Thelonious Explains…

This post is part two of a series about New York in the ’50s. You can read the first here.

A proud and private man, known as an eccentric, even in the jazz world, Thelonious Monk was given to wearing capes, an assortment of hats and caps from silk to fur, and sunglasses with bamboo rims. One night in 1957 he was playing his solo set of the evening at The Five Spot when he was interrupted by a shout from the audience.  A man who must have had far too many of the Five Spot’s fifteen cent beers yelled “We wanna hear Coltrane!” 

Monk said “Coltrane bust up his horn.” 

After the intermission, when Monk came out again and began to play, the heckler became more hostile and asked Monk what he meant when he said Coltrane “bust up his horn.”   Monk stood up at the piano and delivered the following dissertation:     

“Mr. Coltrane plays a wind instrument. The sound is produced by blowing into it and opening different holes to let air out. Over some of these holes is a felt pad. One of Mr. Coltrane’s felt pads has fallen off, and in order for him to get the sound he wants, so that we can make better music for you, he is in the back making a new one. . .you dig?” 

The jazz critic Nat Hentoff called The Five Spot ‘the most significant jazz club since the clubs of Chicago in the twenties where Louise Armstrong played. The house group was Thelonious Monk and and John Coltrane. Musicians and lay people lined up three and four deep to get in.”  

Coltrane and Monk were followed by the bass player Charles Mingus and his group.

Allen Ginsberg told me “I got to know Charlie Mingus when he played at The Five Spot, and later at his wedding in Milbook, New York. I’d just come back from India and I knew monochromatic chanting – there were a lot of musicians interested in that mode, like Coltrane. I did a recording of it with Coltrane’s drummer. At Mingus’s wedding I was chanting mantras to Shiva, to Buddha. . .”

I heard Mingus more than once at The Five Spot. If people in the audience were talking, he stopped playing and waited for the talking to stop. He said if people wanted to talk they should go outside. If people continued talking, he ushered them out. The jazz musicians of New York in the Fifties brought dignity to their performances. One of the best and most creative groups was The Modern Jazz Quartet. They did not play in clubs or bars. They gave concerts. They wore tuxedos when they played. 

When I want to bring back the feel of the era, evoke the people and places, I play The Modern Jazz Quartet recording of their own composition, “No Sun in Venice.” Margot Hentoff, wife of the jazz critic and herself a fine writer said “The MJQ was the Fifties.”        There is a dvd documentary about Thelonious Monk called “Straight, No Chaser.” It shows his travels in New York and Europe and sometimes he sits down at the piano and plays songs like “Just a Gigolo” and “I Should Care.” He plays with an eloquence that makes the songs new. Still. Now. 

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What Rough Beats

“I met Tim Leary at Allen Ginsberg’s apartment in the East Village one snow Sunday in January to interview the poet for an article I was writing on marijuana [“The Prodigal Powers of Pot” was published in Playboy.] I had been apprehensive about meeting Ginsberg, fearing he would have Kerouac’s hostility to writers who weren’t part of the Beat scene or exhibit the same kind of condescension that some of the Beats treated outsiders with who they put down as square. To my great surprise and relief, I found Ginsberg friendly, businesslike and helpful.

He gave me information from his own experience and from his files, making me feel welcome many friends and hangers-on who flopped or crashes simply fell by his place in those days. He was like a practical saint who sheltered and fed the floating population who passed through his pad; every time I was there he was roasting chickens to feed whoever was hungry at the time.  

He introduced me to Dr. Leary, who looked like an eager fraternity guy among the more laid back beats. When Leary heard I was doing an article on marijuana, he immediately wanted to tell me about psilocybin. It was a wonderful stimulus to creativity he said., which was why he was so excited to try it out in some of the poets and writers here at Ginsberg’s apartment. He was going to give order pink viagra online them pencils and paper and see what they wrote after taking the drug. He said this was “a scientific experiment. . .”

Once the psilocybin was ingested (I was offered the drug but opted to be ‘the objective reporter,’) Leary told me all the wonderful things it did.  Besides his claim that it ‘made people more creative,” he said that it made people “mellow.”

“Take Kerouac,’” he said, “Now there’s a guy who exhibited a lot of hostility, especially when he was drinking.”

I said I knew.  I’d seen him around the Village when he seemed quite angry.  

“Wait’ll you talk to him today, now that he’s taken the psilocybin,’ Leary said with a grin. “He’s mild, calm and very friendly.”

Jack was standing by himself, staring out the window, with what looked to me like the same sour, glowering expression.    Still, I went up and introduced myself, smiling.

“Oh yeah, Kerouac said, looking me up and down. “Didn’t you write that big bad piece about me in Commentary?”

“No,” I said, ”it was in The Nation.” 

“Yeah, I know you, you bastards are all alike. You know what I’d like to do?”

 I didn’t want to guess.

“I’d like to throw your ass out that window,” he said.

 I went back to where Leary was standing.

“I don’t think the drug has taken effect,” I said. . . 

No,” he said.

2

“New York in the Fifties” Made by Hoosiers!

It wasn’t until the documentary based on my book New York in the Fifties was shown Tuesday night to a full house at The Jazz Kitchen that I realized the film was basically an Indiana production! It all started on the night of the premiere here of “Going All the Way,” based on my novel of the same name, when Tom Griswold invited me to dinner with his then wife Betsy Blankenbaker. Tom had come to some of my readings at bookstores here in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, and identified himself as a fellow graduate of Columbia College in New York City. At our dinner on the night of the “Going All The Way” premiere, Blankenbaker told me “I had always wanted to make a movie of Going All The Way, but now that’s been done, how about a movie of New York in the Fifties?”

No one had ever thought of that before, including me. The idea of a documentary, though, of that great era of writing and the arts in New York, while most of the people I wrote about were still alive, seemed like a great idea. Griswold and Blankenbaker co-financed the production and Blankenbaker assembled the crew and talent and acted as director as well as producer. We premiered it in New York and Indianapolis, and it was selected to be shown at film festivals in Denver, Santa Barbara and other venues.

Although I knew all the Hoosiers who had helped make it happen, it never occurred to me how many there were and what key parts they played, until many of them showed up for the screening at The Jazz Kitchen. My life-long friend from Shortridge and room-mate for three years in the Village, Ted Steeg, was a key film-maker on the team (he also later worked with Blankenbaker on her classic film of the great Crispus Attucks two-time state basketball champions, “Something to Cheer About.”) Sadly, Steeg (who was the inspiration for the character “Gunner” in Going All The Way), died a few years ago after a  fine career as a film maker of documentaries and business films for his company in New York City, Steeg Productions, and he lived his whole life in Greenwich Village. Happily, he is one of the frequent on-screen commentators in the film.

For Tuesday night’s screening, I invited Steve Allee, who composed the music for the film (and did a terrific “New York in the Fifties” CD with his band), to come and play some ‘fifties songs with our great saxophonist Sophie Faught after the movie. It was especially appropriate since Steve is the father of David Allee, owner of The Jazz Kitchen. Steve Allee and Sophie Faught played some of the classics of the ‘Fifties including “This Will Be My Shining Hour,” and “I Should Care.

Just before the screening began, a tall familiar-looking man tapped me on the shoulder and reminded me that he was Steve Marra, the film editor who had edited the documentary here in his studio in Indianapolis. Unfortunately, Betsy could not be here from her present home in California, and is always hard to find due to her world travel and commitments, which include an orphanage in Zimbabwe. (She promises to be here in the fall to promote her latest book, Beyond Orgasm.)

The other Hoosier involved in the making of the film was me, who wrote the book and spoke of matters both proudly public and painfully personal in the documentary. It was all received graciously by a full house on this memorable night at The Jazz Kitchen.

*   *   *

Policy/Apology Note: A comment was made from the stage concerning a political figure. In this era of divisiveness, Uncle Dan hopes to deal with issues we feel are important, as we have in the past, but not to speak ill of personalities or assume that all good people hold the same opinions.

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Dan Wakefield

Dan Wakefield

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