by Bill Moody
I hear her sigh into the phone. “No I didn’t. I wish I had. I have some pictures of Calvin you’d like to see.”
“That would be great. I’ll be back in L.A. in a couple of days, maybe sooner.”
“Honey, didn’t nobody tell you?”
“No, nobody told me anything.”
***
Al Beckwood died four hours later.
I’d talked Mavis into a short walk outside, to get some air and away from the hospital for a few minutes. Al had been out for over an hour, sinking deeper into oblivion, the morphine drip doing its thing.
When we get out of the elevator, Doctor Chang is waiting, nodding somberly. “He’s gone,” is all he says.
Mavis nods and squeezes my hand. She’d said her goodbyes already. I take her over to a chair and let her sit down while I walk with the doctor.
“There was nothing more we could do,” he says. “She understands that, doesn’t she?”
“I’m sure she does.”
“I understand he was a musician. Are you a musician too?”
“Yes, piano. Al played trombone. He played in Miles Davis’ band for awhile. The Birth of the Cool,” I add, not really knowing why. To give Al Beckwood his due? “He was a friend of my father’s.”
The doctor stops and looks at me. “Really? I have some jazz records. Kind of Blue is one of my favorites. Is your father still alive?”
I pause for a moment, knowing it’s always going to be this way now. “No, he died just last week.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” He glances at his watch. “I have to go. If you, Mrs. Beckwood need some help with the arrangements, let me know.”
“Thanks.”
I go over and sit down with Mavis, and take her hand. “Are you okay?”
She nods and looks at me. There’s a peacefulness to her face now. “I know he’s better off now.”
“Mavis, what about funeral arrangements, do you—”
“No, darlin’. I already called my sister. She’s coming out. We’ll be fine.”
“You know you can call me.”
She nods again, gets up and goes to the nurses’ station, says something and comes back with a small box. “I almost forgot.” She hands me the box. “These are the tapes. They’re so old I don’t know if they even play now, but Al wanted you to have them.”
I take the box from her. “Thank you, Mavis. Thank you so much.”
She kisses me on the cheek. “I want to be with Al awhile.” She turns and walks back down the hall.
I get a taxi back to Brody’s apartment, but just as I step out, my phone rings.
“Evan Horne. Roy Haynes.”
“Hey, what’s up.”
“You still in New York?”
“Yes.”
“Cool. We’re going to mix your two tracks tomorrow morning. You want to come down and sit in on it? From what I’ve heard, they sound good.”
“Same studio?”
“Yeah. Ten o’clock okay?”
“No problem.”
There’s a brief pause. “You okay, man? You sound kind of down.”
“Thanks, I’m fine.”
“Well this will make you feel even finer. See you in the morning.”
I hang up and go inside, the box of tapes under my arm. Brody is stretched out on the couch, watching the news, his computer and a legal pad on the coffee table. He sits up when I come in.
“He’s gone?”
“About an hour ago.”
Brody shakes his head. “Man, cancer is such a fucking drag.” He glances at the box. “Are those the tapes?”
“Yeah, Mavis brought them to the hospital.”
He gets a knife from the kitchen and slits open the box. Inside are three reel to reel, three-quarter inch tapes. Brody picks one up. “You just don’t see these anymore. We’ll have to find a machine to play these. If they’re any good, we can transfer them to CD.”
I sit down and light a cigarette. “Maybe the engineer at the studio can help. Roy Haynes just called. They’re mixing tomorrow morning. He wants me to come by and hear the tracks we did.”
Brody says, “Cool. I can’t wait to hear these.” He puts the tape back in the box.
“I got in touch with Maybeline Jones too. She’s the one that lived with Calvin for awhile. She’s in L.A. and is willing to talk to me.”
Brody nods and smiles. “Looks like you’re going to get some answers now.”
“I hope so. I’ll try to get a flight out tomorrow night. Nothing more for me to do in New York.”
“Guess not. I’ve got to stay around a few more days for some ASCAP business, but let’s get together when I get back.”
“Sure. I’m going to L.A. first and see Maybeline, then head back to San Francisco. Have to see if I can change my flight without a big hassle.”
“Maybe Roy Haynes’ manager can help. What’s his name?”
“Larry Klein. Good idea.”
Brody yawns. “Well, I’m beat, I’ve been on the computer and phone all afternoon. I think I’m going to just hang here tonight. You got any plans?”
“No, I’ll just check in with Mavis, try to call Andie and Dana, the girl who’s renting Cal’s house.” I was starting to wonder why I couldn’t get Dana. I’d called several times.
“How’s that working out?”
“Far as I know, okay. Some developer is trying to force me to sell it though, but I think Dana can handle him.”
Brody nods and heads for the bedroom.
I sit for awhile after Brody goes to bed, just thinking about everything, trying to sort through all the things that have happened in a few short days. I glance down at Brody’s legal pad. He’s written some names and addresses down and also some doodles, probably while he talked on the phone. Near the bottom he’s printed several words in big letters.
Simplicity, complicity, multiplicity, duplicity—Boplicity!!!
***
I grab some dinner at a small cafe with outside tables and watch the Village throng of strollers, eating, sipping some red wine. One of the biggest cities in the world and I’ve never felt more alone. I wonder how Mavis will make it through the night. I order some coffee and call Dana.
“Evan, how are you?”
“Doing okay, how about you?”
“Still struggling with this thesis. Are you almost finished in New York?”
“Yeah, but little change in plans. I have some business in L.A. so I’ll be stopping over there for a couple of days.”
“Great, I’ll get to see you then.”
“Yes. How’s everything going with the house? No more hassles from Brent Sergent I hope.” She pauses a minute.
“No. He called once but I told him what you said.” There’s a brief pause, then, “Evan, are you sure you don’t want to consider his offer. I mean it is a lot of money. I hope you’re not worried about me. I can always get another place.”
“No, it isn’t that, Dana. I just don’t like his approach and I still haven’t decided what to do about the house. But don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of notice if I change my mind.”
“Okay,” she says, but doesn’t sound very convincing. “What about the search for Cal? Anything new?”
“Well a lot has been happening, but I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”
“Oh, you’re a terrible tease, Evan Horne. I can’t wait to hear.”
“You will, don’t worry. I’ll call you when I get in.”
“Yes, please. I want to know when you’re coming so I can have the house all neat and tidy.”
“I’m sure you will. Talk to you soon.”
“Bye.”
Andie is home too. “Hi, babe, how goes it?” I say.
“Very lonely without you here. How’s it going?”
“I caught up with Al Beckwood but he died this afternoon. He was in last stages of cancer.”
“Oh, Evan, I’m sorry. Di
d you get to talk to him?”
“Yes, quite a bit actually and he put me on to someone else. An old girlfriend of Cal’s who lives in Los Angeles. I’m going to see her in the next day or two if I can get a flight out of here. I’m about done with New York.”
She sighs audibly. “Well at least you’ll be that much closer. Then home I hope.”
“Yes, then home.”
“Thank God. I’m sick of sitting here alone. I’m itching to get back to work now. Just waiting for the doctor’s clearance. Imagine that, a clearance to sit at a fucking desk. Not field work but at least I’ll be in the loop again.”
I hesitate a moment. “Anything on that file?”
I hear Andie’s breathing for a moment, then, “I thought we were through with that.”
“We are, I just…oh, forget it.”
“I’m trying to.”
“Well just take it easy, girl. It’ll be soon enough.”
“What are you doing right now?”
“Sitting outside at a restaurant in the village, watching people walk by.”
“Plenty of girls to check out I imagine.”
“Hordes of them but they’re all with guys.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I get a flight.”
“I can’t wait.”
***
“Wow, haven’t seen one of these in a long time. Where did you get them?” Buzz Harris, the engineer asks me as he opens the box and looks at the tapes Mavis Beckwood gave me.
I’d arrived early for the mixing session for just this reason. “I just came into them recently. You know what kind of machine I’d need to play them.”
“Yeah, a reel to reel. Friend of mine has one. An old Akai but a mother to haul around. Long way from these iPods and MP3 players.” He rubs his finger over the end of the tape. “How old are these?”
“Late 1949, early 1950. Can they be transferred to CD?”
“Sure can. Remember those tapes of Bird that guy Dean Benedetti made on one of those old wire recorders? They’re all on CD now.” He looks around as Roy Haynes walks in, dapper as usual in a cashmere sweater, slacks, and loafers.
“Transfer what?” Haynes asks, looking at the tapes.
“Yeah,” Buzz says. “What’s on them?”
I feel their eyes on me. “Miles. Birth of the Cool band. Somebody made these during rehearsals.”
“Are you serious?” Haynes picks up one of the tapes.
“Well that’s what’s supposed to be on them.”
“You know these could be worth some money,” Haynes and Buzz say almost simultaneously.
I shrug. “I suppose so.”
Larry Klein walks in the booth then. “Hey, what’s going on? Did somebody say money?”
“Evan found some tapes of Miles band rehearsing Birth of the Cool,” Haynes says.
“What?” Klein’s mouth drops open.
They all gather around the box, looking at the large plastic reels.
“Dude, we have to hear these,” Buzz says. “I’ll call my friend, see if he’ll come over and bring his recorder.”
“Okay,” Haynes says. “Call him, but we got business to take care of.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and takes me out in the studio. “How’d you get these?”
I tell him about Al Beckwood, the rehearsals, and Calvin. “I just recently found out he was my father. He made a few of the rehearsals, but he wasn’t on record.”
Haynes nods. “And you wish he was, don’t you. He play piano too?”
“Yes. Calvin Hughes.”
Haynes looks away, shaking his head. “Don’t recognize the name, but hell, that don’t mean anything. I was around then too, but Max Roach had that gig.” He looks back at me. “Is your father still alive?”
“No, he died a couple of weeks ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. That’s why you sounded down on the phone.”
“Yeah, I guess. Thanks. I only found out a couple of days ago from my mother. I’ve been trying to track down some of his friends. Al Beckwood was one and he had these tapes. But when I went through Cal’s things, I found some lead sheets of ‘Boplicity’ and a couple of others.”
“Roy, we’re ready.” Buzz’s voice comes over the studio speaker.
“Come on, we’ll talk more later.”
We go back in the booth as Buzz cues up the first tune. Larry Klein sits in a chair near the front of the control board, watching Buzz’s hands on the slide controls as the first notes of “I Hear a Rhapsody” come through the monitor speakers. On a screen in front of Buzz, an LCD screen flashes squiggly lines. It looks almost like a heart monitor.
“Jesus,” Larry Klein says, swiveling in his chair and looking from me to Roy. “That’s a hot track.”
Haynes, smiling, nodding his head. “Buzz, you’re a magician.”
We listen to the whole track. Haynes’ stick on the cymbal is so clear and definite, the cymbal beat so varied, and Ron Carter’s buzz tone bass underlying it all. The track ends and Buzz leans back and looks at Haynes.
“Don’t do anything,” Haynes says. He looks at me, raising his eyebrows.
I’m just awed at the sound. “Is that me?” I can’t think when I sounded better, but with Ron Carter and Roy Haynes behind me how could I not.
“Okay, save that one, Buzz. Let’s hear the ballad.”
Larry Klein shakes his head. “You fooled me. I really thought it was going to be ‘All Blues.’”
Buzz cues up the ballad, “Goodbye Porkpie Hat,” and except for a couple of places where he nudges up Carter’s bass, we all agree it’s a good take. Haynes brushes are silky smooth on the snare drum.
“That’s it,” Haynes says.
Buzz nods and fills in a form with the titles and personnel and the time of each track, and it’s all saved on the hard drive.
Haynes gives me a hug. “You sound great, man. I have to call Fletcher Paige and thank him for turning me on to you.”
“Say hi for me.”
“You got it.” He glances at his watch. “I got a meeting pretty soon, but I’ll call you and we’ll talk some more, okay?” He glances again at the box of tapes. “Let me know how those are. Maybe we can do something with them.” He looks at Larry. “Are we cool with Evan’s bread?”
Klein reaches in his coat pocket and takes out a check and a release form for me to sign.
“Thanks. Any chance I could rearrange my ticket? I need to stop in L.A. before I go home.”
Klein shrugs and looks a Haynes. “Might be a cancellation fee.”
“Give him what he wants,” he says to Klein.
“I’ll pay the difference,” I say.
“No problem. When do you want to leave?”
“Well tonight if possible.”
Klein nods and takes out his cell phone. “Let me see what I can do.”
“Later,” Haynes says and follows Klein into the studio and heads for the exit.
Buzz leans back. “You want to grab some coffee or something? My friend said he’d be over soon.”
“Okay. I’ll be downstairs.”
I go out back down to the street and light a cigarette, my heart still not slowing. Two tracks on a Roy Haynes CD and Beckwood’s tapes about to be revealed. I can’t decide which feels better, and I can hardly wait to meet Maybeline Jones.
I walk around the block looking for coffee, finally getting a Styrofoam cup from a hole in the wall place next to an electronics store.
“It ain’t Starbucks, but it’s fresh,” the guy behind the counter says.
I add cream and sugar, press a lid on top and take a sip. “It’s good too.”
When I go back upstairs, Buzz and his friend have a reel to reel recorder set up and plugged in.
“Hey,” Buzz says. “We got it happening in a minute. This is Joey, sound guy for Madison Square Garden.”
“Hi,” I say. Joey is a tall slim guy in jeans an
d a Eric Clapton tee shirt. He nods and continues threading the tape through the heads of the recorder, finally looping one end over the right reel.
“Okay, you ready?” He switches on the recorder and I hold my breath.
There’s a lot of background noise, papers being rattled, muted conversations we only get snatches of and some bumping sounds.
“Setting the microphone up,” Joey says.
Then the piano, some chords, runs, like somebody warming up. Somebody laughs and we hear a few notes from a couple of the horns. Who was there that day? Gil Evans, Gerry Mulligan, Max Roach? My mind reels through the personnel. If that’s Cal at the piano, then John Lewis is doing something else.
Finally a raspy voice says, “Let’s play it down.”
“Wow, is that Miles?” Buzz says.
“Don’t sound like him,” Joey says.
“Maybe it’s Gil Evans.”
“No, man, Miles was the leader.”
There’s a shaky start and stop sequence as Miles says something else that’s hard to hear, then an almost complete play through of “Boplicity.” Miles stops things and we hear him say, “Cal, hold that chord there, at the end, longer.”
Cal’s voice then, sounding younger but no doubt it’s Cal. “Sorry, I got it now.”
“Don’t be sorry, motherfucker, just play it.” Then Miles and some others laughing.
They start again and go through the whole tune. I strain, listening. The quality is not balanced or clean but we can hear the whole band. The rest of the tape is similar. Lots of noise, short conversations, remarks, clearly the sound of a bottle opening as the rehearsal continues. We listen to the whole tape. It stops in the middle of one tune and the tape runs through the recorder then flapping as it spins off the empty reel.
I watch Joey and Buzz look at each other. “I could clean this up a bit,” Buzz says.
“Yeah, it’s recorded at fifteen so we can fix it a little.” They continue talking as if I’m not there. Two recording guys immersed in technical jargon about tape speeds, static noise, blank spots. Finally, they look at me.
“Can you transfer those to a CD?”
Joey nods. “Sure, not a problem. I’m on a deadline for another project though. Can you leave them with me?”
I feel only the slightest hesitation to let the tapes out of my sight. “I’m going back to California tonight. Let me pay you for your time.”
