by Bill Moody
There’s a pause then, “Yeah, we’re fine.”
Haynes nods. “Let’s do ‘Porkpie’ first, okay?” And to me, “Right on it?”
I nod in agreement and wait for the cue from the engineer.
“Okay, we’re rolling. Roy Haynes, take 1, ‘Goodbye Porkpie Hat.’”
I count…1..2..slow ballad tempo and play the first chord of the melody. Carter’s bass pulses in my ear and Haynes, brushes in hand, swirls in circles on the snare, implying the tempo. It feels so relaxed it’s like playing at home, or that day I was at Cal’s house, only now I have one of the best drummers and bass players in jazz. I play two choruses, glance up at both of them to signal I’m going out and we end with Haynes rolling with mallets on the cymbal and Carter drawing out a long bowed line on the last note.
We all freeze for a few seconds, allowing time, then hear a click and the engineer’s voice. “Fuck, we gotta keep that one,” Buzz says.
Haynes says, “Definitely. You okay with that one, Evan.”
“Yeah, unless Ron wants to solo one.”
Carter shakes his head. “No, thanks.”
Haynes says, “Let’s hear it back, Buzz.”
I get up and walk out to the drums to listen with Haynes, knowing I’ll never play it any better. As the playback fills the room, Haynes nods, smiling, shaking his head. “Beautiful, man. Just beautiful.”
When the playback finishes, Buzz, the engineer, comes in the studio and moves one of the microphones on Haynes’ drums slightly. “The up tune now, right?”
“Yeah,” Haynes says. Ron Carter joins us and we talk over tunes and how we’ll do it, but Haynes has another idea. “You know ‘I Hear a Rhapsody,’ right?”
“Yes, play it a lot.”
“And ‘All Blues’?” He looks at Carter. “I know I don’t have to ask you,” he says. Some six years with Miles, Ron Carter must have played it hundreds of times, and of course I know it too.
“Cool, I got an idea. You’ll see what I mean. Come on.”
We go back into the booth with the piano. Haynes explains, snaps his fingers for the tempo he wants, and has me play the “All Blues” intro which is a repeated vamp in 6/8. “There,” he says. “That last note of the ‘All Blues’ vamp is the first note of ‘Rhapsody.’ See what I mean? Then after each section, we go back to that as a kind of interlude.”
I play it down a few times and marvel at how easy it fits. “You see?” Haynes says. “It sounds like we’re going to play ‘All Blues’ then we go right into ‘Rhapsody.’ It can mess with cats trying to sit in.” He laughs heartily.
“Mr. Haynes, you are so clever,” Carter says, with a grin.
“Why thank you, Mr. Carter.” Haynes bows slightly
Not at all what I’d planned to play, but sometimes, even in recording, it happens this way. The leader will pull a new tune out of the hat to raise the level of spontaneity, create something we didn’t know we would do.
Haynes and Carter go back to their places and we run through it together with no problem, then decide on a format for solos. “Evan, you do a couple or three choruses, Ron, you take a couple, then we’ll do some eights and take it out, ending with the ‘All Blues’ interlude, okay? And at the beginning, we’ll just vamp on that interlude till you’re ready, Evan.”
He turns and looks up toward the booth. “Okay, Buzz, let’s get one.”
There’s silence for a few moments, then Buzz: “We’re rolling. Roy Haynes, ‘I Hear a Rhapsody,’ take 1.”
Carter and Haynes poise for my cue and I begin the vamp. For a moment, I’m lost in the dream that Bill Evans played these exact same chords on Kind of Blue in 1959. I nod, feeling Haynes and Carter watching, and we go right into “Rhapsody.” I do three choruses, glance at Carter, who takes two, his beautiful tone singing through the headphones, then two choruses of eight bar exchanges with Haynes. He’s all over the drums but in such a melodic way, it’s always clear where he is in the tune, and more than demonstrating his nickname “snap crackle.” We take it home and play the “All Blues” interlude, vamping again until Buzz’s voice comes over. “I’ll just fade on the interlude, okay Roy?”
We all stop then. “Perfect,” Haynes says, “but let’s do one more since we got time. How about the thing we did for the level check, Evan. ‘Israel.’”
“Sure.”
We take it fairly up, like Bill Evans did with his later trios. Haynes pushing and prodding like we’re walking along a path in the woods with his hand on my back, guiding the direction, and Carter’s deep low tones anchoring everything. In a little over an hour, we’re done and everybody is happy with the playbacks.
“Damn,” Haynes says. “It’s going to be hard to choose between those two.” He hugs me and beams. “That ballad was beautiful, man.” He looks at me quizzically. “You got somebody important you just lost?”
“Yeah, I do,” I say, surprised at his insight.
“Uh huh. I can always tell. You know Mingus was thinking about Lester Young when he wrote it.”
Carter already has his bass packed up and he’s heading out. He stops and shakes hands. “I enjoyed it much,” he says. “Later, Roy.”
Cameron Brody comes over then, standing back expectantly, waiting for an introduction. “Roy, like you to meet a friend of mine. He’s a drummer too. Cameron Brody.”
Haynes turns and smiles and shakes hands with Brody. “Well, all right then,” he says. “Want to check out my drums?” He winks at me, and Brody looks like he’s going to faint.
“Thanks again, man,” Haynes says to me. “I’ll let you know how the mix comes out.” He points to the woman he’d been talking to earlier. “She’s from Downbeat, going to give us a little nudge on this project.”
“My pleasure.” I watch Brody circle the drums and tentatively sit down.
“Go on,” Haynes says. “Let’s see what you got.”
I signal Brody I’ll wait downstairs. Outside on the street, I light a cigarette and lean against the building, letting the euphoria wash over me, savoring one of those rare moments when I’ve done just what I wanted. I watch the traffic rush by, but my mind is still on the session, the sound of Ron Carter’s bass buzzing in my ear, and Haynes’ crackling snare and precise cymbal play. It takes me awhile, but by the time Brody joins me I feel like my feet are on the ground again.
“That was fucking awesome,” Brody says. “Man, can he play or what!”
I smile and start walking, letting Brody have his moment. He stops then, touches my arm. “That ballad was fantastic, Evan. You were really on.”
“Thanks.” I nod and keep walking toward midtown.
“We gotta celebrate, and I’m buying. Let’s get a real expensive dinner tonight.” He checks his watch. “I got a few things to do so let’s meet later. I know a place or you can choose.”
“Just tell me where,” I say. “I’m going back to the hotel and make a couple of calls.”
“Okay. Why don’t you come to my place and we’ll go from there.” He writes down his address on a card and hands it to me. “See ya.” He makes me laugh as he suddenly whirls around and points, then goes on down the street.
I stroll slowly back toward the hotel. I pass a coffee place near Times Square, and bring a tall one to an outside table. I take out my phone and call Andie.
“Hi,” she says. “How did it go?”
“Couldn’t have been better. It’s easy to play with great musicians and I just recorded with two of the best.”
“Oh, I’m so happy for you. Congratulations, babe. Wish I could have been there.”
“So how are you doing?”
“Pretty good. I took another walk today. My leg feels fine and I’m having a check on Monday. What are you doing now?”
“I’m going up to Boston to see my folks for a couple of days. Probably come back Monday or Tuesday.”
“Did you figure out what was bothering you about your mother?”
&nb
sp; “Not yet. Maybe when I see her.”
“It’s been awhile. Evan?”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just let me know how it goes, okay.”
“I will. You take care.”
“You too. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I hang up and once again feel something is off. First my mother, now Andie. Maybe I’m imagining things, but both nag at me and I can’t put my finger on either. I finish my coffee and make one more call.
“Dana? It’s Evan.”
“I was just thinking about you,” she says. “Did you do the recording already?”
“Yeah, just finished awhile ago. Everything went fine. Anything new with you.”
She sighs. “No, just trying to get this thesis done and I’m bored. Are you going to be coming through L.A. on the way back?”
“I hadn’t planned on it, why?”
“Oh I just thought it would be nice and Milton misses you.”
“Well give him a pat for me. I’m going up to see my mother for a couple of days. I’ll see how things go. You haven’t had any more calls or visits from Brent Sergent have you?”
“No, not a word.”
“Okay, well get back to work.”
“Yeah, I will. Bye, Evan.”
Back at the hotel, I call around the airlines and manage to get a round trip to Boston on a shuttle without too much trouble, going up Saturday morning and coming back late Sunday evening. I call my mother to let her know.
“That’s fine,” she says when I give her the flight information. “Your dad will pick you up.”
“That’s not necessary, mom. I can get a cab.”
“No, he wants to.”
“Well, okay then. See you tomorrow.”
***
The apartment Cameron Brody is staying in is in the West Village. He buzzes me in and I walk up to the second floor. The door is open and Brody is sitting on the couch, leaning over his laptop computer.
“Be right with you,” he says. “Just doing a little research.”
I sit down next to him and watch his fingers fly over the keys, the screens changing like a slide projector. He finally ends on a screen with a lot of figures and dates, mumbles something, then shuts down and closes the lid.
“Okay.”
“What was all that?”
“The reason I’m in New York. I’ve been tracking this blues singer. He doesn’t know it but he’s got a valid claim for some royalties on something he wrote years ago. With all this nostalgia thing happening, some newer group recorded one of his songs and it took off. So I got a check for him but he moved and didn’t leave any forwarding address.”
“And you can do all that on the computer.”
Brody smiles. “It’s amazing man, just amazing what you can do with one of these puppies if you know where and how to look.”
“Ever do any family history searches, genealogy, that kind of thing?”
He shakes his head. “No, but I can. Got somebody you want to look up?”
“Maybe later. Let’s get some dinner.”
Brody leads me to a steak house near the Village Vanguard. It’s down a few stairs below street level and about half full as we’re early. We get the whole scene—Caesar salad, baked potato, and a juicy New York cut of course, grilled to perfection. We share a carafe of burgundy and finally lean back sated and satisfied.
“So what are you plans now?” Brody stirs as coffee arrives.
“I’m going up to Boston to see my folks for a couple of days, then I guess back to San Francisco. What about you?”
“I have to take care of this royalty thing. I have an open ticket so I can go anytime. You coming back to New York or going straight from Boston?”
“I’ll come back here, I guess.” I realized how pumped I still was from the recording session, the energy of New York, and although I was anxious to get back to Andie, at the same time I was reluctant to leave the city.
Brody studies me a moment. “How serious are you about tracking down the Birth of the Cool recordings, seeing if your friend was responsible for some of the tunes?”
“Very. Why?”
“While you’re in Boston, let me do some searching. Hell, they were done right here. Why not check it out? The family search you have in mind, the woman you mentioned. What was her name? Lane?”
“Yeah, Jean Lane. Well, I don’t want to put you to any trouble. You have your own work.”
“Are you kidding? I love a good mystery too, and I owe you for Roy Haynes. You know what that would mean if we could find out your friend wrote any of those tunes?” He was grinning now, excited at the idea of the hunt. He takes out a small notebook and pen from his pocket. “Give me as much as you got.”
I give him Cal, Jean Lane, Kansas City, any other things and then I remember another name. Al Beckwood.
Brody looks up. “Who’s he?”
“I’m not sure, but he called a couple of times after Cal died. He left a number but I’ve never been able to get him.” I dig the number out of my wallet and he adds it to his list. He looks at the number for moment. “Something familiar about this name.” He shuts the notebook and puts it away. “It’ll come to me. Doesn’t sound too hard, man,” he says. “It’s not easy to disappear these days. People leave paper trails wherever they go.”
“Thanks. I appreciate this,” I say.
“Don’t mention it. I met Roy Haynes, played on his drums thanks to you. That’s worth a lot. Oh, give me your cell phone number too, in case I need to check with you.”
We walk outside and amble back toward Brody’s borrowed apartment.
“Want to catch some music? There’s the Vanguard, the Blue Note. Not sure who’s there.”
I catch myself yawning. “No, I think I’ll pass, just get some sleep. I’ve got an early flight in the morning and I’m still on west coast time.”
At his street, we shake hands and I wave down a cab. “Thanks again for dinner.”
“No problem. When you come back, you can crash with me. The couch is pretty comfortable.”
No calls or messages back at the hotel. I watch a little television but nod off a couple of times and finally turn it off. After that, I don’t remember a thing.
Chapter Ten
At Logan Airport in Boston, I catch sight of my dad’s dark blue van, emblazoned with Horne Printing & Copy Centers as soon as I come out of baggage claim. He pulls over and opens the door for me and claps me on the shoulder as I climb in. “Hey, Evan, good to see you.”
“You too, dad.” I throw my bag in the back and we’re off. Neither of us has much to say, the old awkwardness still there, as he maneuvers through the airport traffic, out into the city’s maze of one-way streets, working his way north, toward I-90. It’s only a few minutes till we’re on I-60, merging with the Saturday morning traffic headed for Medford.
“How’s mom?” I ask, reaching for my cigarettes. I still have that nagging feeling that something is wrong.
“Oh she’s fine, looking forward to seeing you. I have to run down to the Cape so you’ll have some time together. I won’t be back till late tonight.”
“Oh?”
He doesn’t respond, just keeps his hands on the wheel, and pulls the Red Sox baseball cap down more over his eyes.
“You mind if I smoke?”
“No, just crack the window if you will.”
Rolling down the window, I light up, holding the cigarette outside for the most part, watching the half familiar scenery fly by, feeling the chilly fall air rushing in despite the bright sun. The leaves are starting to turn bright orange and red.
I hadn’t spent much time here. My folks had moved from Santa Monica long after I left home, so I’d never actually lived here. There were some weekends when I was studying at the Berklee school in Boston, but never any long visits. It was a different life, a different world from the beach in Santa Monica, the small hous
e just above Wilshire, where Danny Cooper and I had spent countless hours playing pool in the garage and shooting baskets in the driveway.
It takes less than a half hour from Logan until we pull up in the driveway of the Horne house. Like the others on the street, it’s white clapboard, shutters, and a large front porch. The house looks freshly painted and the shutters are a dark green now. I see my mother sitting on the front porch, a cup of coffee in hand. She stands up and waves as I get out of the van. I turn to my Dad and reach behind the seat for my bag, but he’s still got the engine running, waiting for me to get out.
“Aren’t you coming in?”
“No, I have to get going.” He’s looking straight ahead. “You need to spend some time with your mother for this.”
I get out and look at him, before I close the door. “For what?”
But he’s already backing out of the driveway and pulling away. I look up at my mother. She’s standing now and briefly waves at the departing van, then turns to me. “Hi, son. Come on in.”
She has on a denim smock kind of dress with oversized pockets over a red turtle neck sweater. I walk up the few steps to the porch and hug her, then step back, my hands still on her shoulders. “What’s going on, Mom? Are you sick or something?” I search her face, flashing on everything possible—heart, cancer, stroke, some kind of surgery.
But she manages a smile and shakes her head. “No, honey, I’m fine. We just need to talk.” She motions to the two chairs. “Let’s sit out here and we can both smoke.”
I see an ashtray, a package of cigarettes and matches on the small table between two chairs. “When did you start smoking again?”
My mother had smoked much of her adult life, at least as far back as I can remember. I used to sneak cigarettes out of her packs of unfiltered Pall Malls, but she’d quit some years ago.
She sighs and looks at me. “I guess the day you called to tell me you were coming. Can I get you some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”
“Sure.” She takes her cup and goes inside. I sit down, more puzzled than ever. Since the day I called? I was still trying to remember the uneasiness I’d felt after that call, about something she’d said, but I still haven’t figured out what it is.
