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| May 2008 |
| Billie Silvey |
| Sometime in the nineties, popular music became impossible to listen to, at least for me. Throughout the eighties, I had loved rap, British pop, some punk, and a few huge stars, most notably Prince. In the nineties, rap devolved from a powerful, poetic social statement to a bland, crassly materialistic exercise. British pop was eclipsed by the whiny white boys who eventually became labeled emo. Punk was replaced by grunge, which meant it became entirely humorless, its sly sneer replaced with the sound of people in hell and bored by their damnation. The big stars weren’t like the icons of the eighties. There was no Madonna, no Prince, just a bunch of kids, belly-baring pop princesses and vapid boy bands. I remember one day flipping through the radio dial to find something new to listen to. I found something old. I found jazz. I found it at 88.1 fm, which at that time in Los Angeles was KLON (now KJZZ). I can tell you the name of the singer who first hooked me. It was Kevin Mahogany. He was singing “Parker’s Mood,” and from the first “Come with meeee. . .” I was blown away. His voice is a deep, rich instrument that can play lightly with melody, burst out impossibly into clear, ringing tones, and then explode in great, belted crescendo. All of it is perfectly controlled while remaining vibrantly alive. I had never heard a voice like it. I later learned that part of what made him a good introduction to jazz for me was that his style was a blend of jazz and R&B. I learned that from one of KLON’s disc jockeys when, after being guilted into becoming a member of the station by James Benefield, I started volunteering at the station during pledge drives. Of course, jazz wasn’t entirely new to me. My father had played trumpet when I was younger, and I remember listening to a Louis Armstrong record of his over and over as a child. It had West End Blues on it, with its famously “impossible” intro. Of course, I didn’t appreciate how great the music was at that age. I just knew it made me feel happy. Other than Armstrong and Dizzy Gillespie, whom I remember seeing on The Muppet Show playing St. Louis Blues, I knew nothing about jazz. |
| I Remember the Music By Kathy Silvey Hall |
| In 2000, Stanley Turrentine passed away. Billy Higgins died in 2001, and the entire Los Angeles jazz community not only mourned him deeply, but helped pay for his burial. The thing about life as a musician is, it doesn’t usually come with benefits like life insurance. The Crenshaw Cafe is gone, and so is Scooter Records, where I bought a good number of my jazz CDs. Four years ago, Chuck Niles passed away, and the next year Sam Fields died. I don’t know exactly how old Mr. T. or Mr. Higgins were when they left us, but I know Chuck was 76, and Sam was only 55. I haven’t listened to KJZZ since. Chuck now has a music award named for him and a scholarship at CSUN named after him. Almost every evening I hear Ken Borgers on KCRW and remember a time, place, and group of people that can never be matched again. Mostly, I remember the music. |
| Another great live jazz performance I was fortunate enough to see and hear was the result of a happy coincidence. A very kind man named Jerry Jones visited our church one Sunday morning. I greeted him and asked what brought him to Culver City. He told me he was playing drums for Stanley Turrentine at the Jazz Bakery. He then spent the next few minutes laughing good-naturedly at my torrent of questions. My father and I were his guests at the performance that night, and it was incredible. When Mr. T. played the opening notes of “In a Sentimental Mood,” it felt as though a magic carpet had insinuated itself beneath me, and I began to float above the seats in the theater. His tenor saxophone’s big, open notes were both sensual and ethereal, and his playing was a pure, spiritual gift to the audience, the aural equivalent of temple incense. Later I left a big bouquet of flowers for Mr. Jones at the hotel where they were staying because I simply didn’t know how to thank him. |
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| The men there called him Abdullah Kareem, but I addressed him as Mr. Higgins or, more often, sir. When we met, I already owned several CDs on which he played drums. If one has even a modest jazz CD collection, it is difficult not to. Among his hundreds of credits, he played on Dexter Gordon’s album Go!, Lee Morgan’s The Sidewinder, and perhaps most famously, or infamously as my dear friend Grandpa Walt might insist, with Ornette Coleman on The Shape of Jazz to Come and in several live and recorded “free jazz” sessions. I found him amazing, and not only because of the music. He was kind and gracious and astonishingly humble, and every time I saw him he was smiling. This living legend taught drumming workshops to young people at the World Stage every Thursday afternoon for years. This same generous spirit also radiated through his playing. The first time I heard him play live was like learning for the first time what drums were actually for. It was like learning that drums are musical instruments. The sound was primal and elegant, elevating and humbling. It arrived in the belly, but it was profoundly spiritual. |
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| The radio station was a good place to learn about jazz, blues, and Latin jazz, mostly because their DJs were so knowledgeable. There were the brother and sister team of Ken and Helen Borgers, the practically perfect Sam Fields, and the one and only Chuck Niles. To this day I cannot say or hear Chuck’s name without hearing Bob Florence’s composition in his honor BeBop Charlie play in my head. I remember when Chuck got his star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I also remember trying to talk him out of bumming cigarettes from me then being too charmed to do anything other than give him one, teasing him, as Ken Borgers had egged me on to do, about Attack of the Mayan Mummy, his single foray into film acting. Sam Fields once asked me what I wanted him to play that night, and I felt completely unable to answer because his choices always had seemed so right that it never would have occurred to me to request anything other than what he intended to play. All of these wonderful people were more than willing to share their knowledge and enthusiasm for the music with anyone they met who loved jazz. |
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| I not only volunteered for pledge drives but also for station-sponsored events. One event I enjoyed volunteering for was the jazz caravan, and one evening the caravan brought me to the Crenshaw Cafe in Lamert Park. The Crenshaw Cafe was a Nation of Islam owned business, which is to say it was a jazz club that served no alcohol and only vegetarian food. That night, it was also the first place I heard the great drummer Billy Higgins play live. |