With Billie

by Julia Blackburn

  Lester was afraid of death. He said he didn’t want to meet Johnny Deathbed when he was in the wrong place, because he felt it was important to die quietly, and preferably in one’s own ‘crib’ at home. He was also afraid of violence. As a child he had run away whenever his father wanted to take the family band on a trip down South, and as an adult on tour he always checked into a black hotel to avoid any unpleasantness, even if the other members of the band were staying in a much smarter establishment that accepted clients from all races. If he felt the presence of a racist somewhere close by, he would always leave at once to avoid a confrontation. In that way he was very different from Billie, who would attack anybody who abused her verbally.

  In September 1944 Lester was thirty-five years old and was doing very well in his personal life and in his career. He was married to an Italian nurse called Maryg and they had bought a big house together in Los Angeles. He had just taken part in a documentary film called Jammin’ the Blues and he was in the final week of a very successful nine-month tour with Count Basie’s band, playing at the Plantation Club in San Francisco.

  And then one night a young man wearing a zoot suit, with a long golden chain dangling around his neck, came to listen to the music. When the performance was over he invited Lester and Harry ‘Sweets’ Edison and the drummer Jo Jones to come and join him at his table. He said he was a fan and the drinks were on him because he wanted to repay the performers for the pleasure they had given him.

  So the four of them talked and drank and laughed until the early hours of the morning. Then the stranger suddenly produced his FBI badge and said that if Lester and Jo Jones did not report to the military draft board by nine o’clock that morning, they would be liable to a five-year prison sentence.

  Lester had been sent his call-up papers several times already, but he had ignored them. Now he had no choice but to face the authorities. His friends presumed that his obvious alcoholism, his strange manner, his age and his look of physical exhaustion would exempt him completely. Or, if the worst came to the worst, then he would be made to join a military band along with many other contemporary musicians.

  But something went badly wrong. Perhaps the people who interviewed him thought that this pale-faced man with his whispered babbling language needed to be taught a lesson. In the military report he was described as an ‘English-speaking Negro’, with brown eyes, black hair, a dark complexion, good eyesight and hearing and ‘no psychiatric or physical abnormalities’. His profession was given as ‘bandsman … specialising in tenor saxaphone [sic] … did solo work’. He was declared to be a suitable candidate for ordinary military service and there was no suggestion that he might join a band.h

  After a couple of months’ training on the West Coast, Lester Young was sent to the Infantry Replacement Training Center in Alabama and enrolled as a mess orderly in E Company under the command of Captain William Stevenson, a white officer from Louisiana. On New Year’s Day 1945, he was badly injured while trying to do an obstacle course exercise, and as a result spent three weeks in the military hospital. The neuropsychologist who examined Lester there described him as being in a ‘constitutionally Psychopathic State, manifested by drug addiction (marijuana, barbiturates), chronic alcoholism and “nomadism” ’. (The term must have referred to the fact that Lester had been on tour with Count Basie.) In spite of this diagnosis it was felt that he had a purely ‘disciplinary problem’ and should be dealt with accordingly.i

  On coming out of hospital on 24 January, Lester was immediately forced to take up his full exercise duties, even though he was in considerable pain. On 30 January he was seen to be acting strangely and, when he was asked what was wrong, he explained that he was high. His locker was searched and was found to contain one and a half marijuana cigarettes, three barbiturate capsules and eleven barbiturate tablets, as well as an alcoholic mixture that he had apparently concocted himself. His locker also contained a photograph of his Italian wife, and some people believed that this was the real problem as far as the authorities were concerned.

  Lester Young was arrested and brought before the military court on 16 February 1945. When Captain Stevenson was asked during the trial what first made him suspect drug abuse, he replied, ‘Well, his colour, sir, and the fact that his eyes seemed bloodshot and he didn’t react to training as he should.’j He was punished with a dishonourable discharge, total forfeiture of pay, and confinement to a hard-labour camp for the period of one year. He was sent to the Detention Barracks in the State of Georgia. He never spoke about the time he spent there, except to say it was ‘a nightmare, man, one mad nightmare’.

  When he came out of the army, Lester’s playing changed. He had always used silences, but now ‘the silences grew longer, the whisper-to-shout shifts were more startling and the sound was darker and more anguished’.k When asked about this development in his style, he said, ‘I play different. I live different. This is later. That was then. We change. Move on.’l But he was also more nervous; he felt his audiences were not interested in this change in his playing and were quick to judge and condemn him. He began to call himself ‘Old Pres’, to distinguish himself from the numerous saxophone players who imitated his early style. He found it disconcerting and even frightening to hear a piece of music in which he could not be sure if he was playing, or someone else was playing just like him.

  By the 1950s it was very hard for Lester to get good workm and there was relentless gossip about how he had lost his touch and was nothing but a burnt-out drunk or, as one newspaperman put it, ‘a living drama of personal weakness, a victim, it seems, of drugs’. Lester said he knew the record companies were eager to celebrate his achievements and produce memorial volumes of his recordings just as soon as he was dead.n

  In the spring of 1958, Lester took a room on the fourth floor of the Alvin Hotel, on the corner of Broadway and 52nd Street. A young woman called Elaine Swain moved in with him and did her best to look after him. The psychiatrist Dr Luther Cloud came to talk to him, and visiting friends tried to persuade Lester to eat. His porkpie hat hung from the wall, and a dozen bottles of Gordon’s gin stood in a careful line in front of a mirror on the dresser. Lester spent hours at a time sitting in an armchair with the saxophone on his lap, staring out of the window and down at the Birdland club and the ‘street that never slept’, watching people come and go through the long days and the hectic nights.

  He gave a number of performances during his final months, some of them desultory, others triumphant. In June 1958, his friends arranged for him to take part in a celebration at Birdland called ‘Thirty Years in Show Business’ and the evening was such a success that he was given a three-week booking. He started with a painfully slow and halting version of ‘Pennies from Heaven’, a song that Billie had also transformed into something much deeper than the lyrics implied.

  Every time it rains, it rains pennies from heaven. Don’t you know each cloud contains pennies from heaven. You’ll find your fortune falling all over town, Be sure that your umbrella is upside down. Trade them for a package of sunshine and flowers, If you want the things you love you must have showers, So when you hear it thunder, don’t run under a tree, There’ll be pennies from heaven, for you and me.

  In January 1959 Lester agreed to perform for eight weeks at the Blue Note in Paris.o When he arrived, he told people that he had been very ill and would die soon. Night after night he played with all the energy he had in him, struggling to produce enough breath. Between the breaks he would slump against the grand piano, leaning his forehead on the open lid. He would get back to the Hôtel de la Louisiana at four or five in the morning and then could be seen like his own ghost, wearing pyjamas and his faithful hat, pacing silently up and down the corridors, the saxophone in his hands and a look of blank despair on his face.

  Lester left Paris a week earlier than planned because his strength was giving out. Elaine Swain collected him from the airport in New York and took him back to the Alvin Hotel. He sat in the armchair by the window fo
r half a day and half the night and drank a bottle of vodka and most of a bottle of bourbon. Then he went to bed and died at around 3 a.m. on 15 March 1959.p Billie wanted to sing at his funeral, but she was prevented from doing so. Lester’s eldest daughter Beverly said in an interview, ‘The law wouldn’t allow Billie to sing’, but according to other accounts it was Lester’s wife who stopped her, saying that she might make a fuss and cause trouble.

  * This is from the longest and the last interview made with Lester Young by the French jazz critic François Postif in the Hotel Louisiana in Paris in February 1959. A photographer came along as well, but took no pictures because ‘Lester was lying quite nude on his bed, unshaved and ill-looking. He was drinking port wine … and was not quite in his normal attitude’ (A Lester Young Reader, ed. Lewis Porter, 1991, p. 174).

  † ‘Ding dong’ was a form of greeting. Bing and Bob Crosby were the police, and so was Alice Blue Gown. ‘Feeling a draught’ meant a racist was somewhere close by. Whites were ‘greys’ and blacks were ‘Oxford greys’. Lester had eyes for the things he liked and no eyes for the things he didn’t like. Women were different sorts of hats, according to the way they fitted a man sexually. In music, the bass player was the deep-sea diver and a pianist’s hands were the little people on the left and the little people on the right.

  ‡ Many of his favourite musicians became Lady this or that, and a band could be ‘all you ladies’. People he was less sure of became Miss, as with his agent, Miss Carpenter.

  § Lester believed that, as a musician, you must ‘Go down the audience, see what the plumber is thinking, what the carpenter is thinking, so that when you are on stage you can help tell their story.’

  ‖ Quoted in Frank Büchmann–Møller, You Just Fight for Your Life, 1990, p. 193.

  a A Lester Young Reader, p. 103.

  b Ibid., p. 112.

  c At a concert in Paris in 1953, ‘he showed more fear and trembling than usual, turned his back to the audience and walked towards the wings, hesitant and sombre’, quoting Büchmann-Møller, p. 165, Maurice Cullaz, Mon Ami Lester.

  d The original copy cost him twenty dollars. There is a famous photograph taken in New York’s Alvin Hotel, where Lester spent the last months of his life. It shows the hat hanging from a hook on the wall and the saxophone leaning against a chair on the floor – nothing else.

  e Bobby Scott, ‘The House in the Heart’, A Lester Young Reader, pp. 99–118.

  f Billie had a similar fear, especially of dentists. Lester’s third wife, Mary, did persuade him to go to hospital for an alcohol cure in 1957, and he got on well with a psychiatrist who bore the wonderful name of Dr Luther Cloud. Cloud came to visit him at the Alvin Hotel in 1958 and gave him high doses of vitamin pills, as well as talking to him about some of his fears.

  g Lester’s first wife, Bess Cooper, was Jewish. They married in 1930, but she died the following year, not long after giving birth to their daughter Beverly. The marriage to Mary lasted from 1937 until 1945. In 1946 he married another Mary, who bore him two children, Lester Junior and Yvette. All his women remained deeply attached to him and he would sometimes visit old girlfriends when he was on tour – he called them ‘way-backs’. They were all of a similar physical type, small and fragile, which is perhaps another reason why he and Billie were never lovers.

  h This is about someone who is considered to be one of the most influential jazz musicians of the twentieth century. When Malcolm Little, the future Malcolm X, was brought before the same sort of military board he managed to persuade them that he was not good army material by telling them, ‘I want to get sent down to the South; organise them nigger soldiers, you dig. Steal us some guns and kill us crackers!’ (Brandt, p. 110).

  i Quoted in Büchmann-Møller, p. 121. Jo Jones, who had far less traumatic experiences during his military training in the South, said he went by the prison gates to wave to Lester while he was in the exercise yard. He said, ‘The way they treated Lester in the army … They had dogs in there they didn’t treat like that and I would cry at night thinking about what they did to him.’

  j Ibid., p. 122.

  k Ward and Burns, p. 323.

  l A Lester Young Reader, p.73.

  m According to Willie Jones, ‘Some young musicians thought [Lester] was old and dated, that he was losing it. I don’t think so. He was just depressed because he couldn’t get good work … He was hurt, because he had said certain things to certain promoters that he didn’t like, so they didn’t like him, and they wanted to punish him’ (Büchmann-Møller, p. 197). Billie was also dogged by similar talk of her unreliability and the decline of her talent. There was also a lot of talk about how she and Lester had quarrelled, but this seems to have been just journalists looking for copy.

  n He was quite right. The market was flooded with Lester Young ‘classics’ once he was no longer around. The same happened with Billie Holiday.

  o Norman Granz said how different European audiences were from their American counterparts. ‘They listen to you, applaud and stamp their feet, indicating they’d like more, but there is no shouting or whistling during the solo, nor any of the outcries that mar a pretty tune.’ Oscar Peterson echoed this same observation: ‘Europeans regard jazz as part of American culture, as an art form … Over here it’s regarded as just entertainment, a background for drinking and conversation’ (Ward and Burns, p. 160).

  p A doctor was called shortly before his death. The police arrived just after he had died. They confiscated his saxophone, a ring, a wallet and $500 in traveller’s cheques, as surety for the $76 he owed to the hotel. The property was returned to his wife. The saxophone is now at Rutgers Jazz Institute in New Jersey.

  TWENTY

  Tallulah Bankhead

  There was a time when everyone knew about Tallulah Bankhead. She was a highly successful actress and her 1939 role in Lillian Hellman’s play The Little Foxes was described as ‘one of the great performances of the American theatre’. She was also acclaimed as a classic American beauty, with a small and sexy body, an alabaster complexion, aquiline features and long, wavy, auburn tresses.

  Tallulah was born in 1902 and was a true child of the Deep South. Her grandfather John Hollis Bankhead came from slave-owning stock and ran a lucrative cotton mill in Jasper, Alabama. He had been elected to Congress in 1887 and became a Senator in 1905, keeping that prestigious position until his death in 1920. He was one of a group of powerful southerners who successfully opposed any attempt to put a ban on lynching.

  Tallulah’s mother died shortly after her birth and she and her elder sister were brought up by their paternal grandparents in the wealth and opulence of the family mansion.* Tallulah used to tell the story of how her grandmother would ride out every Thursday to the Negro section of Jasper, bringing the dirty laundry that needed washing and baskets of food to be distributed to the poor. And on Saturdays certain Negroes were allowed to come onto her land so that she could present them with cornmeal for their families. She had a little black book in which she kept a record of who had died and who had been born, and in that way she knew exactly how much cornmeal was required and there was no chance of anyone cheating her and ‘getting a bit extra for their chickens’.

  According to one biographer,† Tallulah inherited this ability to be ‘touchingly loyal and tender to individual black people, but if they transgressed, if they got proud, uppity and arrogant, then Tallulah “went South” ’. In later years she used to appear on radio talk shows and, in a broad southern drawl, she would entertain her listeners with stories about her old Black Mammy whom she loved so, and about Daddy and the Coloured People.

  She never spoke of her own half-brother, and perhaps several other half-brothers and sisters, in these homely anecdotes. The half-brother in question was called John Quincy Bankhead. He lived with his mother in a shack somewhere behind the family mansion and was four years older than Tallulah. One day she suddenly realised that he was the spitting image of her grandfather, with the same tall frame and the s
ame features, only his skin was darker. When she mentioned this resemblance to John Quincy, he replied in a very matter-of-fact way that ‘all Bankhead men, both coloured and white, was always tall’. She then asked her father to tell her more, and he smiled conspiratorially and said of course there was a blood tie, for after all ‘boys will be boys’.

  From a young age Tallulah had learnt that she could draw attention to herself by being outrageous, and as she grew older, especially once the acting jobs were no longer on offer and her beauty was on the wane, this outrageousness took over from everything else and knew no bounds. Tallulah loved to expose herself at parties, lifting her skirts and dropping her knickers, or showing off the effects of a recent breast implant. She lay on top of a grand piano and sang a drunken song, wearing nothing but a string of pearls. She was again naked when she hit a police officer who had come to the door of her apartment to complain about a particularly noisy party. When Eleanor Roosevelt came to tea, Tallulah made a point of talking to the President’s wife while sitting on the lavatory, with the door open.‡

  Tallulah had a natural affinity for all sorts of drugs and stimulants. In later life she consumed vast quantities of the new amphetamines and barbiturates, and paid her doctors hundreds of dollars a week to give her injections of an opium derivative called Demerol, but during her early years she had a preference for marijuana and cocaine. She was part of the wealthy white jetset who would come uptown for the drugs, the music and other forbidden excitements.§ According to Pop Foster, she was a frequent visitor at the notorious Daisy Chain club and there were stories about a hunchback called Money, who was able to supply her with as much cocaine as she wanted. People remembered seeing Tallulah at the Hot Cha on 52nd Street, when the blind pianist Eddie Steele was playing. She would sing songs with him and sometimes would lead him to the dance floor and they would dance quietly in each other’s arms.