by Mitch Myers
John concentrated on regaining his chops, which had eroded during his time in the slammer. Unlike some other jazz cats, John didn’t play music while in jail. Instead, he had devoted himself to his recovery and helped other addicts in their efforts to remain sober.
He arrived in the Pacific Northwest without any contacts, but he met keyboard player Luke Smith, who led a grooving organ trio. Luke hired John and they enjoyed a long association, playing together for fifteen years. Then, Luke retired. But John kept the trio going—thanks to the band’s weekend gig at the Spotlight Lounge.
It wasn’t much of a gig at the Spotlight, but John did just what Luke had done before him; that is, hire musicians who would play for very little cash. John was just able to make ends meet with his earnings and avoided getting a day job.
For the last couple of years, John had been playing with young twin brothers, Matt and Tom Atkins. Matt had his own B-3 organ and Tom was a sharp guitarist straight out of the Wes Montgomery mold. The twins were barely twenty but they admired John’s talent and adored his history. Matt and Tom worked cheap, and the boys were constantly bugging John for stories about the old Fifty-second Street, when jazz giants walked the earth.
Things were going well for John. Most importantly, his music was starting to cook like it did in the ’60s. The money from the Spotlight wasn’t great but it came in regular—cash every Sunday from club owner Mickey Sherman. Mickey and John had known each other since the drummer first moved to Portland. John didn’t always like Mickey’s high-pressure style, but they had a straightforward business relationship.
John was also in great physical shape. He’d gotten into exercise and diet while in prison, and after decades of sobriety, John understood that physical fitness helped his art more than drugs ever could. He was happy just playing live music and passing on his knowledge to younger artists who valued classic jazz traditions.
Then, out of the blue, Mickey Sherman gave John his walking papers. Mickey explained that it was nothing personal, but simple economics—he’d been letting this DJ work for free, and “tha Kid” was drawing more people to the club every Wednesday than John brought in on the weekends. Mickey said he had to change with the times. John’s crowd of middle-aged divorcées and boozy out-of-towners just wasn’t happening. With “tha Kid” and his turntables Mickey could cut costs, make more money at the bar, and even charge admission at the door.
So, Mickey gave John one month’s notice, after which the Spotlight would feature DJs on the weekends. When he got the bad news, John’s first impulse was to get high. Thirty years sober and he still craved the drugs that he had once used to escape his problems. He was sixty-three and someone one-third his age was taking his job. The thought of being replaced by a kid and his turntables didn’t seem fair.
Then, John had an idea and he made a proposition to Mickey, “Before it’s all over, how about a face-off?” It was a challenge—John against the DJ—one-on-one at the club and may the best man win. Mickey could pick the judges or have the audience decide. But, if John could beat “tha Kid” in a cutting contest, would Mickey let him keep his weekend gig? Mickey loved the publicity angle for the club. “You may just have something there,” he told John.
And so it came to pass that there would be a battle for the weekend engagement at the Spotlight Lounge. Mickey brokered an agreement between John Henry and “tha Kid” and went to work billing the contest as “man versus machine.” Even though they’d been working at the same club for over a year, the rivals had never come face-to-face and were completely unfamiliar with each other’s music.
The rules of the contest were simple: John and “tha Kid” would each get four minutes to perform in alternating turns. Continuity from one segment to the next was essential and each player would have to pick up the rhythm from where the other left off. It would go back and forth like that until somebody quit or was obviously defeated.
Two men enter—one man leaves.
Word of the cutting contest spread among local musicians and club kids as well as the few older patrons who still frequented the Spotlight. One of the local newspapers ran a story on the upcoming battle, picking up on Mickey’s “man versus machine” theme. The piece described how a “modern-day John Henry was going to compete against a DJ and his wheels of steel.”
Soon, people were debating the contest on the Internet. Some folks began betting on the outcome and others just headed to Portland in support of their favored contestant. Hip-hop cliques from New York made plans to meet their West Coast counterparts at the Spotlight.
Turntablists from Seattle and Vancouver also made plans to attend, as did some military drum corps and second-line rhythm masters transplanted from old New Orleans. In solidarity, unemployed jazzbos from Los Angeles arrived to protest another one of their own being phased out of a job.
By this time Mickey Sherman had a lot more going on than just the contest between John Henry and “tha Kid.” The club was booked solid for the two weeks leading up to the face-off. Several attractions were scheduled for each night, including guest DJs, jazz bands, and after-hours jam sessions. Mickey even allowed some drum circle kids to camp out in the Spotlight’s parking lot.
Meanwhile, John was preparing for the upcoming battle with a new health regimen. He was jogging eight miles a day and drinking massive amounts of carrot juice. Finally, he eliminated all remaining junk food from his diet.
And for the first time since he was sentenced to prison, John’s telephone was ringing. A couple of old pals from California called to say they were coming to Portland for the “main event.” John heard from other people whom he hadn’t spoken with in twenty years. “I thought you were dead,” said one. “Not yet,” he laughed. John even did a phone interview with a writer from a national jazz magazine.
John went to hear “tha Kid” spin records that Wednesday and felt sure that he could hold his own against the DJ. Still, he had a newfound respect for the art of the turntable. He saw that the youngster was really talented, not just some punk playing records with a dance beat.
John saw a lot of himself in the young man, not all of it good. The DJ was at the center of a party scene and was clearly using drugs. John wanted to take “tha Kid” aside and warn him, but decided that it wasn’t the proper time for an intervention.
He left the club that night with a sense of foreboding—something didn’t feel right. But the week of the showdown had arrived and the wheels (of steel) were in motion. People were arriving from out of town and the club was buzzing with activity day and night.
Then John had lunch with a bassist from L.A. and was surprised when a former drug buddy showed up as well. It took John less than a minute to discern that old Ike was still using. Ike had brought his saxophone and said that he was looking forward to watching John cut “tha Kid” down to size. Memories of the old days filled his head and he fought off the urge to get high. John finished his lunch quickly and went straight home.
He had remained incognito the previous week, but when John returned to the Spotlight the next Wednesday, a young drummer recognized him. Soon he was surrounded by three generations of musicians and people were buying him drinks. John stuck to his nonalcoholic beverage, but felt himself slipping back into a mind-set he’d abandoned years before. Old Ike appeared at his side and asked if John wanted to “take a break.” It took all of his willpower to refuse.
Meanwhile, action on the bandstand was heating up fast. DJs were cutting and scratching “rare groove” recordings, and the dance floor was mobbed. People were laughing and drinking, and there was a line just to get into the club. After the last DJ stepped down, a hot little jazz quartet took over. Ike and another saxophonist joined the band onstage for a lengthy version of Eddie Harris’s “Freedom Jazz Dance.” The crowd cheered as the musicians traded riff after riff.
Then one of the DJs jumped back up behind the turntable and started playing beats along with the jazzmen. The acid-jazz-funk-jam party was still going strong when John final
ly left the club at three in the morning. Somebody had called the fire marshal, but Mickey must have paid off the right people because the club stayed open well past dawn.
So it went on each night, with dancing and jamming and the breaking of old boundaries between jazz and DJ culture.
John Henry felt seduced by the scene at the Spotlight. All week long he nursed his carrot juice, spoke to new admirers, and met with old friends. John flirted with the young girls and watched quietly as “tha Kid” got totally wasted, partying with a different crowd every night.
Was John Henry worried about “tha Kid” or merely jealous? It was hard to say. John certainly envied his youth. It was tough feeling old while watching his immature rival glide recklessly through the club. And as John’s frustration mounted, his old temptations were also growing stronger.
The night of the contest finally arrived. Of course, the Spotlight was packed, but the audience was different than it had been during the week. There was a new seriousness in the room and the spectators seemed tense. Besides media representatives and curiosity seekers, the club was filled with musicians, DJs, and hard-core rhythm fanatics. Every table had been reserved in advance, and there was some heavy betting action near the back of the bar. Mickey Sherman himself was working the door.
It was almost ten o’clock and the face-off was about to start. Someone had been playing a mix-tape, and the room was rocking with sounds of “The Chase,” a famous tenor battle from 1947 featuring Dexter Gordon and Wardell Gray.
The music faded as John Henry and “tha Kid’ took their places. John made some last minute adjustments to his drum kit while the DJ tested the sound on his headphones and primed his turntables. Then Mickey Sherman walked up, grabbed the microphone, and addressed the crowd:
Ladies and gentlemen, you all know why we’re here. This is a matter of honor that could only be settled on the bandstand. You’re about to witness a groundbreaking competition between two highly talented individuals and the winner will have the privilege of providing weekend entertainment at this fine establishment. It may take all night so let’s not waste any more time. In this corner, behind the drums, wearing a dark blue suit is Mr. John Henry. And in this corner, with not one but two turntables and wearing a white bandana is “tha Kid.” They’re both Spotlight favorites so let’s give them a real big hand and settle in for an evening to remember—the battle of the big beat—man versus machine—the lowdown showdown of the twenty-first century. Ladies and gentlemen—John Henry versus “tha Kid”!
With that, Mickey Sherman took a large coin out of his pocket, looked over at John Henry, nodded, and flipped the coin high in the air. “Heads,” John said. “Heads it is,” cried Mickey. John looked over at “tha Kid” and gestured for him to go first but the young DJ declined. “Age before beauty,” he said. “Go ahead, old man.”
John forced a smile and looked around the room. Then he pulled out a set of knitting needles and began tapping his ride cymbal in a slow, deliberate motion. The audience was hushed and people were leaning forward, eager to hear John’s opening communiqué.
John’s intricate cymbal work grew into an insistent pulse and at the end of four minutes “tha Kid” took over. He threaded a slippery electronic rhythm in sync with the meter that John had established and deftly transformed it into a railroad beat.
He then dropped in a vocal track from a vintage folk recording. An ancient disembodied voice sang out:
John Henry said to his captain:
You are nothing but a common man,
Before that steam drill shall beat me down,
I’ll die with my hammer in my hand.
Finally, “tha Kid” scratched the ghostly vocal track up and down, repeating the line with John Henry’s name over and over and cutting back and forth to the part about him dying with a hammer in his hand.
John Henry took back the railroad rhythm and toyed with it. He rolled away on his snare drum, accenting the momentum with his cowbell, and pushing the locomotion until the DJ came right back at him using Elvis Presley’s “Mystery Train” fused with a disco undercurrent.
The DJ morphed the railroad pulse into Leadbelly’s “Rock Island Line” and added Duke Ellington’s “Take the ‘A’ Train,” all without missing a beat. John Henry grabbed the opportunity to take things back to a jazzier terrain and referenced Ellington drummer Sonny Greer’s performance on “Jumpin’ Punkins” and segued into another Ellington showcase, “Perdido.”
The sonic combat went far into the night, with John and “tha Kid” trading riffs, creating new licks, and generating quotes from the annals of rhythm and music. John Henry cited old jazz drummers like Warren “Baby” Dodds, Chick Webb, and Big Sid Catlett while “tha Kid” answered with Africa Bambaataa’s “Planet Rock,” adding the funky double-drumming of James Brown’s Jabo Starks and Clyde Stubblefield, and an accelerated drum solo from “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.”
With barely enough time to take a drink or go to the bathroom, the two battled intently, listening hard and maintaining the unbroken flow of their percussion discussion.
It was four A.M. when fatigue set in for both John Henry and “tha Kid.” The Spotlight was still filled to capacity, but the strain was starting to show all around. “Play ‘Misty’ for me,” one wise guy shouted. Another voice came from the back of the bar, “They shoot horses, don’t they?”
Meanwhile, John’s back was aching and “tha Kid” was having trouble with his eyes.
Then John noticed “tha Kid” snorting something during one of his breaks. John became angry, wondering how long he himself would be able to last without a little something extra. But the battle wore on. John Henry mixing triple-paradiddles and military marches and “tha Kid” cross-fading Sugarhill 12-inches with the original soundtrack to Planet of the Apes.
Neither John nor “tha Kid” had ever played so long without a substantial break, and the mood on the bandstand was getting mighty grim.
By six in the morning, most of the crowd was gone and John’s back felt like it was on fire. He was sweating profusely and his head was pounding. Whenever John stopped playing, his back would spasm and he became afraid that he might pass out. It wasn’t the performing that was bothering John but the torturous downtime that he couldn’t endure.
John Henry’s pain was now beyond measure. He’d just completed a segment echoing the immortal press rolls of Art Blakey and couldn’t bear the thought of stopping again. John remembered how Blakey could barely lift his arms near the end of his life—until he sat down to play the drums. Somehow, Art would always find the strength to play with brilliant energy and contagious enthusiasm.
John saw that his young opponent was still having troubles of his own: Besides the vision problem, “tha Kid” was running low on records and short on ideas.
So, when the DJ began his next portion of the face-off, John Henry didn’t stop playing. Instead, he accompanied “tha Kid,” who was scratching out an inverted rhythm over a dub version of Cher’s “Believe.”
At first “tha Kid” was concentrating so hard that he didn’t even notice that John was playing along with him. When the DJ finally realized that John was drumming during his turn, he assumed that the old guy was trying to throw him off. He wondered if this should disqualify the jazzman.
But as tired and miserable as “tha Kid” was, he didn’t want to win on a technicality. Even though he’d felt the elder’s eyes judging him harshly for the past week, the young man had come to respect the old drummer. The DJ listened to John’s counterpoint and jammed along with the beat he was laying down.
The four-minute rule was thrown out the window, and the two men performed as if they were of one mind. Their newfound interplay reenergized the competition, and the rhythms ebbed and flowed. They traded cadences back and forth, playing faster and faster until the beats were virtually indistinguishable from one another. In near-telepathic communion, they emulated “The Drum Battle,” a classic percussion performance by Gene Krupa and Buddy Rich.
Together, the pair made sounds that exceeded what either man could have done alone. The few spectators left in the audience were amazed, and one man held up a cellular phone so that his friends on the East Coast could hear the fascinating rhythms. The two players accelerated their tempo to an incredible rate, and then stopped cold at the exact same moment.
The contest was over, the outcome a draw.
As the last few onlookers staggered outside and squinted into the sunlight, John Henry, “tha Kid,” and Mickey Sherman made their way to a breakfast joint around the corner. They excitedly discussed possibilities for future weekends and agreed that the contest had signaled new beginnings for them all. John even lectured “tha Kid” on his substance abuse. The young DJ promised John that he would curtail his indulgences and think more seriously about his future as a musician.
Finally, after scrambled eggs, toast, coffee, and much conversation, John slowly rose from the table. He was exhausted and needed some rest. The three promised to meet again to sketch out a new plan for the Spotlight. John shook Mickey’s hand and hugged “tha Kid” good-bye. To be sure, he drove home a winner.
But John Henry went to sleep that day and never woke up. He died of a massive stroke at 2:59 P.M.
And there wasn’t a hammer in sight.
NEED FOR SPEED
I was driving south on Western Avenue in Chicago when I was pulled over for speeding. I realized I’d been going too fast as soon as I saw those little red lights flashing in my rearview mirror, but 20/20 hindsight isn’t much of an asset in these situations. I cursed myself as I watched the cop speak into his radio and then amble up to my car. “So, where’s the fire, son?” he said sternly.
Feeling desperate and dreading the prospect of another moving violation, I decided the only thing to do was tell the absolute truth. “Maybe this guy will see that I’m sincere and give me a break,” I thought.
