Johnny was the first person to arrive at the building. On an over cast Saturday afternoon, he sat out front for over two hours, watching a few crows fly overhead in search of a meal. Occasionally, a neighborhood kid walked past to inquire if Johnny was lost.
Clive finally arrived in his beat up truck. He jumped out from behind the wheel wearing a large smile and began to quiz Johnny. “I see your mamma let you come back, or didn’t you tell her where’d you be heading? And don’t lie to me boy, Clive don’t take kindly to no liars, you hear?”
“I ain’t gonna lie to nobody, and my mamma don’t tell me where I go and don’t.”
Clive laughed at Johnny. “Yeah, sure smart mouth. I been round the world and if there’s sumtin I know, mammas don’t like it when their boys wander off to strange lands, especially with colored folk. Or did you forget to mention that to your mamma?”
“I told her and my daddy where’d I be going and what I’d be doing, and here I stand. Maybe you ought be worrying if your band’s gonna show up and not bout my mamma.”
Again Clive laughed. “Them boys will come round here soon enough. Why don’t you come inside and tell me where you from. You might start with your name, boy.”
They wandered into the building each sitting on one of the tired wooden stools again staring at each other almost daring the other to blink.
“Not much to tell, I suppose. My name is Johnny Joe Jackson. I don’t got many friends, don’t like school, my daddy likes to yells at me, my mamma cries at me, even when I ain’t done nuttin wrong. Only thing I know is, I was counting days till I could hear y’all play.”
Clive looked closer at Johnny, almost as if he was trying to see into his soul. He wiped the side of his unshaven face from just under his nose to below his chin, waiting for more words from Johnny, but they never came. This time Clive blinked.
“Well Johnny long name, mine’s is Clive Johnson. My friends can call me Fingers, but right now, you ain’t yet one of my friends. Maybe someday you will be, but not today. I don’t make friends easy. You listen here. I got me some friends. I got em all round the world. You see, I used to play ball in the Negro league, but you ain’t likely to know much bout that, now do ya?”
“No, my daddy never was much on traveling too many places, and I never played no ball.”
“Well, I played all around parts of the south, all the way to Kansas City. One of my teammates was the greatest pitcher of them all, Satchel Paige. He’s the one who gimme the name 'Fingers.' Most people suspect it’s cause I play piana, but it ain’t. Satchel looked at the way I gripped that baseball with my long fingers, and he never did call me nuttin else.”
Johnny stopped Clive, “My daddy says Babe Ruth was the greatest of them all. He never told me bout no pitcher named Paige. But like I said, I don’t play no ball.”
Clive sat back in his chair, not surprised at Johnny’s remarks, but he still gave him a reply with a stern tone behind it. “You take a good listen to Clive. You white folk, ya’ll too scared to know the truth bout some things. For one, Mr. Paige woulda struck out that fat boy Ruth. And you can run home and tell your daddy I says so. I seen Mr. Paige up close. When he wanted to strike somebody out, he did. You know nuttin bout the world boy.”
"I know enough to know I ain’t going to be in Mississippi all my life. Don’t know what I plan on doing yet, but I’ze be moving on from these parts.”
“What you think you gonna find out there boy?” Clive asked. “I seen the world. I seen things that would make a silly ass fool like you run home pissing in his drawers to his mamma.”
Before Clive could finish his thoughts, Johnny felt he needed to prove he was not afraid to see anything, and he was not going to be intimidated by Clive or anyone else. However, Clive was determined to finish what he had to say.
“I was playing ball one day and next, I was grabbed up for the United States Army, to chase Nazi’s across Europe to kill Mr. Hitler. I’m telling you boy, I seen crows eat the eyes from dead soldiers, others with their guts hanging out, still alive begging for the doc. I seen people burned out of their homes. I seen kids left screaming in the streets. You think you know horror boy, but all you knows is your mamma mad cause’ you don’t do no chores. Don’t come round here thinking you know shit, cause’ you don’t. Now, you want to sit up in here and listen to my band play music, that’s all good by me. But you gotta mind your manners, if you do, maybe ole’ Clive will teach you about life and how to play this here piana. But if you get all uppity with me or the other peoples that come round here, I won’t pay no mind when they take you out back and kick your simple minded ass all the way back home. You feel me?”
Johnny wanted to fight back, but the urge to hear the music was greater than his urge to prove he was not scared of anyone or anything Clive had to tell him. “Damn, Mr. Clive, will you really teach me how to play the piano, really?”
“Oh, I see now I got your attention, eh Johnny long name? I don’t do nuttin free, so you’ze have to find a way to pay me back. Maybe if you learn to tame that problem you got with staring at me, I’ze find my way to teaching you some simple songs to play.”
The door cracked open. The other members of the group walked into the building and prepared for practice. They talked about being surprised to see Johnny had returned. Clive directed them about what he wanted to play and they all got started. During the three-hour jam session disguised as practice, some from the neighborhood wandered in and out.
Johnny listened to the entire session, watching every move each musician made. Before practice ended, he started to visualize himself as the leader of that band, only he was the one playing the piano, not Clive. It would be a large white baby grand, on the largest stages around the globe. The ladies would be falling at his feet and all the men would envy him.
In the coming days, Johnny spent more time with the band and in particular Clive. He started to offer Johnny a few lessons on the piano. Over time the band and the locals, who listened to the band, all took a liking to Johnny. Maybe it was because he was one of the few with skin the color of curdled milk, who treated them with respect, or maybe it was because he appreciated their music. Either way, they shared a kinship rarely seen in Mississippi in 1948.
If not for the relationship with the musicians and the older men, who would listen to them play, Johnny might have self-destructed in a fight amongst his peers long before he could reach maturity. He was not one to pick a fight, but he surely knew how to use his fists to end one.
Johnny begged his parents and school music teacher to offer him lessons on the piano. His music teacher began offering them twice a week after school, hoping to keep him coming back to school. However, as soon as Johnny would break into one of the early songs taught to him by Clive, he was informed it was, “the devils music.”
Johnny’s dad would warn him, “Son if we pay for lessons you have to learn to play what Mr. Joel wants you to play, not what you want to learn. If you will do that, I will find the money to pay for your lessons. But only if you do it the way you’re instructed.”
Johnny was so desperate to learn, he did it his father’s way, for two more lessons. He was never going to be able to persuade anyone to allow him to sing and play the music he wanted to play, other than Clive. It frustrated Johnny to the point of finding one last reason not to finish school.
The idea Johnny could not express himself through music only fueled his anger against his parents and anyone else who could not see this was now his dream. When the men would ask Johnny why he was not in school, his response was always the same, “They don’t let me go there no more.” The men were smart enough to know it was not true but then again, Johnny was not their son and only Clive had finished high school out of the four in the group.
Clive showed Johnny patience no one else had in his lifetime. The lessons Clive offered were not structured lessons of masters in the past. They were lessons in two keys and twelve bars. Johnny Joe quickly allowed the piano to become an extension of both hands.
Clive could tell the boy had some talent and because he was an eager learner, he would offer Johnny lessons a few days a week before the band would play for the locals. Eventually, the band allowed Johnny to play one or two songs when they performed at the local hall, where they had dances on weekends.
Johnny was the only white skinned person in the church hall, but he paid no attention to it. The locals didn’t seem to mind it much either, because if Johnny didn’t care why should they. It was all about the music, not discrimination. Johnny and the band only cared about the music.
Over the next eighteen months, the band started to play for money on weekends in small halls around the state. It was to mostly colored audiences, since it was difficult for them to play in the white sections of town. Even if they did on rare occasions, the audiences did not show up in the same numbers that would in colored areas.
That was until Clive came up with the idea to put Johnny out front as the face of the band. He was now a handsome freshly minted seventeen year old, who could attract young females and a wider audience.
The band had Johnny sing lead on many songs and he would sit behind the piano for a few, although it was agreed that Clive would remain the bandleader and piano player. Johnny didn’t care. He was out front of a band, which was now getting hired in halls with white audiences. Then, it all changed.
Arthur Amison was the heir to a British steam ship company that sent goods back and forth from England to India. He had no real desire to run the company day to day, but he did have a passion for music. He also had designs on finding the next Django Reinhardt. Arthur had seen Django play in Paris a few years earlier, and was now on a mission to create a record label and find hidden talent across Europe and the United States. He'd been looking aggressively in larger cities known for musical talent like New York, Chicago, New Orleans and Memphis in search of one undiscovered gem, before deciding to make a trip to smaller communities.
While driving through Mississippi, he stopped in a small town called Tupelo. He spied a sign with a young singer playing that evening. The Clive Five, featuring Johnny Joe Jackson, were about to become famous beyond anyone’s dreams.
Arthur Amison stood over six feet tall, a very polished looking man of average weight, wearing a finely fitted suit. He exuded confidence with every move. Aurthur worked his way back stage after the show and asked with his very proper and British accent, “Who might be the leader of this soon to be famous ensemble?”
Clive always weary of strangers, politely stated back with the same amount of confidence in his Southern drawl, “Depends on who be asking, now don’t it Mister?” Clive never could shake his habit of going nose to nose with strangers, especially when it came to people asking about his band. He moved into Arthur Amison’s personal space daring him to back away.
“Right. Well, my name is Arthur Kevin Amison. I've been traveling your fine country looking for musicians and songwriters that can join me in creating a record label here in the States. I'm looking for something fresh and exciting. Your boy who sings, he has energy and the raw sound I've been driving myself mad seeking.” Before he could say more, Clive spoke.
“Look here, Mister Am-I-sun, Johnny ain’t my boy or your boy, and don’t you go round thinking none of us ever will be. So, you can take your fancy clothes and that fancy tone in your voice and find yo-self the door.”
“Well, we seemed to have gotten off on the wrong foot, what is your name, Sir?”
“My name don’t be no concern of yours, and we doing just fine the way we is.”
Over hearing the conversation between the two men, Leon the bass player, interrupted Clive before he scared Amison away for good.
“Clive, why don’t you listen to what the man has to say for his self? You think we not good enough to be on a record album or something? Get yo brains out yo ass for a minute and listen to the man.”
The others in the band also took notice and convinced Clive to listen to what Mr. Amison had to say for himself.
“Sorry Chaps, I do apologize for my sudden appearance, and I certainly didn’t mean to be disrespectful by calling anyone boy. I'm from across the pond in England and well, at times even though we speak the same language, it seems we don’t. I will only take ten minutes of your time, and you have nothing to lose. I've already signed up four other groups and one songwriter for my new record label. I intend to make it a smashing success. Give me ten minutes and then I will be on my way.”
Within the hour, the band scribbled their names on a contract making adding them to the roster of the newly formed Checkers label. Clive remained hesitant to sign off on the deal suspecting bad things were about to happen, but the other band members could not wait to ink the contract. Clive relented.
“Alright then" Amison said. "My man Eric Lowell will contact you about getting some new suits and a proper shave. I will start working on getting you booked into some bigger venues. Who is the songwriter in this group?”
Clive showed he was not ready for any big changes. “Hold on Mister, we’d not agreed to wearing no suits, and we play the songs that’s been round since I was knee high to my daddy. We still going to play what we play. You hearing me Mister?”
“Yes, yes of course you are Mr. Johnson. But if you're going to be recording musicians, you will need some original material and well your clothes, well, you need to look like successful performers. Let’s try it my way for a few months. Shall we, Chaps? If after we try my way, you're unhappy with our success, you can tear up your contract. So tell me, who writes your songs?”
Johnny stepped up, “I do.”
“Right, well then, it’s settled. I want you to come with me to Chicago and meet with the songwriter I hired last month. Her name is Alexis Simpson. She's a pretty young lady and has written some simply fabulous numbers. I think they will be perfect for your band, but I want you to sit with her and well, make them your own. When we possess four numbers that sound positively smashing, we will put all of you in the recording studio.”
Johnny Joe Jackson was off to Chicago leaving the others behind with puzzled looks and one sour attitude.
CHAPTER Five
Soul Intentions Page 5
