by A. G. Lafley
Around that time, Moses Garland offered me another job.
“When you gonna pick me up?” I asked.
“Now, Clyde, you know I rather not come in your neighborhood.” He lived up in Montclair, some ten miles north. Hell, I been living in Newark since 1950 and nobody ever bothered me, day or night. Never lived in a slum, but damn, I guess he rated everything south of Montclair as bad territory.
“Some of your audience,” I said, “live right in my building. If you can’t do this, forget it.”
Never heard from Moses or Joe Garland again.
It was mid-1972 that I went to England for a few weeks’ vacation. Never been there and so many people still writing me. People I never met.
Left Kennedy Airport on TWA airlines, Monday night, June the twelfth. It was the first time I been in a airplane since I went up in that old crate with Marion Hardy in ’32. Couldn’t believe this plane was so big, long, and wide. Hundreds of people sitting inside. And when that damn 747 took off: SHHH . . . WOOSH. We were gone.
People was so nice to me in England—fussing, treating me like someone special. Taking loads of pictures. I stayed at Stewart-Baxter’s house and everybody all came in, musicians and fans, keeping me up until four in the morning talking about the old days, about bands, musicians, America. Felt like visiting royalty. Derrick got me some guest appearances in clubs and colleges and a interview on the BBC. Some jazz concerts too. One in a old castle, looked like maybe six hundred years old.
I guess I been rediscovered. Or discovered. Whatever.
30. The Harlem Blues and Jazz Band, 1972–1979
When I returned home from England, I got some solid New York guys together again for another session and went in the Sanders Recording Studio over on 48th. Derrick and me talked about recording with a bigger band, with old-timers that had the feeling for older songs and could provide me with strong blues backing like Joe Turner and Jimmy Rushing always had.
This time I called my group the Harlem Blues and Jazz Band because I always wanted to give Harlem credit for all the greats that played there in the 1920s and thirties. Everybody reads about bands working Chicago, Kansas City, and New Orleans, but I knew Harlem was the melting pot and wanted everybody else to know, too.
I had Jack Butler on trumpet; Charlie Holmes, alto; Happy Caldwell, tenor; Earl Knight, piano; Snags Allen, guitar; Jimmy Shirley, bass; Rip Harewood on drums; and I took the singing and trombone parts. These were the good guys. Could play hell out of the blues and kept a firm, steady beat all the way.
At the recording session I let the boys stretch out, play as they felt, really dig in and push. Everybody had plenty of solo space. I taped twelve numbers, all vocals, on July 17, 1972, after one rehearsal.
I remember there was this white fellow in the studio at the time that old man Sanders called in. Didn’t know who the hell he was but right away he wanted to buy my tape, pay all expenses, and sign us up for club work. Was fast talking, trying to tie me up—a real slicker. As soon as I could, I sent the tape over to England.
Some weeks later, Dr. Albert A. Vollmer, a orthodontist that lives up in Larchmont, New York, called me. He’s a big jazz fan and friend to all musicians. Heard me playing with Alvis, and I agreed to come up to a little houseparty he was having on August 14.
His house looked just like a mansion sitting up on a hill. Lots of trees. Tall roof way up. Ducks swimming in a back lake. There was at least a hundred people at this “little” party, some walking outside on the lawn or sitting around the pool, eating and drinking. Some were just standing and talking, while others were listening to Barry Martyn and his six-piece British dixieland band playing right in the middle of the living room.
Hayes Alvis was there too, and so was Wild Bill Davison and J. C. Higginbotham. People from England and Europe. Fans. Writers. Friends. And a gang of other musicians.
As the party went on, all the guys sat in and sounded so loose, so relaxed. I sang a lot of blues and took some hot solos. Doc even put me up overnight, and the next day I rode back to town with Barry Martyn.
I finished the rest of the year playing more pickup jobs with Mel Morris, and I even brought pianist Jay Cole in his band.
“Don’t get me any colored guy with a big Afro,” he told me. “They’re too militant.”
Jay was the younger brother of drummer Cozy Cole and a wonderful, quiet man. He fit in good.
Right after Christmas, Alvis called to tell me he had a list of jobs lined up for his Pioneers of Jazz and was going to feature me with top billing. We were both excited about the work that was coming our way.
Two days later, Doc Vollmer called that Hayes Alvis died in his sleep. I was very shocked—he was just about a year younger then me and seemed in pretty good health. Had a pacemaker, but never bothered him. All of Hayes’ jobs was cancelled behind that.
My second LP album, “Blues and Jazz from Harlem” with eight numbers came out on December 22 in England and Doc had copies. This was the July session I did on my own in New York. The reviews talked of the great oldtimers coming back, of musicians that should of got their jazz notice long ago but didn’t.
My guitarist, Snags Allen, for example, been working for years with the Supremes when I got him for the session.
The album became a smash all over England and Europe. Got a good advance and royalty check every three months from the record company, Saydisc, a part of the Matchbox Company. That didn’t happen often in America—foreign business people are good to deal with that way.
In the spring of 1973, Doc called again and we talked long about the possibilities of working the Harlem Blues and Jazz Band. Getting paying jobs. Went up to his March 4 party to talk details. Jay drove and Cozy came along too.
As we rode quietly along the New Jersey Turnpike toward the George Washington Bridge, Jay turned to me.
“Tell me Clyde,” he said, “how come you known so many important white people in your life?”
That was a question I long thought about. Harold Oxley. Leonard Feather. Mort Browne. Derrick Stewart-Baxter. All very important to me in opening up doors.
As we crossed the old Bronx and headed up to Larchmont on the New England Thruway, I kept looking out the window. I didn’t know the answer to Jay’s question. But I knew for certain my bad-luck cycle was over.
It was another of those sensational parties at Dot and Doc Vollmer’s house. Musicians coming out of the walls. New York guys. Chicago guys. The house was full. A whole lot of wives and friends packed in there, too.
The Chicago boys came in from a concert in Connecticut the night before and were playing hot when we arrived. When they finished, Doc had the New York guys hit some numbers. Then he asked me to sit in and take charge.
I remember we stomped off Sweet Georgia Brown. I let the guys take their solos and when they did, I set a steady riff behind them—made it sound real heavy, and even the Chicago boys started listening and applauding. When someone asked for a blues, I did Rudy Toombs’ 5–10–15 Hours, and it went over so good that Doc Vollmer jumped in on his soprano sax and took some choruses himself.
Later, Doc called me aside. “The Harlem Blues and Jazz Band should be out working jobs,” he said. “About six tight pieces. And I think you ought to be leader with your name out front.”
It was a interesting offer, but I kept thinking about all the trouble I had with my other bands. And troubles other leaders always had—especially when they started doing good.
“Leading a band is just too much heartache for me,” I said. “Don’t know if I can handle it.”
“I’ll try to get you some bookings,” he insisted. “Maybe a record date, too.”
“Tell you what, Doc,” I said. “I’ll front the band. Be the M.C., call numbers, stomp off and do things like that. But you gotta take over the business end and manage it. Handle the money part. Hire and fire. See the guys get to the job and all that.”
“I guess I can do that, Clyde.”
So we had a agreement. Whil
e Doc was getting the details worked out, I kept gigging with Mel Morris and Jay Cole in and around Newark.
At Doc’s next party in June of 1973, I introduced him to the veteran singer from Newark, Miss Rhapsody, and suggested he feature her as a added attraction. Her real name was Viola Wells and had picked up that stage name back in the thirties. Had a big career on TOBA, and I remember my brother in ’35 being crazy about her singing. When I heard her in 1942 she was working in front of Count Basie’s orchestra at the Apollo.
At this June party we just about had a band put together. George James was on alto—worked with Fats Waller, Louis Armstrong, and others; Franc Williams, a top trumpet man, been with Art Tatum and Duke Ellington; Tommy Benford drummed with Jelly Roll Morton (and more then 107 other bands as he so often said).
Barbara Dreiwitz, a young white girl, played tuba in Woody Allen’s group around New York; Jay Cole—his real name was June Reubin Cole—worked with bassist Doles Dickens at the Zanzibar and small black groups all around Newark.
Jay was a damn good arranger and knew how to make his ideas work, so I made him a partner. Called the band: the Clyde Bernhardt/Jay Cole Harlem Blues and Jazz Band. And Doc agreed to make Miss Rhapsody our lady singer.
This was one hell of a band. High-spirited, everybody into it and drove a beat that made people just jump up. Nobody listening could keep still. And every damn player knew how to take care of a blues. Every one.
Man, we rocked the house all day at that June party, and people kept saying how good we worked together.
That’s the way most experienced veterans are—doesn’t take much to fit in with one another.
Had a rehearsal up at the Vollmer’s a few months later and selected our favorite jazz and blues numbers. Set up the solos, set up the order. Adolphus “Doc” Cheatham filled in on trumpet and Charlie Holmes on alto, but everybody else was there. Including Miss Rhap.
During our rehearsal break everybody got to talking about the old days and the many great blues singers we all saw or worked with. Heavy names flying around: Bessie Smith, Ma Rainey, Mamie and Clara Smith, Ethel Waters, Sarah Martin, and on and on—all the best.
“But,” I finally said, “that old Princess White didn’t back up from none of them. She was about the very best stomp-down blues singer I ever saw, and I heard her at her prime in 1918.”
“Yeah,” added Cheatham. “I played many times behind her at the Bijou in Nashville. That woman could lay down some blues, man.” He shook his head thinking about it. “When Princess did her thing, that house was in her hands.”
“I wonder where Princess is at?” I asked.
“Last I heard she was living in Winston-Salem,” Cheatham said, “and that was more then thirty years ago.”
“If she is living,” I said, “she be way up in her nineties by now.”
I knew most of the other singers we were talking about were long gone, and Princess was a grown woman when I was a kid.
Jay Cole left and Dr. Albert Vollmer right discussing our recording session at Warp Studios, New York City, Nov. 10, 1973. (Photo courtesy of Dr. Albert Vollmer.)
I don’t know, I had this mysterious feeling about her—she kept coming to my mind. The following day I went down to the Negro Actors Guild to see if they had any record of her death or knew her whereabouts. Asked a lot of old-timers also. Nobody knew.
The Harlem Blues and Jazz Band recorded its first record at the Warp Studios in New York on November 10, 1973. Stagolee, Frankie and Johnny, and You Don’t Know My Mind was some of my vocals and Rhap did Sweet Man among others. Ten days later we went back in the studio and put down mostly straight instrumentals to balance out our first session.
The album was called “More Blues and Jazz from Harlem,” and Doc put out the record under his own 400 W. 150 label, which was actually Charlie Holmes’ address. Eight songs was released and Doc added a ninth, my 5–10–15 Hours taped at the March party. It was a terrific album, and he had to repress it a couple times because it sold out.
I was getting on to seventy years of age by now. This was also about the time I was being bothered by someone I thought to be my friend—won’t call the name because I still respect this individual—but the pressure got very strong. Objected to my involvement with the band, said I was “stupid” not going on my own, play my own dates, make my own records. Said bad things about Doc Vollmer and stuff like that.
Hell, my luck cycle was going good now and here I was suppose to change it. I knew what I was doing, but the pressure kept getting nastier. Insulting. Couldn’t figure it out. Started losing sleep, started to worrying, getting indigestion pains every day.
By June 3, 1974, I was feeling bad. Very bad. It was so terrible, I called my brother to take me right over to the Beth Israel Medical Center emergency room. The doctor took some tests and told me I was having a heart attack—said if I waited one more day, it would of been too late.
Maybe it was caused by the pressure I was getting. Perhaps my long, hard years of working on the road was the cause—things like that do build up. But when the hammer falls, that’s it.
I was in the hospital three weeks and two days and didn’t play for months after that. Not even to practice, and I always practiced every day except Sunday from the time I started trombone lessons in 1922.
Doc Vollmer held up all bookings until I recovered. It wasn’t until September 22 that my doctor gave me permission to play—if I promised to take it easy. No heavy stuff, he said.
Some weeks after I got back on my feet, October twenty-seventh to be exact, Rhap invited me and some of the boys to her church for a special gospel program. This was at the New Eden Baptist Church over on South 12th in Newark. Not too far from where I lived.
We all sat toward the back of the church, and during the program Rhap gave me a poke in the ribs with her elbow. I leaned over.
“See that lady sitting down there at the end of the third row?” she whispered. “That’s Mother Durrah and she’s ninety-three years old.” I had to look again because the woman seemed only in her sixties. She was sitting tall and erect, had a pretty hat on and a fox-fur cape spread nicely around her shoulders. “She’s the mother of our church,” Rhap added.
Later, as we walked out in the dining area where they was serving hot fried chicken, chitlin’s, and sweet-potato pies, the lady in the third row came strolling over briskly.
“Mother Durrah,” said Rhap, “I’d like you to meet Clyde Bernhardt.” I looked in her eyes and damn if I didn’t get a mysterious feeling. I knew those eyes.
Rhap continued: “When Mother Durrah used to be a headliner in show business she went by the name of Princess White.”
I was speechless. It was Princess White! She put on some pounds, but it was her. Tall. Angular. Indian complexion. I grabbed both her hands in mine.
“Princess White, Princess White,” I kept saying over and over. She smiled and memories of all her beautiful music came flooding back to me.
As we sat eating sweet-potato pies, I told her about the first time I saw her at the Community Theater in Badin, North Carolina. It was April of 1918. She was singing the Hesitating Blues and broke up the house.
She laughed. “Oh Lord, I done forgot all those times.”
“And you sang Darktown Strutter’s Ball and Ja-Da, Ja-Da, JingJing Jing, two great numbers. Nobody around there had ever heard those new songs before.” She laughed again. “And in 1920 I delivered you a telegram at the Brooks Dreamland Theater and you give me a dollar tip because the message was from Charles P. Bailey of the 81 Theater in Atlanta that offered you a open-ended booking at top dollar of seventy-five a week.”
She let out a howl. “Honey, I didn’t think nobody remembered this old lady like that. Talk on, boy, talk on.”
I reminded her about the time I backed her at the Lafayette in 1933 with the Whitmans. And me seeing Ethel Waters up in the box every night watching her closely as she sang Stormy Weather. I thought she was one of the greatest jazz and blues singers tha
t ever lived and told her that, too. We talked on and on. It was a sweet reunion.
I couldn’t resist asking the big question. “Are you still singing, Princess?”
“yes, I’m still singing, but I’m working for the Lord now.” When I explained that I had my own band and wanted her to come on as a special walk-on guest, she looked surprised. “Oh Clyde, I retired in 1948 and I was old then. Nobody knows me now—my singing in public is over.”
Her pastor, the Reverend J. H. Shorter, happened to walk by and she introduced us. “Reverend, this old boy here is trying to talk me back into show business.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Reverend Shorter said, sitting down beside her. “God gives some of us the talent to express ourselves better then others. If a person doesn’t use it, no matter how old she is, then that is a sin.”
She thought a while. “I was a name long before they had microphones, before radio, before television,” she said. “Who wants to hear a old lady like me sing?”
I thought the pastor’s words gave her a little encouragement, but she kept laughing it off. We exchanged numbers and had many long phone conversations after that. But she wouldn’t come back.
On November 8, the Harlem Blues and Jazz Band went on its first job, the Mamaroneck High School auditorium up in Larchmont, New York. The audience ate up everything we did. They didn’t have a microphone there and I got to really shouting the blues. Had to control myself—not good to take chances behind a heart attack.
In the months to follow we worked many other concerts and private parties. I never realized how much music meant to me since I was working with the Harlem Blues and Jazz Band—enjoyed it more then anything else I could think of doing. Playing and singing the good numbers, hearing people all whooping and hollering, coming over, asking questions, wanting to know more about the band. Shaking Jay’s hand. My hand. Treating us so respectful.
