I’m in right now is mostly Negro. I stand out – tall, skinny, and pale white.
The address that I was given is right across the street. I start to look closer. The brownstone looks well kept. There are flower boxes at many of the windows and the scent of spicy cooking wafting on the breeze. The tinkling sound of a piano catches the air and I follow it. I stand in front for a moment, listening to the music making the air pound with a new excitement, a new rhythm; syncopated notes, a tripled bass, fingers jumping over the keyboard almost faster than the eye can see. Jazz. Smiling, I begin to climb the first few steps.
Two large black men come down and I stop.
“I’m looking for Willie Smith.”
“What business you got wid him? You jus’ go on down the road, white boy. Ain’ no call for you to be hangin’ ‘round here.”
Shaking my head, I sigh. Just one more bump in the road. Clambering back down the steps, I open my case and pull out my horn. The two men look at each other, then at me. I stand in the sidewalk and I begin to play.
I put my heart into it, because that’s the only way that music should be played, and I play counterpoint to the piano I hear dancing several floor above me. Soon a window at the top opens up and a familiar head emerges.
“Michael? That you, boy? Well I’ll be goldarned. Come on up here right now. 4A. Damn. Michael, who would’a thought.”
“Be right there, Willie,” I called up, waving at him, horn in hand. I grab my case under my arm and walk past the two bemused men into the house.
The hallway was nondescript and dark. The sounds of the piano were stronger now. Someone was playing those ivories like a lover and I was itching to play along. I ran up the stairs, two by two, all the way to the top, stopping at 4A.
I raised my hand to knock just as the door opened in my face.
“Michael,” sounded in my ear as I was suddenly embraced by a bear of a man. “Damn, Michael, so glad you made it over. Come in, meet the boys.” Keeping hold of my arm, he pulled me into the apartment.
“Boys, this here’s Michael Finner, great horn player. We met over in France. He held half of the litter that got me to the hospital. He’s great at the keyboards, but he’s amazing on that horn of his. Amazing musician.” He turned back to me.
“Michael, meet Fats Waller on the keyboard and that’s Duke Ellington over there in the corner waiting his turn. On the horn over there, that’s Larry, then Jimmy on the sax and Dermont on the trombone. Take your horn and squeeze in.
“We’ve got a rent party coming up tomorrow, so we’re practicing a bit. Tomorrow will be serious, today is just for fun.”
“Any rules I should know about?”
“Naw, not really. Jump in when you feel moved to, play counterpoint to the keyboard player. Usually we’ll move around to everyone so that each player gets a lick.”
I nodded and put my stuff in the corner, taking off my jacket and folding it neatly above my horn case. Grabbing my horn, I joined the other brass players in the corner. “Michael,” I introduced myself, and shook hands with Larry, Jimmy and Dermont.
Fats was wrapping up on the keyboard, suddenly he shouted “Take it, Larry,” and Larry raised his horn and blew. I was transported. The notes moved up and down, jumping around the like a bright light hitting here and then moving there, that horn bopped, and wailed and dug into my soul. The lead changed down all of us and I got my turn to play too. The Duke took over at the keyboard, then Willie. Meanwhile, Larry, Jimmy, Dermont and I played rings around each other, chasing our tails like a pack of dogs.
I didn’t make it to the Cutting contest* the next night, I figured I wouldn’t be around for much longer and didn’t want to take a job from someone who needed it. But I played with Willie and as many of the other guys as often as I could, and stayed in touch with them for many decades, long after I had returned to France. I often wondered if I would have been hired if I had tried out at the Cutting contest. Would black artists have been accepted sooner if they had a white artist playing with them? I’ll never know.
The joys of stride piano and later swing and pure jazz have stayed with me to this day. I’ve even transcribed Willie’s “Fingerbuster” and the Duke’s “Sophisticated Lady” for my harp. I met up with the Duke on his European Tour of 1933/34 and played on and off with him then. He visited me in my chateau and we were up until the dawn playing piano and other instruments and pushing our music as far as we could. Willie and I corresponded until his death in 1973.
A/N and Recommended Listening
*Cutting contests were musical battles, rather like today’s American Idol, and still exist in jazz improv today when segments of music are traded back and forth. They were often held at “rent parties” in local Harlem homes. These were parties with an entrance fee, the monies collected were used to pay the rent. They continued through into the 1940’s and featured such players as those mentioned in this story as well as Count Basie, Art Tatum, Harry Gibson, Marlowe, and Claude Hopkins.
Stride Piano Videos -
http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=stride+piano&view=detail&mid=8AAA4CC7FBBE3924673E8AAA4CC7FBBE3924673E&first=41
http://www.videosurf.com/video/stephanie-trick-plays-handful-of-keys-by-fats-waller-stride-piano-118530401
http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=stride+piano&view=detail&mid=1BE810D1E30491F84D311BE810D1E30491F84D31&first=0
Swing Piano Videos
http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=swing+piano&view=detail&mid=A1F2C0230AEE8C3AC222A1F2C0230AEE8C3AC222&first=41
http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=swing+piano&view=detail&mid=A1F2C0230AEE8C3AC222A1F2C0230AEE8C3AC222&first=41
Format: Short Story
Genre: Drama
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Characters: Maglor
Pairings: None
Word Count: 1280
Summary: Maglor, working as an ambulance driver along the Western Front in WWI comes across one of the great early jazz musicians in the hospital and they form a friendship. After the war, Maglor comes to New York City’s district of Harlem to find his friend.
Striding with The Lion
I was on a quest to find The Lion. My chateau in France had been badly damaged by the War so I had gathered some things together planning to stay in the United States for a year or so while it was being repaired. I hadn’t been to New York City in more than fifty years and was happy to see that it has grown and developed a soul. I have only been here for a week and am already in love with its joie de vivre and the never ending music rendered by its traffic, people, and pulse. What a city!
As I mentioned, I was hunting up my friend Willie “The Lion” Smith. While serving in the War I was an ambulance driver. Willie was one of the men I took to the hospital in Boulogne. It was a long drive and in times when we had to wait before giving him his next dose of pain medication, we talked. It turned out he was a musician and actually part of the Regimental Band, but he had caught a shell while getting a bit too close to no man’s land.
I visited him now and again while he was recovering in the hospital, and found that it had an upright piano. I wheeled him up to it one afternoon and his eyes lit up. Sitting at the keyboard he started pounding the keys in a musical rhythm that I had never heard before. He said it was called ‘slide piano’. When he was due to be shipped out he gave me his address in Harlem and told me to look him up when I came over. It’s taken a bit of time and pounding the pavement, but I think I’ve finally located him.
The buildings are old, but I feel their life – mothers talking between themselves, voices singing while doing odd jobs, parks where children are playing. Although the population seems varied, the area I’m in right now is mostly Negro. I stand out – tall, skinny, and pale white.
The address that I was given is right across the street. I start to look closer. The brownstone looks well kept. There are flower boxes at many of the windows and the scent of spicy cooking wafting on the breeze. The tinkling sound of a piano catches the air and I follow it. I stand in front for a moment, listening to the music making the air pound with a new excitement, a new rhythm; syncopated notes, a tripled bass, fingers jumping over the keyboard almost faster than the eye can see. Jazz. Smiling, I begin to climb the first few steps.
Two large black men come down and I stop.
“I’m looking for Willie Smith.”
“What business you got wid him? You jus’ go on down the road, white boy. Ain’ no call for you to be hangin’ ‘round here.”
Shaking my head, I sigh. Just one more bump in the road. Clambering back down the steps, I open my case and pull out my horn. The two men look at each other, then at me. I stand in the sidewalk and I begin to play.
I put my heart into it, because that’s the only way that music should be played, and I play counterpoint to the piano I hear dancing several floor above me. Soon a window at the top opens up and a familiar head emerges.
“Michael? That you, boy? Well I’ll be goldarned. Come on up here right now. 4A. Damn. Michael, who would’a thought.”
“Be right there, Willie,” I called up, waving at him, horn in hand. I grab my case under my arm and walk past the two bemused men into the house.
The hallway was nondescript and dark. The sounds of the piano were stronger now. Someone was playing those ivories like a lover and I was itching to play along. I ran up the stairs, two by two, all the way to the top, stopping at 4A.
I raised my hand to knock just as the door opened in my face.
“Michael,” sounded in my ear as I was suddenly embraced by a bear of a man. “Damn, Michael, so glad you made it over. Come in, meet the boys.” Keeping hold of my arm, he pulled me into the apartment.
“Boys, this here’s Michael Finner, great horn player. We met over in France. He held half of the litter that got me to the hospital. He’s great at the keyboards, but he’s amazing on that horn of his. Amazing musician.” He turned back to me.
“Michael, meet Fats Waller on the keyboard and that’s Duke Ellington over there in the corner waiting his turn. On the horn over there, that’s Larry, then Jimmy on the sax and Dermont on the trombone. Take your horn and squeeze in.
“We’ve got a rent party coming up tomorrow, so we’re practicing a bit. Tomorrow will be serious, today is just for fun.”
“Any rules I should know about?”
“Naw, not really. Jump in when you feel moved to, play counterpoint to the keyboard player. Usually we’ll move around to everyone so that each player gets a lick.”
I nodded and put my stuff in the corner, taking off my jacket and folding it neatly above my horn case. Grabbing my horn, I joined the other brass players in the corner. “Michael,” I introduced myself, and shook hands with Larry, Jimmy and Dermont.
Fats was wrapping up on the keyboard, suddenly he shouted “Take it, Larry,” and Larry raised his horn and blew. I was transported. The notes moved up and down, jumping around the like a bright light hitting here and then moving there, that horn bopped, and wailed and dug into my soul. The lead changed down all of us and I got my turn to play too. The Duke took over at the keyboard, then Willie. Meanwhile, Larry, Jimmy, Dermont and I played rings around each other, chasing our tails like a pack of dogs.
I didn’t make it to the Cutting contest* the next night, I figured I wouldn’t be around for much longer and didn’t want to take a job from someone who needed it. But I played with Willie and as many of the other guys as often as I could, and stayed in touch with them for many decades, long after I had returned to France. I often wondered if I would have been hired if I had tried out at the Cutting contest. Would black artists have been accepted sooner if they had a white artist playing with them? I’ll never know.
The joys of stride piano and later swing and pure jazz have stayed with me to this day. I’ve even transcribed Willie’s “Fingerbuster” and the Duke’s “Sophisticated Lady” for my harp. I met up with the Duke on his European Tour of 1933/34 and played on and off with him then. He visited me in my chateau and we were up until the dawn playing piano and other instruments and pushing our music as far as we could. Willie and I corresponded until his death in 1973.
A/N and Recommended Listening
*Cutting contests were musical battles, rather like today’s American Idol, and still exist in jazz improv today when segments of music are traded back and forth. They were often held at “rent parties” in local Harlem homes. These were parties with an entrance fee, the monies collected were used to pay the rent. They continued through into the 1940’s and featured such players as those mentioned in this story as well as Count Basie, Art Tatum, Harry Gibson, Marlowe, and Claude Hopkins.
Stride Piano Videos -
http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=stride+piano&view=detail&mid=8AAA4CC7FBBE3924673E8AAA4CC7FBBE3924673E&first=41
http://www.videosurf.com/video/stephanie-trick-plays-handful-of-keys-by-fats-waller-stride-piano-118530401
http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=stride+piano&view=detail&mid=1BE810D1E30491F84D311BE810D1E30491F84D31&first=0
Swing Piano Videos
http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=swing+piano&view=detail&mid=A1F2C0230AEE8C3AC222A1F2C0230AEE8C3AC222&first=41
http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=swing+piano&view=detail&mid=A1F2C0230AEE8C3AC222A1F2C0230AEE8C3AC222&first=41
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-03-25 09:42 pm (UTC)Thank you for an excellent Maglor piece. I am really growing to like your take on the man and look forward to April when I can catch up with him.
no subject
Date: 2012-03-26 12:28 am (UTC)- Erulisse (one L)
no subject
Date: 2012-03-25 10:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-26 12:29 am (UTC)- Erulisse (one L)
no subject
Date: 2012-03-25 11:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-26 12:29 am (UTC)- Erulisse (one L)