“To this day, I don’t like people walking on stage not looking good. If you feel special about yourself, you’re going to play special.”
– Benny Goodman
That sentiment would definitely ring true for the next performer I would have the pleasure of accompanying: the immaculately attired gentleman . . .
Al Tell
Indeed, appearance commands respect, but Al Tell was respected nationwide as a jazz piano virtuoso. He toured with the Benny Goodman Sextet, and once had his own TV show in Oklahoma City, all the while dressed to the nines.
And yes, suits or tuxes were the dress code for everywhere we ever played – including filthy, unscrupulous political events.
At the age of seventeen I started playing shmaltzy jazz in Dallas with Brack Sheppard. I wouldn’t call Brack a world-class piano man by any means, but he was a world class alcoholic. But even he wore tailored suits and was quite the gentleman. Of course, he was pleasantly lubricated every time I ever saw the sot. He was my first musical role model. (That explains a lot, now, doesn’t it?)
In 1985 I joined the Al Tell Quartet featuring the lovely, sexy-sweet vocalist, Norma T – the ultimate den mother. At this point in my musical journey, I was getting to feel like a foster child being placed in yet another home! My new foster brother, Dave Moir, played a mean upright bass; and yes, he was a very upright individual – another honest-to-goodness gentleman.
Al Tell Band.
Not to worry. I had suits, ties, dress shoes, and luckily, I’m a chameleon: I can disguise myself as a normal human being and fit right in without detection. No one had to know I rode a Harley and had lots of tattoos . . . and occasionally went batshit crazy.
We played the Hilton but soon moved over to the Bull Ring as their house band and played there four nights a week for over a year. We played swing and a lot of Latin tunes, including bossa novas, sambas, mambos, rumbas. Norma, a great singer, and her husband, Al, played off of one another nicely. (By the way, Al Tell could transpose any song into any key under the sun, right then and there.) Brushes were used on ballads and quite a few swing tunes. It was a lot of fun and the money was good. And . . . I found that the ladies liked a sharp-dressed drummer. I mean, even jazz cats have groupies – who’d a thunk?
Now I was playing for the Santa Fe upper crust: millionaires and movie stars, governors and Legislators (and their molls). Of course, a lot of these people were intolerable snobs, but at least they tipped well.
It was not uncommon to see celebrities in the crowd: people such as George Kennedy, Larry Hagman, Christopher Lloyd, Sam Elliot, and others. But the real stars were the dancers. There were those who apparently spent hard-earned money on dancing lessons down at the local Fred Astaire Dance Studio. Man, they were a sight to behold.
Of course, some of our less talented dancers must have learned their spastic steps at the ever-popular Pee Wee Herman Dance Studio in Española. (They were something else; what, I don’t know.)
The one thing about playing good music – especially jazz – is that, “music is the great escape.” Sometimes it’s exhilarating and other times it’s more like serene meditation. Some of the music Al and Norma brought forth put me in a dream world, the state of mind known as nirvana. Other times music triggers emotions that can bring the listener to tears. Music is about as close as I can get to a religious experience; and like making love, sometimes you feel like you’re touching the face of God.
“The music is not in the notes, but in the silence between.”
– Mozart
Samba Loca
Las Fiestas, a September Santa Fe tradition, was nearing. And one of the many events is the much anticipated Historical/Hysterical Parade! Many Santa Feans were building floats and getting their fiesta costumes together. I, on the other hand, was assembling a big samba band called Samba Loca.
The first thing I needed was a good horn section. No problem. Five guys: The two Rheam brothers on trumpets, Dave Anderson and Richard Snider on saxes, and a new guy on, believe it or not, French Horn; a fifteen-piece percussion section including my wacky best friend from Dallas, Dale McFarland, on snare drum; four lovely majorettes, including Lori Dillen, my Eat a Chiquita girl; and little old me as drum major with a second-line umbrella, go-go bells and a two-tone samba whistle.
We had one big rehearsal in a vacant parking lot and it all came together quickly. We marched to the big drum section, and when it was time for the horns to play, I signaled them with the umbrella and counted them off with my whistle. The horns were in the rear of the outrageous band. They played “St. Thomas,” a samba by Sonny Rollins, and others. And these guys blasted!
Dave Anderson even wrote a song for me!
Finally, it was the day of the parade. We assembled near De Vargas Mall. Behind Samba Loca was our Senator, Jeff Bingaman, readying for his ride in a Cadillac convertible. I walked over to him and introduced myself. I told him that I was a big admirer of him and that he was doing a great job in Washington. I noticed that he was looking over my shoulder. Ah ha! I said, “Senator, would you like to meet my majorettes?” He smiled and said, “DC, I thought you’d never ask!” So, I introduced him to the ladies and everyone was happy.
The parade was terrific. We were quite the spectacle. Marching toward the Plaza, the drums and horns echoed throughout the canyon of ancient buildings The band rounded the Plaza and stopped in front of the grandstand. We all turned and faced the judges and the cheering crowd. I counted the horns off and pranced about. And then we were off again, marching back to De Vargas Mall. (We ended up getting a picture in the New Mexican Pasatiempo.)
Mr. R’s (Dance Hall & Think Tank)
Somehow, I managed to pick up another house gig – on top of my engagement with the Al Tell Quartet. (I must have needed the money badly.) The new job was at the big two-step joint out on Cerrillos Road and Siler. The name of the place was Mr. R’s, right next to a large two-story motel. (How convenient: every ‘meat market’ needs a flophouse nextdoor.)
I supposed Mr. R was the owner of the place, but right from the git-go I called him “Mr. Rutabaga.” I have thankfully forgotten the man’s real name.
The gig consisted of six “afternoon cocktails” a week: three sets, every Monday through Friday from 5:00pm to 7:45pm. (Three 45-minute sets and two 15-minute breaks.) And then we did 8–12 on Sundays which included dance lessons the first set and then dancing until midnight. So, Wednesdays through Saturdays I had fifteen minutes to rush to the Bull Ring, do a quick change, and drum with Al Tell.
Mr. R’s had a different road band every week. The bands would set up on Mondays, early afternoon, and strike the stage after their Saturday night performance. Each Monday afternoon I had a brand-new drum set to play on. One Monday I showed up at 4:45 ready to go – and then I noticed that I had a left-handed drum kit waiting for me! I had never played left-handed, but that afternoon I tried. I struggled through the first set and made a decent attempt, but I was suddenly playing the kick drum with my left foot… ass backwards. Somehow, I managed to play those damn drums all week long… and long it was.
The band was called the David Dollar Band. David, on guitar and vocals, and Kelly Dollar, on vocals and keyboards, were from Tucson. I had no idea how they landed this gig. Probably a judge had ruled against them for some musical transgression and sentenced them to hard labor at the Rutabaga Detention Center. David and his pretty wife were hoping for a reduced sentence for good behavior. (As you can probably tell by now, my best behavior wasn’t good enough.)
My old friend Steve Lindsay was on bass. I have no idea what he did to deserve this but he plugged away. And every night at 7:45 he was off like a prom dress! He couldn’t get out of there soon enough. The gig was as tedious as Tolstoy’s War and Peace – without the peace.
Early on we had an old, beat-up steel player named Clyde (or something like that). There was absolutely NO DRINKING on stage – not even water, (it could be vodka). Well, Clyde always had a half-pint of Jim Beam tucked in his left boot. Supposedly, one of the Gestapo bouncers caught him taking a swig in the men’s room. We never saw him again, but it was rumored that he was on a chain gang outside of Tucumcari.
We had forced rehearsals three days a week, and the set lists were monitored closely by Colonel Rutabaga himself. Then they forced me to sing a Zydeco song called “Don’t Mess with My Toot-Toot.” I kid you not! And on top of that, I recently had a bad haircut that made me look like Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber. They called me “Drum and Drummer!”
I have to admit that, during my sentence, I met a lot of nice people there. Even though some of them called me Drum and Drummer, and laughed and laughed.
It was rumored that Mr. R was a genuine Nazi. I didn’t want to believe that, but man, his SS death squad, the bouncers, threw out a lot of people and started more fights than they stopped – and that’s a fact. But the dead give-away was that crazy goose stepping they did whenever we played “Cotton-Eyed Joe!” (Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little.)
My time with the Al Tell Quartet had expired after 14 months. It had been a pleasure playing with Al, Norma and Dave. But I was left with my Country gig that went on for a few more months. I had given Rutabaga seven months of my time on earth. (It felt like a life sentence: on and on and on . . .)
And then one day after our cocktail sets (without the cocktails), the band was ordered sternly to proceed to the office. I had never been in Mr. R’s inner sanctum – never wanted to. But now we were inside with the door shut tightly behind us. And believe it or not, there on his huge desk was a copy of Hitler’s Mein Kampf! And that is the God’s honest truth!
Rutabaga informed us that our time at his lovely establishment was up. He paid us what we were owed, and we were asked to kindly vacate the premises.
So ended a very strange chapter in my music career. Talk about my Evil Mistress; what the hell was she doin’ to me?
Hey. It’s only life . . . it’ll pass.