by A. G. Lafley
By the end of the seventies, Bob Williams had taken Franc Williams’ place in the band and Ram Ramirez came in for Dill Jones. It was a hell of a good band.
As I told Doc up front, I never wanted the problems of running a band—had enough in my time of disagreeable people, arguing people. But from the beginning, one or two guys in the band acted arrogant. Didn’t agree with the music selections. Kept trying me. But I paid it no mind—or seemed not to.
Once one of the guys came on the bandstand forty minutes late and didn’t even say “excuse me”—didn’t even say “hello,” either. That wasn’t too friendly. But Doc was lenient and didn’t notice that kind of business. But I did.
Musicians like that are their own worst enemy and don’t show their behinds until the band starts progressing—that’s when you find out who is who. Stuff like that makes a lot of unhappiness. For everyone.
My doctor warned me to keep away from worrisome problems, but it kept on building with many other little, upsetting things over the nearly seven years I was with the band. Finally, on May 21, 1979, in Lausanne, Switzerland, I gave Doc my notice. My health was more important to me then anything else. Or anybody.
Program cover for the Stuttgart Jazz Society, June 1978, Dixieland Hall, Stuttgart, West Germany.
To me, the Harlem Blues and Jazz Band was like family. I was proud to work with them, be out front and in the spotlight, hear applause, and get all that notice. Doc had put me higher then I ever been before.
But even families break up. I had to leave.
31. The Legends of Jazz, 1979–1986
Barry Martyn had his Legends of Jazz since 1972 and started up a second group out in Los Angeles. Asked me to join that group permanently and work a record date with them. But I was still finishing up with my other band and couldn’t take the date. So he left room for me on the records, and in July of 1979, I went in a New York studio and overdubbed some trombone parts on a couple numbers and a vocal on my Red River Blues.
His regular Legends had Andrew Blakeney who played trumpet with Kid Ory back in the forties; New Orleans pianist Alton Purnell; clarinet and tenor man Sammy Lee; Adolphus Morris, string bassist; and trombonist Louis Nelson.
Barry Martyn, the leader and drummer, was the only white in the group, and the youngest member. Everyone else was in his seventies or eighties.
The original Legends recorded on January 2, 1980, and both band sessions came out together on the Blue Boy label.
Barry’s second group didn’t get off the ground, so I took Louis Nelson’s place with the originals, and later Floyd Turnham came in for Sammy Lee on tenor and clarinet regularly.
There were many gal singers in there, too, one at a time of course. Carol Cass and I did a number together, Oh Mr. Clyde, Play That Trombone, and it went over big. Deborah Woodson, who appeared in New York shows, took over later with her big voice—that gal knows how to upset a audience even though she’s very young. And we still do that duo act together.
When I joined, the guys all thought I was a Kansas City musician. Or maybe New Orleans. Said I played more Southern style then some born down there.
See, they didn’t know I grew up listening to New Orleans brass men and a lot of that rubbed off on me. A little riff here, a little phrase there. Mix it up just like gumbo soup in my own way.
I think I’m blessed at my late age because I now blow certain lip trills and vibratos that I couldn’t do at top speed in my big band days. I admit I played higher then, but with my denture plates I’m glad I still hit a high C when I have to.
The Legends of Jazz work on a show called “1,000 Years of Jazz” and includes the Original Hoofers, four hot specialty dancers. The show is booked by Mel Howard of the International Ballet and Festival Corporation.
Lon Chaney, the leader of the Original Hoofers, does his flash specialty, a paddle-and-roll step. Ralph Brown is the same dancer I worked with in 1944 at the Club Plantation in St. Louis. He brings back a hell of a lot of memories when he demonstrates Bill Robinson’s famous style. Jimmy Slyde glides around the stage as if he is ice skating—a sensation. George Hillman still does this terrific head-high kicking stuff he did when I backed him and his brother at Smalls, and he’s the oldest of the dancers.
Everything the boys do—spins, flips, bent-knee steps, spread-eagle jumps, taps, soft shoe, acrobatic—makes one hell of a act. Many of them worked top places like the Cotton Club in the old days.
The Legends make a damn nice appearance on the show—maroon jackets with a fancy patch on the pocket. We played those good old jazz, blues, and popular numbers like Darktown Strutters’ Ball; St. Louis Blues; Bill Bailey; and Bugle Call Rag. Barry spots me for a vocal solo—Red River Blues or one of my other originals. A terrific two-hour show.
The day I joined, July 23, 1979, I put in a long band rehearsal, overdubbed that Blue Boy record, and by suppertime was rushing out to Kennedy Airport to leave on a heavy tour of Italy and Yugoslavia with the show.
I can’t begin to call all the places we worked ever since. England, France, Germany, Austria, Belgium, and Holland. Switzerland, Denmark, Norway, and Finland. And Monaco. The West Indies. The Virgin Islands. Central America. Down through South America. Up to Canada. At least twenty-five countries and hundreds of cities around the world and about every state in the U.S.
We once appeared in Las Vegas at the Theater for Performing Arts at the Aladdin Hotel—the biggest damn auditorium I ever saw in my life. We made a TV show out in Los Angeles on August 26, 1981. Played the Lincoln Center in New York City; the Ohio Theater in Columbus, the largest in the state; the Teatro De La Ciudad in Mexico City; appeared on a live TV show in Greece, and was interviewed over the BBC in London. Also played a private performance for Prince Rainier, his family and friends, at the Princess Grace Theater in Monte Carlo.
The audiences are beautiful everywhere we go. When I hear Europeans and South Americans cheering, I know they probably don’t understand all the lyrics but still want more. I always said that jazz is a international language and people all over the world sure understand it.
I can’t be more pleased with the Legends. How could a man think of retirement when he is still needed? Doing what he enjoys. Being appreciated.
When I take a riff, do something I didn’t do before, the musicians around me all smile. “That sound nice, man,” they say. What more can I ask for?
God has certainly been good to me. Yes sir.
I often think how Papa told me he would watch over me my whole life. And I know he is doing just that. I know.
One of the best bookings we ever got was at Ford’s Theater in Washington, D.C. We opened the ninth of September 1982 and stayed five weeks. The show was flashed on the TV news, articles in newspapers, radio interviews. Reviews everywhere.
I never heard as much applause as I did in that theater. I always known Washington to be like Baltimore—mighty tough to please. That town had the rep of not applauding even if Jesus Christ himself came on stage. I played there before with some of the top names—Bill Robinson, the Nicholas Brothers, the Ink Spots, and plenty others—all went over good, but I never saw any of them get standing ovations like we got in that town. I thought there was nothing that could top the excitement we were creating at Ford’s Theater. Nothing.
Barry Martyn and his Legends of Jazz, Helsinki, Finland, Nov. 6, 1983. Front row, left to right: Floyd Turnham (ts/cl), Herbert Permillion (tp/voc), Deborah Woodson (voc), Clyde Bernhardt (tb/voc); back row, left to right: Walter Lewis (p/v), Barry Martyn (ldr/d/v), Adolphus Morris (sb). (Photo by and courtesy of Bjorn Barnheim.)
But I was wrong.
During our run, they said we were all invited to the White House for lunch with President Ronald Reagan, and at night there would be a command performance for the President at the theater.
September 25, 1982, was the date. We arrived outside 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in our black tuxedos, and the security was heavy. We got checked out, patted down, and they took their time looking long
at my identification—worse then going through a airport.
The greatest thrill of my life was to greet President Ronald Reagan at the White House, Washington, D.C., Sept. 25, 1982. (Photo courtesy of the White House.)
Stepping into the White House, I could not believe how elegant it was. The fancy panelled walls, even the ceiling was decorated. Heavy window drapes folded just right. Tremendous chandeliers hanging low with sparkling cut-glass and gold. Fine porcelain, antique furniture. I was overwhelmed.
This little old trombone player from North Carolina coming to meet the President. I’m not political, but to me he represents all of America. I see him for who he is: the Number One Man. Can’t get no higher.
While I was standing in the reception room waiting, I thought of the other great moments in my life. The time I brought money home from shining shoes for my sick Papa. My first job with Tillie Vennie in 1925. The time my family cried seeing me with the Whitmans. Breaking up the Apollo with Russell. Leading my own bands. Finding Princess White. All precious memories I will never forget.
But this, this was the finale of them all. A dream. My hands were trembling. I felt Papa was near.
I looked up. Press photographers and TV news cameras all about. I never seen so many before. Flashbulbs going off everywhere, important government people coming in.
Suddenly, this friendly, smiling man walked towards me with his hand extended. I took it with both my hands and shook it vigorously.
“So glad to have you with us,” he said to me. It was the President of the United States.
I couldn’t answer, for I choked up. But one voice was far down within me.
Papa. Papa. Your little shoeshine boy has been accepted.
Coda
So, as I now pass my eightieth year, I have a lot to reflect on.
I’ve lived long. Seen much. And learned a hell of a lot. Most of my family is gone, but I still visit good friends and relatives almost every year down in North Carolina and Pennsylvania and enjoy talking over the old days.
Just recently, I visited the place in New London where I was living in 1915. About everything is gone now, with one exception—the old oak tree that Papa was sitting under when he died. I walked up to that tree and stood in the exact spot, thinking about my life for maybe a hour. Even touched the tree once or twice. I felt comforted.
I never wanted to be more then I thought I was. I knew where I came from and saw what I accomplished. Of course, I done a whole lot of dumb things in my life, but not intentionally—just didn’t know no better. I think I’m smarter now and realized we all must take bad luck along with the good. I have much to thank God for letting things come my way and having important people help me find my way. I always put Him first in my life.
But for reasons too deep to understand, I met so many that want to hold me back. Even as a kid, people criticized me. When I became a musician they laughed at my efforts, tried to discredit me. When I got to working top jobs, they seemed jealous of my success. Talked nasty. Snubbed me.
I heard it said I’m too sensitive, but it’s a damn hard pill to swallow. I work hard, try to do my best to make something of myself and people, instead of encouraging me, try to pull me down. Never did understand that.
There are also some high-minded blacks I meet that come down hard on jazz and blues.
“Oh, jazz,” they sneer, “that’s Uncle Tom music.”
Let me tell them that somebody’s been pumping a line of jive in their heads. This is American heritage music. It’s all we can claim, and when I say we, I’m talking about all Americans. Any color American. We all have something to be proud of.
When I hear my own running down what our forefathers made famous, I get angry—it’s a disgrace. Some black kids think they too damn good to play jazz. Or sing the blues. Well, they going to find out the hard way if they don’t change their attitude, the white kids will take it and go. There’s a hell of a lot of whites out there playing and singing this music that are very good. They’re not imitating it, they are playing it. And making money. They put a claim on something we threw down.
I tell colored people that jazz, blues, and even rock all comes from the church and they get mad. Don’t want to hear that. Mae Whitman often said, if you turn jazz around, ain’t nothing but gospel music. And that’s the truth. All music is God’s music. He gives us ideas so we can express ourselves any way we want.
The whole world loves American music. China. Russia. In Japan they have a group going under the name of the New Orleans Jazz Band, and I know damn well some of them never even been here. That’s how much they love our music.
Clyde Bernhardt and book collaborator Sheldon Harris, Jan. 1982. (Photo courtesy of Sheldon Harris.)
I hope this book encourages people to try hard to accomplish what they want to do. Study. Even sacrifice. If they got good common sense, they will find it pays off.
I know there are family and friends that may or may not respect me for what I’ve done in my life. But I don’t care anymore. I respect myself and that’s what it’s all about.
I’m having a ball now. Bought myself a piano and taking lessons again. Maybe when I retire, I’ll have a good hobby.
In the meantime I’m still playing my horn, singing my blues, still traveling the world. And having a damn good time doing it.
At my age, nothing surprises me anymore. Except when one of them big-eyed young gals come up to me on the job and starts in to flirting.
“Hi big daddy,” she smiles big. Never looks more then eighteen, of course. “Sure like if you took me out tonight,” she purrs.
“What?”
“You just my type, honey. Older men turn me on!”
“Gal, I’m old enough to be your grandpappy. What in hell you think I can do?”
“Just what the other men do.”
“Fool. That’s just what I can’t do.”
Man, that young gal just takes off fast and is long gone. Squealing and laughing.
Yes sir. I’m having a ball now.
Discography
I thank the following for helping me put together my recording details: David Griffiths; Sheldon Harris; the Institute of Jazz Studies at Rutgers University, Newark, New Jersey; Phil Schaap; Derrick Stewart-Baxter; Dr. Albert Vollmer.
Abbreviations
a
alto sax
arr
arranger
bs
baritone sax
bj
banjo
Br.
Brunswick
c
cornet
ch
chorus
cl
clarinet
CTJC
Connecticut Traditional Jazz Club
d
drums
Dec.
Decca
el-g
electric guitar
fb
fender bass
fh
flugelhorn
g
guitar
ldr
leader
mgr
manager
p
piano
Pol.
Polydor
sb
string bass
ss
soprano sax
t
trumpet
tb
trombone
ts
tenor sax
tu
tuba
v
vocalist
vib
vibraphone
vio
violin
Voc.
Vocalion
Vri.
Variety
Clyde Bernhardt
Clyde Bernhardt (v); Walter Bennett (p).
New York City, Spring 1932
Some of These Days (vCB)
(Rejected test)
Waitin’ for the Evenin’ Mail (vCB)
(Rejected test)
Alex Hill and His Hollywood Sepians
Joe Thomas (t); Dick Green (t); Clyde Bernhardt (tb); Fonley Jordan (tb); Albert Nicholas (cl/as); George James (as); Eugene Sedric (ts); Alex Hill (ldr/p); Eddie Gibbs (g); Billy Taylor (sb); Harry Dial (d).
New York City, Sept. 10, 1934
Edgar Hayes and His Orchestra
Bernard Flood (t/v); Henry Goodwin (t); Shelton Hemphill (t); Robert Horton (tb); Clyde Bernhardt (tb); John Haughton (tb); Stanley Palmer (as); Crawford Wethington (ts); Joe Garland (ts); Edgar Hayes (ldr/p); Andy Jackson (g); Elmer James (sb); Kenny Clarke (d); Orlando Robeson (v).
New York City, Mar. 9, 1937
NOTE: Variety 513 as Orlando Robeson.
Personnel same as for Mar. 9, 1937, except Leonard Davis (t) replaces Hemphill; Joe Britton (tb) replaces Haughton; Rudy Powell (cl/as) replaces Palmer; Roger Boyd (as) replaces Skerritt.
New York City, May 25, 1937
NOTE: Clyde Bernhardt states that matrix 62450-A by Bernard Flood was recorded at this session and 62219-A was by James Anderson from a 1938 date (see below, at “Early 1938”).
Personnel same as for May 25, 1937, except David James (tb) replaces Britton. Add Ruth Ellington (v).
New York City, July 27, 1937
NOTE: Brunswick 02482 of title Satan Takes a Holiday is retitled Spooky Takes a Holiday.
Clyde Bernhardt
