Black Country

by Charles Beaumont

Spoof Collins blew his brains out, all right—right on out through the top of his

head. But I don’t mean with a gun. I mean with a horn. Every night: slow and

easy, eight to one. And that’s how he died. Climbing, with that horn, climbing

up high. For what? “Hey, man, Spoof-listen, you picked the tree, now come on

down!” But he couldn’t come down; he didn’t know how. He just kept climbing,

higher and higher. And then he fell. Or jumped. Anyhow, that’s the way he

died.

The bullet didn’t kill anything. I’m talking about the one that tore up the top

of his mouth. It didn’t kill anything that wasn’t dead already. Spoof just put

in an extra note, that’s all.

We planted him out about four miles from town—home is where you drop:

residential district, all wood construction. Rain? You know it. Bible type: sky

like a month-old bedsheet, wind like a stepped-on cat, cold and dark, those

Forty Days, those Forty Nights! But nice and quiet most of the time. Like Spoof:

nice and quiet, with a lot underneath that you didn’t like to think about.

We planted him and watched and put what was his down into the ground with him.

His horn, battered, dented, nicked—right there in his hands, but not just there;

I mean in position, so if he wanted to do some more climbing, all right, he

could. And his music. We planted that too, because leaving it out would have

been like leaving out Spoof’s arms or his heart or his guts.

Lux started things off with a chord from his guitar, no particular notes, only a

feeling, a sound. A Spoof Collins kind of sound. Jimmy Fritch picked it up with

his stick, and they talked a while—Lux got a real piano out of that git-box.

Then when Jimmy stopped talking and stood there, waiting, Sonny Holmes stepped

up and wiped his mouth and took the melody on his shiny new trumpet. It wasn’t

Spoof, but it came close; and it was still The Jimjam Man, the way Spoof

wrote it back when he used to write things down. Sonny got off with a

high-squealing blast, and no eyes came up—we knew, we remembered. The kid always

had it collared. He just never talked about it. And listen to him now! He stood

there over Spoof’s grave, giving it all back to The Ol’ Massuh, giving it back

right—“Broom off, white child, you got four sides!” “I want to learn from

you, Mr. Collins. I want to play jazz, and you can teach me.” “I got things to

do, I can’t waste no time on a half-hipped young’un.” “Please, Mr. Collins.”

“You got to stop that, you got to stop callin’ me ‘Mr. Collins,’ hear?” “Yes,

sir, yes sir.”—He put out real sound, like he didn’t remember a thing. Like

he wasn’t playing for that pile of darkmeat in the ground, not at all; but for

the great Spoof Collins, for the man Who Knew and the man Who Did, who gave jazz

spats and dressed up the blues, who did things with a trumpet that a trumpet

couldn’t do, and more: for the man who could blow down the walls or make a

chicken cry, without half trying—for the mighty Spoof, who’d once walked in

music like a boy in river mud, loving it, breathing it, living it.

Then Sonny quit. He wiped his mouth again and stepped back and Mr. “T” took it

on his trombone while I beat up the tubs.

Pretty soon we had The Jimjam Man rocking the way it used to rock. A

little slow, maybe: it needed Bud Meunier on bass and a few trips on the piano.

But it moved.

We went through Take It From Me and Night in the Blues and Big

Gig and Only Us Chickens and Forty G’s—Sonny’s insides came

out through the horn on that one, I could tell—and Slice City Stomp—you

remember: sharp and clean, like sliding down a razor—and What the Cats

Dragged In—the longs, the shorts, all the great Spoof Collins numbers. We

wrapped them up and put them down there with him.

Then it got dark.

And it was time for the last one, the greatest one … Rose-Ann shivered and

cleared her throat; the rest of us looked around, for the first time, at all

those rows of split-wood grave markers, shining in the rain, and the trees and

the coffin, dark, wet. Out by the fence, a couple of farmers stood watching.

Just watching.

One—Rose-Ann opens her coat, puts her hands on her hips, wets her lips;

Two—Freddie gets the spit out of his stick, rolls his eyes;

Three…—Sonny puts the trumpet to his mouth;

Four—

And we played Spoof’s song, his last one, the one he wrote a long way ago,

before the music dried out his head, before he turned mean and started climbing:

Black Country. The song that said just a little of what Spoof wanted to

say, and couldn’t.

You remember. Spider-slow chords crawling down, soft, easy, and then bottom and

silence and, suddenly, the cry of the horn, screaming in one note all the hate

and sadness and loneliness, all the want and got-to-have; and then the note

dying, quick, and Rose-Ann’s voice, a whisper, a groan, a sigh …

“Black Country is somewhere, Lord,

That I don’t want to go.

Black Country is somewhere

That I never want to go.

Rain-water drippin’

On the bed and on the floor,

Rain-water drippin’

From the ground and through the door …”

We all heard the piano, even though it wasn’t there. Fingers moving down those

minor chords, those black keys, that black country …

“Well, in that old Black Country

If you ain’t feelin’ good,

They let you have an overcoat

That’s carved right out of wood.

But way down there

It gets so dark

You never see a friend—

Black Country may not be the Most,

But, Lord! it’s sure the End …”

Bitter little laughing words, piling up, now mad, now sad; and then, an ugly

blast from the horn and Rose-Ann’s voice screaming, crying:

“I never want to go there, Lord!

I never want to be,

I never want to lay down

In that Black Country!”

And quiet, quiet, just the rain, and the wind.

“Let’s go man,” Freddie said.

So we turned around and left Spoof there under the ground.

Or, at least, that’s what I thought we did.

· · · · ·

Sonny took over without saying a word. He didn’t have to: just who was about to

fuss? He was white, but he didn’t play white, not these days; and he learned the

hard way—by unlearning. Now he could play gutbucket and he could play blues,

stomp and slide, name it, Sonny could play it. Funny as hell to hear, too,

because he looked like everything else but a musician. Short and skinny,

glasses, nose like a melted candle, head clean as the one-ball, and white? Next

to old Hushup, that café sunburn glowed like a flashlight.

“Man, who skinned you?”

“Who dropped you in the flour barrel?”

But he got closer to Spoof than any of the rest of us did. He knew what to do,

and why. Just like a school teacher all the time: “That’s good, Lux, that’s

awful good—now let’s play some music.” “Get off it, C.T.—what’s Lenox Avenue

doing in the middle of Lexington?” “Come on, boys, hang on to the sound, hang on

to it!” Always using words like “flavor” and “authentic” and “blood,” peering

over those glasses, pounding his feet right through the floor: STOMP! STOMP!

“That’s it, we’ve got it now—oh, listen! It’s true, it’s clean!” STOMP! STOMP!

Not the easiest to dig him. Nobody broke all the way through.

“How come, boy? What for?” and every time the same answer:

“I want to play jazz.”

Like he’d joined the Church and didn’t want to argue about it.

Spoof was still Spoof when Sonny started coming around. Not a lot of people with

us then, but a few, enough—the longhairs and critics and connoisseurs—and some

real ears, too—enough to fill a club every night, and who needs more? It was

COLLINS AND HIS CREW, tight and neat, never a performance, always a session. Lot

of music, lot of fun. And a line-up that some won’t forget: Jimmy Fritch on

clarinet, Honker Reese on alto-sax, Charles di Lusso on tenor, Spoof on trumpet,

Henry Walker on piano, Lux Anderson on banjo, and myself—Hushup Paige—on drums.

Newmown hay, all right, I know—I remember, I’ve heard the records we cut—but,

the Road was there.

Sonny used to hang around the old Continental Club on State Street in Chicago,

every night, listening. Eight o’clock roll ‘round, and there he’d be—a little

different: younger, skinnier—listening hard, over in a corner all to himself,

eyes closed like he was asleep. Once in a while he put in a request—Darktown

Strutter’s Ball was one he liked, and some of Jelly Roll’s numbers—but

mostly he just sat there, taking it all in. For real.

And it kept up like this for two or three weeks, regular as 2/4.

Now Spoof was mean in those days—don’t think he wasn’t—but not blood-mean. Even

so, the white boy in the corner bugged Ol’ Massuh after a while and he got to

making dirty cracks with his horn: WAAAAA! Git your ass out of here.

WAAAAA! You only think you’re with it! WAAAAA! There’s a little white

child sittin’ in a chair, there’s a little white child losin’ all his hair …

It got to the kid, too, every bit of it. And that made Spoof even madder. But

what can you do?

Came Honker’s trip to Slice City along about then: our saxman got a neck all

full of the sharpest kind of steel. So we were out one horn. And you could tell:

we played a little bit too rough, and the head-arrangements Collins and His Crew

grew up to, they needed Honker’s grease in the worst way. But we’d been together

for five years or more, and a new man just didn’t play somehow. We were this one

solid thing, like a unit, and somebody had cut off a piece of us and we couldn’t

grow the piece back so we just tried to get along anyway, bleeding every night,

bleeding from that wound.

Then one night it bust. We’d gone through some slow-walking stuff, some tricky

stuff and some loud stuff—still covering up—when this kid, this white boy, got

up from his chair and ankled over and tapped Spoof on the shoulder. It was

break-time and Spoof was brought down about Honker, about how bad we were

sounding, sitting there sweating, those pounds of man, black as coaldust soaked

in oil—he was the blackest man!—and those eyes, beady white and small as

agates.

“Excuse me, Mr. Collins, I wonder if I might have a word with you?” He wondered

if he might have a word with Mr. Collins!

Spoof swiveled in his chair and clapped a look around the kid. “Hnff?”

“I notice that you don’t have a sax man anymore.”

“You don’t mean to tell me?”

“Yes, sir. I thought—I mean, I was wondering if—”

“Talk up, boy. I can’t hear you.”

The kid looked scared. Lord, he looked scared—and he was white to begin with.

“Well, sir, I was just wondering if—if you needed a saxophone.”

“You know somebody plays sax?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“And who might that be?”

“Me.”

“You.”

“Yes, sir.”

Spoof smiled a quick one. Then he shrugged. “Broom off, son,” he said. “Broom

‘way off.”

The kid turned red. He all of a sudden didn’t look scared anymore. Just mad. Mad

as hell. But he didn’t say anything. He went on back to his table and then it

was end of the ten.

We swung into Basin Street, smooth as Charley’s tenor could make it, with

Lux Anderson talking it out: Basin Street, man, it is the street, Where the

elite, well, they gather ‘round to eat a little … And we fooled around with

the slow stuff for a while. Then Spoof lifted his horn and climbed up

two-and-a-half and let out his trademark, that short high screech that sounded

like something dying that wasn’t too happy about it. And we rocked some, Henry

taking it, Jimmy canoodling the great headwork that only Jimmy knows how to do,

me slamming the skins—and it was nowhere. Without Honker to keep us all on the

ground, we were just making noise. Good noise, all right, but not music. And

Spoof knew it. He broke his mouth blowing—to prove it.

And we cussed the cat that sliced our man.

Then, right away—nobody could remember when it came in—suddenly we had us an

alto-sax. Smooth and sure and snaky, that sound put a knot on each of us and

said: Bust loose now, boys, I’ll pull you back down. Like sweet-smelling glue,

like oil in a machine, like—Honker.

We looked around and there was the kid, still sore, blowing like a madman, and

making fine fine music.

Spoof didn’t do much. Most of all, he didn’t stop the number. He just let that

horn play, listening—and when we slid over all the rough spots and found us

backed up neat as could be, the Ol’ Massuh let out a grin and a nod and a “Keep

blowin’, young’un!” and we knew that we were going to be all right.

After it was over, Spoof walked up to the kid. They looked at each other, sizing

it up, taking it in.

Spoof says: “You did good.”

And the kid—he was still burned—says: “You mean I did damn good.”

And Spoof shakes his head. “No, that ain’t what I mean.”

And in a second one was laughing while the other one blushed. Spoof had known

all along that the kid was faking, that he’d just been lucky enough to know our

style on Basin Street up-down-and-across.

The Ol’ Massuh waited for the kid to turn and start to slink off, then he said:

“Boy, you want to go to work?” …

Sonny learned so fast it scared you. Spoof never held back: he turned it all

over, everything it had taken us our whole lives to find out.

And—we had some good years. Charley di Lusso dropped out, and we took on Bud

Meunier-the greatest bass man of them all—and Lux threw away his banjo for an

AC-DC git-box and old C. T. Mr. “T” Green and his trombone joined the Crew. And

we kept growing and getting stronger—no million-copies platter sales or stands

at the Paramount—too “special”—but we never ate too far down on the hog, either.

In a few years Sonny Holmes was making that sax stand on its hind legs and jump

through hoops that Honker never dreamed about. Spoof let him strictly alone.

When he got mad it wasn’t ever because Sonny had white skin—Spoof always was too

busy to notice things like that—but only because The Ol’ Massuh had to get teed

off at each of us every now and then. He figured it kept us on our toes.

In fact, except right at first, there never was any real blood between Spoof and

Sonny until Rose-Ann came along.

Spoof didn’t want a vocalist with the band. But the coonshouting days were gone,

alas, except for Satchmo and Calloway—who had style: none of us had style, man,

we just hollered—so when push came to shove, we had to put out the net.

And chickens aplenty came to crow and plenty moved on fast and we were about to

give up when a dusky doll of twenty-ought stepped up and let loose a hunk of The Man I Love and that’s all, brothers, end of the search.

Rose-Ann McHugh was a little like Sonny: where she came from, she didn’t know a

ball of cotton from a piece of popcorn. She’d studied piano for a flock of years

with a Pennsylvania longhair, read music whipfast and had been pointed toward

the Big Steinway and the O.M.’s, Chopin and Bach and all that jazz. And good—I

mean, she could pull some very fancy noise out of those keys. But it wasn’t the

Road. She’d heard a few records of Muggsy Spanier’s, a couple of Jelly Roll’s—New

Orleans Bump, Shreveport Stomp, old Wolverine Blues—and she just got

took hold of. Like it happens, all the time. She knew.

Spoof hired her after the first song. And we could see things in her eyes for

The Ol’ Massuh right away, fast. Bad to watch: I mean to say, she was chicken

dinner, but what made it ugly was, you could tell she hadn’t been in the oven

very long.

Anyway, most of us could tell. Sonny, for instance.

But Spoof played tough to begin. He gave her the treatment, all the way. To see

if she’d hold up. Because, above everything else, there was the Crew, the Unit,

the Group. It was right, it had to stay right.

“Gal, forget your hands—that’s for the cats out front. Leave ‘em alone. And

pay attention to the music, hear?”

“You ain’t got a ‘voice,’ you got an instrument. And you ain’t even started

to learn how to play on it. Get some sound, bring it on out.”

“Stop that throat stuff—you singin’ with the Crew now. From the belly, gal, from

the belly. That’s where music comes from, hear?”

And she loved it, like Sonny did. She was with The Ol’ Massuh, she knew what he

was talking about.

Pretty soon she fit just fine. And when she did, and everybody knew she did,

Spoof eased up and waited and watched the old machine click right along,

one-two, one-two.

That’s when he began to change. Right then, with the Crew growed up and in long

pants at last. Like we didn’t need him anymore to wash our face and comb our

hair and switch our behinds for being bad.

Spoof began to change. He beat out time and blew his riffs, but things were

different and there wasn’t anybody who didn’t know that for a fact.

In a hurry, all at once, he wrote down all his great arrangements, quick as he

could. One right after the other. And we wondered why—we’d played them a million

times.

Then he grabbed up Sonny. “White Boy, listen. You want to learn how to play

trumpet?”

And the blood started between them. Spoof rode on Sonny’s back twenty-four

hours, showing him lip, showing him breath. “This ain’t a saxophone, boy,

it’s a trumpet, a music-horn. Get it right—do it again—that’s lousy—do it

again—that was nowhere—do it again—do it again!” All the time.

Sonny worked hard. Anybody else, they would have told The Ol’ Massuh where he

could put that little old horn. But the kid knew something was being given to

him—he didn’t know why, nobody did, but for a reason—something that Spoof

wouldn’t have given anybody else. And he was grateful. So he worked. And he

didn’t ask any how-comes, either.

Pretty soon he started to handle things right. ‘Way down the road from great,

but coming along. The sax had given him a hard set of lips and he had plenty of

wind; most of all, he had the spirit—the thing that you can beat up your chops

about it for two weeks straight and never say what it is, but if it isn’t there,

buddy-ghee, you may get to be President but you’ll never play music.

Lord, Lord, Spoof worked that boy like a two-ton jockey on a ten-ounce horse. “Do it again—that ain’t right—goddamn it, do it again! Now one more time!”

When Sonny knew enough to sit in with the horn on a few easy ones, Ol’ Massuh

would tense up and follow the kid with his eyes—I mean it got real crawly. What

for? Why was he pushing it like that?

Then it quit. Spoof didn’t say anything. He just grunted and quit all of a

sudden, like he’d done with us, and Sonny went back on sax and that was that.

Which is when the real blood started.

The Lord says every man has got to love something, sometimes, somewhere. First

choice is a chick, but there’s other choices. Spoof’s was a horn. He was married

to a piece of brass, just as married as a man can get. Got up with it in the

morning, talked with it all day long, loved it at night like no chick I ever

heard of got loved. And I don’t mean one-two-three: I mean the slow-building

kind. He’d kiss it and hold it and watch out for it. Once a cat full of tea

tried to put the snatch on Spoof’s horn, for laughs: when Spoof caught up with

him, that cat gave up laughing for life.

Sonny knew this. It’s why he never blew his stack at all the riding. Spoof’s

teaching him to play trumpet—the trumpet—was like as if The Ol’ Massuh

had said: “You want to take my wife for a few nights? You do? Then here, let

me show you how to do it right. She likes it done right.”

For Rose-Ann, though, it was the worst. Every day she got that look deeper in,

and in a while we turned around and, man! Where is little Rosie? She was

gone. That young half-fried chicken had flew the roost. And in her place was a

doll that wasn’t dead, a big bunch of curves and skin like a brand-new penny.

Overnight, almost. Sonny noticed. Freddie and Lux and even old Mr. “T” noticed.

I had eyes in my head. But Spoof didn’t notice. He was already in love;

there wasn’t any more room.

Rose-Ann kept snapping the whip, but Ol’ Massuh, he wasn’t about to make

the trip. He’d started climbing, then, and he didn’t treat her any different

than he treated us.

“Get away, gal, broom on off—can’t you see I’m busy? Wiggle it elsewhere,

hear? Elsewhere. Shoo!”

And she just loved him more for it. Every time he kicked her, she loved him

more. Tried to find him and see him and, sometimes, when he’d stop for breath,

she’d try to help, because she knew something had crawled inside Spoof,

something that was eating from the inside out, that maybe he couldn’t get rid of

alone.

Finally, one night, at a two-weeker in Dallas, it tumbled.

We’d gone through Georgia Brown for the tourists and things were kind of

dull, when Spoof started sweating. His eyes began to roll. And he stood up, like

a great big animal—like an ape or a bear, big and powerful and mean-looking—and

he gave us the two-finger signal.

Sky-High. ‘Way before it was due, before either the audience or any of us

had got wound up.

Freddie frowned. “You think it’s time, Top?”

“Listen,” Spoof said, “goddamn it, who says when it’s time—you, or me?”

We went into it, cold, but things warmed up pretty fast. The dancers grumbled

and moved off the floor and the place filled up with talk.

I took my solo and beat hell out of the skins. Then Spoof swiped at his mouth

and let go with a blast and moved it up into that squeal and stopped and started

playing. It was all headwork. All new to us.

New to anybody.

I saw Sonny get a look on his face, and we sat still and listened while Spoof

made love to that horn.

Now like a scream, now like a laugh—now we’re swinging in the trees, now the

white men are coming, now we’re in the boat and chains are hanging from our

ankles and we’re rowing, rowing—Spoof, what is it?—now we’re sawing wood

and picking cotton and serving up those cool cool drinks to the Colonel in his

chair—Well, blow, man!—now we’re free, and we’re struttin’ down Lenox

Avenue and State & Madison and Pirate’s Alley, laughing, crying—Who said

free?—and we want to go back and we don’t want to go back—Play it, Spoof?

God, God, tell us all about it! Talk to us!—and we’re sitting in a cellar

with a comb wrapped up in paper, with a skin-barrel and a tinklebox—Don’t

stop, Spoof! Oh Lord, please don’t stop!—and we’re making something,

something, what is it? Is it jazz? Why, yes, Lord, it’s jazz. Thank you, sir,

and thank you, sir, we finally got it, something that is ours, something

great that belongs to us and to us alone, that we made, and that’s why

it’s important, and that’s what it’s all about and—Spoof! Spoof, you

can’t stop now—

But it was over, middle of the trip. And there was Spoof standing there facing

us and tears streaming out of those eyes and down over that coaldust face, and

his body shaking and shaking. It’s the first we ever saw that. It’s the first we

ever heard him cough, too—like a shotgun going off every two seconds, big raking

sounds that tore up from the bottom of his belly and spilled out wet and loud.

The way it tumbled was this. Rose-Ann went over to him and tried to get him to

sit down. “Spoof, honey, what’s wrong? Come on and sit down. Honey, don’t just

stand there.”

Spoof stopped coughing and jerked his head around. He looked at Rose-Ann for a

while, and whatever there was in his face, it didn’t have a name. The whole room

was just as quiet as it could be.

Rose-Ann took his arm. “Come on, honey, Mr. Collins—”

He let out one more cough, then, and drew back his hand—that black-topped,

pink-palmed ham of a hand—and laid it, sharp, across the girl’s cheek. It sent

her staggering. “Git off my back, hear? Damn it, git off! Stay ‘way from me!”

She got up crying. Then, you know what she did? She waltzed on back and took his

arm and said: “Please.”

Spoof was just a lot of crazy-mad on two legs. He shouted out some words and

pulled back his hand again. “Can’t you never learn? What I got to do, goddamn

little—”

Then—Sonny moved. All-the-time quiet and soft and gentle Sonny. He moved quick

across the floor and stood in front of Spoof.

“Keep your black hands off her,” he said.

Ol’ Massuh pushed Rose-Ann aside and planted his legs, his breath rattling fast

and loose, like a bull’s. And he towered over the kid, Goliath and David, legs

far apart on the boards and fingers curled up, bowling balls at the ends of his

sleeves.

“You talkin’ to me, boy?”

Sonny’s face was red, like I hadn’t seen it since that first time at the

Continental Club, years back. “You’ve got ears, Collins. Touch her again and

I’ll kill you.”

I don’t know exactly what we expected, but I know what we were afraid of. We

were afraid Spoof would let go; and if he did … well, put another bed in the

hospital, men. He stood there, breathing, and Sonny gave it right back—for

hours, days and nights, for a month, toe to toe.

Then Spoof relaxed. He pulled back those fat lips, that didn’t look like lips

any more, they were so tough and leathery, and showed a mouthful of white and

gold, and grunted, and turned, and walked away.

We swung into Twelfth Street Rag in such a hurry!

And it got kicked under the sofa.

But we found out something, then, that nobody even suspected.

Sonny had it for Rose-Ann. He had it bad.

And that ain’t good.

Spoof fell to pieces after that. He played day and night, when we were working,

when we weren’t working. Climbing. Trying to get it said, all of it.

“Listen, you can’t hit Heaven with a slingshot, Daddy-O!”

“What you want to do, man—blow Judgment?”

He never let up. If he ate anything, you tell me when. Sometimes he tied on,

straight stuff, quick, medicine type of drinking. But only after he’d been

climbing and started to blow flat and ended up in those coughing fits.

And it got worse. Nothing helped, either: foam or booze or tea or even Indoor

Sports, and he tried them all. And got worse.

“Get fixed up, Mr. C, you hear? See a bone-man; you in bad shape …”

“Get away from me, get on away!” Hawk! and a big red spot on the

handkerchief. “Broom off! Shoo!”

And gradually the old horn went sour, ugly and bitter sounding, like Spoof

himself. Hoo Lord, the way he rode Sonny then: “How you like the dark stuff,

boy? You like it pretty good? Hey there, don’t hold back. Rosie’s fine talent—I

know. Want me to tell you about it, pave the way, show you how? I taught you

everything else, didn’t I?” And Sonny always clamming up, his eyes doing the

talking: “You were a great musician, Collins, and you still are, but that

doesn’t mean I’ve got to like you—you won’t let me. And you’re damn right I’m in

love with Rose-Ann! That’s the biggest reason why I’m still here—just to be

close to her. Otherwise, you wouldn’t see me for the dust. But you’re too dumb

to realize she’s in love with you, too dumb and stupid and mean and wrapped up

with that lousy horn!”

What Sonny was too dumb to know was, Rose-Ann had cut Spoof out. She was

now Public Domain.

Anyway, Spoof got to be the meanest, dirtiest, craziest, low-talkin’est man in

the world. And nobody could come in: he had signs out all the time …

The night that he couldn’t even get a squeak out of his trumpet and went back to

the hotel—alone, always alone—and put the gun in his mouth and pulled the

trigger, we found something out.

We found out what it was that had been eating at The Ol’ Massuh.

Cancer.

· · · · ·

Rose-Ann took it the hardest. She had the dry-weeps for a long time, saying it

over and over: “Why didn’t he let us know? Why didn’t he tell us?”

But you get over things. Even women do, especially when they’ve got something to

take its place.

We reorganized a little. Sonny cut out the sax…saxes were getting cornball

anyway…and took over on trumpet. And we decided against keeping Spoof’s name. It

was now SONNY HOLMES AND HIS CREW.

And we kept on eating high up. Nobody seemed to miss Spoof—not the cats in

front, at least—because Sonny blew as great a horn as anybody could want, smooth

and sure, full of excitement and clean as a gnat’s behind.

We played across the States and back, and they loved us—thanks to the kid.

Called us an “institution,” and the disc jockeys began to pick up our stuff. We

were “real,” they said—the only authentic jazz left, and who am I to push it?

Maybe they were right.

Sonny kept things in low. And then, when he was sure—damn that slow way: it had

been a cinch since back when—he started to pay attention to Rose-Ann. She played

it cool, the way she knew he wanted it, and let it build up right. Of course,

who didn’t know she would’ve married him this minute, now, just say the word?

But Sonny was a very conscientious cat indeed.

We did a few stands in France about that time—Listen to them holler!—and a

couple of England and Sweden—getting better, too—and after a breather, we cut

out across the States again.

It didn’t happen fast, but it happened sure. Something was sounding flat all of

a sudden, like—wrong, in a way:

During an engagement in El Paso, we had What the Cats Dragged In lined

up. You all know Cats—the rhythm section still, with the horns yelling

for a hundred bars, then that fast and solid beat, that high trip and trumpet

solo? Sonny had the ups on a wild riff and was coming on down, when he stopped.

Stood still, with the horn to his lips; and we waited.

“Come on, wrap it up—you want a drum now? What’s the story, Sonny?”

Then he started to blow. The notes came out the same almost, but not quite the

same. They danced out of the horn strop-razor sharp and sliced up high and

blasted low and the cats all fell out. “Do it! Go! Go, man! Oooo, I’m out of the

boat, don’t pull me back! Sing out, man!”

The solo lasted almost seven minutes. When it was time for us to wind it up, we

just about forgot.

The crowd went wild. They stomped and screamed and whistled. But they couldn’t

get Sonny to play anymore. He pulled the horn away from his mouth—I mean that’s

the way it looked, as if he was yanking it away with all his strength—and for a

second he looked surprised, like he’d been goosed. Then his lips pulled back

into a smile.

It was the damndest smile!

Freddie went over to him at the break. “Man, that was the craziest. How many

tongues you got?”

But Sonny didn’t answer him.

· · · · ·

Things went along all right for a little. We played a few dances in the cities,

some radio stuff, cut a few platters. Easy walking style.

Sonny played Sonny—plenty great enough. And we forgot about what happened in El

Paso. So what? So he cuts loose once—can’t a man do that if he feels the urge?

Every jazz man brings that kind of light at least once.

We worked through the sticks and were finally set for a New York opening when

Sonny came in and gave us the news.

It was a gasser. Lux got sore. Mr. “T” shook his head.

“Why? How come, Top?”

He had us booked for the corn-belt. The old-time route, exactly, even the old

places, back when we were playing razzmatazz and feeling our way.

“You trust me?” Sonny asked. “You trust my judgment?”

“Come off it, Top; you know we do. Just tell us how come. Man, New York’s what

we been working for—”

“That’s just it,” Sonny said. “We aren’t ready.”

That brought us down. How did we know—we hadn’t even thought about it.

“We need to get back to the real material. When we play in New York, it’s not

anything anybody’s liable to forget in a hurry. And that’s why I think we ought

to take a refresher course. About five weeks. All right?”

Well, we fussed some and fumed some, but not much, and in the end we agreed to

it. Sonny knew his stuff, that’s what we figured.

“Then it’s settled.”

And we lit out.

Played mostly the old stuff dressed up—Big Gig, Only Us Chickens, and the

rest—or head-arrangements with a lot of trumpet. Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky …

When we hit Louisiana for a two-nighter at the Tropics, the same thing happened

that did back in Texas. Sonny blew wild for eight minutes on a solo that broke

the glasses and cracked the ceiling and cleared the dance floor like a tornado.

Nothing off the stem, either—but like it was practice, sort of, or exercise. A

solo out of nothing, that didn’t even try to hang on to a shred of the melody.

“Man, it’s great, but let us know when it’s gonna happen, hear!”

About then Sonny turned down the flame on Rose-Ann. He was polite enough, and a

stranger wouldn’t have noticed, but we did, and Rose-Ann did—and it was tough

for her to keep it all down under, hidden. All those questions, all those

memories and fears.

He stopped going out and took to hanging around his rooms a lot. Once in a while

he’d start playing: one time we listened to that horn all night.

Finally—it was still somewhere in Louisiana—when Sonny was reaching with his

trumpet so high he didn’t get any more sound out of it than a dog-whistle, and

the front cats were laughing up a storm, I went over and put it to him

flatfooted.

His eyes were big, and he looked like he was trying to say something and

couldn’t. He looked scared.

“Sonny … look, boy, what are you after? Tell a friend, man, don’t lock it up.”

But he didn’t answer me. He couldn’t.

He was coughing too hard.

Here’s the way we doped it: Sonny had worshiped Spoof, like a god or something.

Now some of Spoof was rubbing off, and he didn’t know it.

Freddie was elected. Freddie talks pretty good most of the time.

“Get off the train, Jack. Ol’ Massuh’s gone now, dead and buried. Mean, what he

was after ain’t to be had. Mean, he wanted it all and then some—and all is all,

there isn’t any more. You play the greatest, Sonny—go on, ask anybody. Just

fine. So get off the train …”

And Sonny laughed, and agreed and promised. I mean in words. His eyes played

another number, though.

Sometimes he snapped out of it, it looked like, and he was fine then—tired and

hungry, but with it. And we’d think, He’s okay. Then it would happen all over

again—only worse. Every time, worse.

And it got so Sonny even talked like Spoof half the time: “Broom off, man, leave

me alone, will you? Can’t you see I’m busy, got things to do? Get away!” And

walked like Spoof—that slow, walk-in-your-sleep shuffle. And did little

things—like scratching his belly and leaving his shoes unlaced and rehearsing in

his undershirt.

He started to smoke weed in Alabama.

In Tennessee he took the first drink anybody ever saw him take.

And always with that horn—cussing it, yelling at it, getting sore because it

wouldn’t do what he wanted it to.

We had to leave him alone, finally. “I’ll handle it … I-understand, I think …

Just go away, it’ll be all right …”

Nobody could help him. Nobody at all.

Especially not Rose-Ann.

· · · · ·

End of the corn-belt route, the way Sonny had it booked, was the Copper Club. We

hadn’t been back there since the night we planted Spoof—and we didn’t feel very

good about it.

But a contract isn’t anything else.

So we took rooms at the only hotel there ever was in the town. You make a guess

which room Sonny took. And we played some cards and bruised our chops and tried

to sleep and couldn’t. We tossed around in the beds, listening, waiting for the

horn to begin. But it didn’t. All night long, it didn’t.

We found out why, oh yes …

Next day we all walked around just about everywhere except in the direction of

the cemetery. Why kick up misery? Why make it any harder?

Sonny stayed in his room until ten before opening, and we began to worry. But he

got in under the wire.

The Copper Club was packed. Yokels and farmers and high school stuff, a jazz

“connoisseur” here and there—to the beams. Freddie had set up the stands with

the music notes all in order, and in a few minutes we had our positions.

Sonny came out wired for sound. He looked—powerful; and that’s a hard way for a

five-foot four-inch bald-headed white man to look. At any time. Rose-Ann threw

me a glance and I threw it back, and collected it from the rest. Something bad.

Something real bad. Soon.

Sonny didn’t look any which way. He waited for the applause to die down, then he

did a quick One-Two-Three-Four and we swung into The Jimjam Man, our

theme.

I mean to say, that crowd was with us all the way—they smelled something.

Sonny did the thumb-and-little-finger signal and we started Only Us Chickens.

Bud Meunier did the intro on his bass, then Henry took over on the piano. He

played one hand racing the other. The front cats hollered “Go! Go!” and Henry

went. His left hand crawled on down over the keys and scrambled and didn’t fuzz

once or slip once and then walked away, cocky and proud, like a mouse full of

cheese from an unsprung trap.

“Hooo-boy! Play, Henry, play!”

Sonny watched and smiled. “Bring it on out,” he said, gentled, quiet, pleased.

“Keep bringin’ it out.”

Henry did that counterpoint business that you’re not supposed to be able to do

unless you have two right arms and four extra fingers, and he got that boiler

puffing, and he got it shaking, and he screamed his Henry Walker “WoooooOOOOO!”

and he finished. I came in on the tubs and beat them up till I couldn’t see for

the sweat, hit the cymbal and waited.

Mr. “T,” Lux, and Jimmy fiddle-faddled like a coop of capons talking about their

operation for a while. Rose-Ann chanted: “Only us chickens in the hen-house,

Daddy, Only us chickens here, Only us chickens in the hen-house, Daddy,

Ooo-bob-a-roo, Ooo-bob-a-roo …”

Then it was horn time. Time for the big solo.

Sonny lifted the trumpet—One! Two!—He got it into sight—Three!

We all stopped dead. I mean we stopped.

That wasn’t Sonny’s horn. This one was dented-in and beat-up and the tip-end was

nicked. It didn’t shine, not a bit.

Lux leaned over—you could have fit a coffee cup into his mouth. “Jesus God,” he

said. “Am I seeing right?”

I looked close and said: “Man, I hope not.”

But why kid? We’d seen that trumpet a million times.

It was Spoof’s.

Rose-Ann was trembling. Just like me, she remembered how we’d buried the horn

with Spoof. And she remembered how quiet it had been in Sonny’s room last night

…

I started to think real hophead thoughts, like—where did Sonny get hold of a

shovel that late? And how could he expect a horn to play that’s been under the

ground for two years? And—

That blast got into our ears like long knives.

Spoof’s own trademark!

Sonny looked caught, like he didn’t know what to do at first, like he was

hypnotized, scared, almighty scared. But as the sound came out, rolling out,

sharp and clean and clear—new-trumpet sound—his expression changed. His eyes

changed: they danced a little and opened wide.

Then he closed them, and blew that horn. Lord God of the Fishes, how he blew it!

How he loved it and caressed it and pushed it up, higher and higher and higher.

High C? Bottom of the barrel. He took off, and he walked all over the rules and

stamped them flat.

The melody got lost, first off. Everything got lost, then, while that horn flew.

It wasn’t only jazz; it was the heart of jazz, and the insides, pulled out with

the roots and held up for everybody to see; it was blues that told the story of

all the lonely cats and all the ugly whores who ever lived, blues that spoke up

for the loser lamping sunshine out of iron-gray bars and every hophead hooked

and gone, for the bindlestiffs and the city slickers, for the country boys in

Georgia shacks and the High Yellow hipsters in Chicago slums and the bootblacks

on the corners and the fruits in New Orleans, a blues that spoke for all the

lonely, sad, and anxious downers who could never speak themselves …

And then, when it had said all this, it stopped, and there was a quiet so quiet

that Sonny could have shouted:

“It’s okay, Spoof. It’s all right now. You’ll get it said, all of it—I’ll help

you. God, Spoof, you showed me how, you planned it—I’ll do my best!”

And he laid back his head and fastened the horn and pulled in air and blew some

more. Not sad, now, not blues—but not anything else you could call by a name.

Except … jazz. It was jazz.

Hate blew out of that horn, then. Hate and fury and mad and fight, like screams

and snarls, like little razors shooting at you, millions of them, cutting,

cutting deep …

And Sonny only stopping to wipe his lip and whisper in the silent room full of

people: “You’re saying it, Spoof! You are!”

God Almighty Himself must have heard that trumpet, then; slapping and hitting

and hurting with notes that don’t exist and never existed. Man! Life took a real

beating! Life got groined and sliced and belly-punched, and the horn, it didn’t

stop until everything had all spilled out, every bit of the hate and mad that’s

built up in a man’s heart.

Rose-Ann walked over to me and dug her nails into my hand as she listened to

Sonny …

“Come on now, Spoof! Come on! We can do it! Let’s play the rest and play it

right. You know it’s got to be said, you know it does. Come on, you and me

together!”

And the horn took off with a big yellow blast and started to laugh. I mean it

laughed! Hooted and hollered and jumped around, dancing, singing, strutting

through those notes that never were there. Happy music? Joyful music? It was

chicken dinner and an empty stomach; it was big-butted women and big white beds;

it was country walking and windy days and fresh-born crying and—Oh, there just

doesn’t happen to be any happiness that didn’t come out of that horn.

Sonny hit the last high note—the Spoof blast—but so high you could just barely

hear it.

Then Sonny dropped the horn. It fell onto the floor and bounced and lay still.

And nobody breathed. For a long, long time.

Rose-Ann let go of my hand, at last. She walked across the platform, slowly, and

picked up the trumpet and handed it to Sonny.

He knew what she meant.

We all did. It was over now, over and done …

Lux plucked out the intro. Jimmy Fritch picked it up and kept the melody.

Then we all joined in, slow and quiet, quiet as we could. With Sonny—I’m talking

about Sonny—putting out the kind of sound he’d always wanted to.

And Rose-Ann sang it, clear as a mountain wind—not just from her heart, but from

her belly and her guts and every living part of her.

For The Ol’ Massuh, just for him. Spoof’s own song:

Black Country.

The End

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© 1954 by Charles Beaumont. Reprinted by

permission of Don Congdon Associates, Inc.

Originally published in Playboy

Magazine, September 1954.