White Boy Likes The Blues

Introduction

Unlike the main character in this work of fiction (BobbyT), I am not a professional musician. Although I did study and learn the rudiments of playing an instrument, I was average at best. And this won’t pay the monthly bills or put food on your table.

My lifelong love of music began when I was approximately 3 or 4 years old, listening to records from my mother’s collection – jazz, specifically. As a classically-trained pianist, she also used to play selections on our upright by some of our greatest composers, such as Mozart, Beethoven and Tchaikovsky. When my parents played records on our Fisher stereo, I would sit in front of it for hours watching the records spinning on the turntable. It’s almost like I was hypnotized. Apart from jazz, my interests in later years included rock ‘n’ roll and blues. It’s interesting how these three musical genres are all connected with one another. Without influences of jazz and blues, rock would never have been born. And jazz has an influence on blues and vice versa.

Music for me has always served as something of a panacea for whatever emotion you may be experiencing, be it happy, sad, angry, frustrated, etc. Sometimes the art itself goes through changes, evolves, regresses, always reinventing itself somehow. This could be through technology or musical styles. In other words, it tries to keep itself fresh.

This book is dedicated to any musician out there, whether it’s the struggling or the famous and/or to anyone who simply loves music because it is in their lives. Long live this art, for without it, this world would not have as much color and substance.

Joel N. Klein

Prologue

It wasn’t even 10:00 A.M. and the temperature was already at 76 degrees in the shade. The weather forecast that day anticipated a high in the mid 90’s by afternoon and this was February.

BobbyT shook his head in disbelief. Although he had lived in Tucson for several years, summer weather during winter felt strange. Before moving here, he had lived most of his life in New York and Pennsylvania. As a boy, he recalled that 30 degrees in late January felt like a heat wave. It almost made you want to go outside without your winter coat.

The screen door opened and Terri appeared, wearing jean cut-offs, faded T-shirt, partially drooped eyes and a groggy smile. She sat down on the porch swing next to him with her large hard-plastic purple mug bearing the Terri’s Vision logo, which was her art gallery. She took a drink of her coffee and leaned over to kiss him.

Mmmm, well, good morning, gorgeous! BobbyT said, brightly, smiling at her.

Uh huh, and how many women have you said that to this morning? she teased.

Just two, you and Maggie, he answered. Maggie was a black-and-tan German Shepherd lying in the corner of the porch, whose tail started wagging when she heard her name. Terri had adopted her from the local Animal Shelter a year before BobbyT arrived. Although she loved Terri, BobbyT was her favorite. He didn’t understand why, as he had never been around dogs that much. It didn’t take long, however, for Maggie to win him over. He even took her to work with him most days.

Well, that’s okay, as long as you’re not doing with her what we did last night, Terri grinned, snuggling up to him.

BobbyT cocked an eyebrow towards Maggie, while putting his arm around Terri, and said, Nah, not my type.

The mornings here in Tucson were quiet, unlike New York, where the city screamed in his ears. BobbyT had fallen into a routine that hardly varied. When he awoke, he would feed Maggie and make the coffee. After these tasks, Maggie would follow him outside, where she’d walk around the yard and do her business. She then went back to the porch where BobbyT was seated, get her pets and loves and would go to the corner to lay down. Terri would emerge sometime later and the two of them would drink their coffee and talk about their day ahead. It almost sounded like a page from a Leave it to Beaver script; all that was missing was Beaver and Wally.

Have you spoken to Erin? Terri asked.

No, BobbyT answered, I’ll call her today.

It was a call he had been dreading. Her name alone had good and bad memories attached. Erin Morgan was the popular jazz pianist, and BobbyT had collaborated with her on A Blue Soul as both producer and musician. It was a critical and commercial success and they teamed up again for the following release, The Right Thing with The Erin Morgan Quartet. During production, some personal issues occurred and he had left the project, angry and dismayed. In the end, …Right Thing... was released, and BobbyT had produced ¾ of the project; others had finished the rest, which was why he had shared production duties with several people.

That didn’t concern him as much as the legal events which followed; however, Tina, his sister, a corporation lawyer, had a colleague who specialized in entertainment law. Everything had finally been settled a year ago, along with thousands of dollars paid to the lawyer. Although it had been frustrating, he had breathed a sigh of relief when it was done. Once the case had concluded, BobbyT didn’t care if he ever saw or heard from Erin Morgan again. With the passing of time, however, he was more open to talking with Erin again should it come to that. Well, maybe open, but not breaking any speed records in doing such.

He was a still a young man, not even forty yet and financially comfortable thanks to some wise investments, an inheritance and his own hard work. If he had wanted, BobbyT could have chosen to retire. But that would last a week tops, before he drove Terri, Maggie and everyone in Tucson crazy, not to mention himself.

BobbyT had been living with Terri for several years and it was a good, though unconventional, relationship. Neither had ever spoken of marriage or children. They did love each other, no question about that, but they also didn’t feel the need to be around one another every single moment. That wasn’t always possible, anyway, since their occupations took them away on business for weeks, sometimes months, at a time.

That afternoon, he drove his red Monte Carlo to the studio, with Maggie in tow, panting. Poor girl. It must have been miserable for her with that fur coat in the hot weather. BobbyT turned up the air conditioning, hoping that might help her out and cranked up the volume on the radio. At that moment, a song by Erin Morgan played, one he recognized. How could he not – he had written it! He hardly listened, as he had played, revised and recorded this tune too many times to count.

It was a subtle reminder to return Erin’s calls, something he had promised to Terri. She told BobbyT he should at least talk to her and attempt to bury the hatchet between them. If anything more came of it, Terri concluded, so much for the better.

When they arrived at the studio, Maggie, after leaping out of the car, shook herself as if she had just had a bath. She then sat down and looked up at BobbyT. This was unusual, since she normally ran to the studio door and waited for him.

You too? he asked her, rolling his eyes. In spite of himself, he laughed. All right, girl, I’ll call her. Now, let’s go. As if she understood, Maggie took off at a dead run for the door.

Once inside, they went to his office and Maggie settled herself in her large dog bed. BobbyT sat at his desk and retrieved his cell phone, replaying one of the old messages from Erin. After lighting a cigarette, he put his feet on the desk and pushed OK to dial the number.

BobbyT settled himself in his comfortable office chair. This would not be a short conversation that was about to take place.

Chapter 1

People come and go in our lives with frequency. It could be the person you’re in line with at the bank. You strike up a conversation with them, a few minutes at best, and you never see them again. You may work with someone for a few years, and then they move to another job, out of state, etc. Although you promise to keep in touch, most times this doesn’t occur. Too many variables – work schedules, relationships, outside commitments among them – prevent this. It’s unintentional, but that’s the way lives happen.

Sometimes you meet people when you least expect to. Maybe you’re alone and someone comes up to ask or say something and a conversation begins. One such time was when BobbyT met JaMes and Larwin, who became his friends and played music together as The Former Division.

Before that meeting took place, BobbyT was a session musician, producer and was fairly well-known in jazz circles. One afternoon, having nothing pressing – according to his agent – he went into The Danger Zone, a jazz club where musicians could jam in the afternoon. In the evening, the club did a thriving business. At times, it could be SRO, depending on who was there.

BobbyT took a seat at one of the front tables after he stopped at the bar for a Grey Goose martini. He didn’t recognize the song or any of the musicians on the stage, a trio of a guitarist, bass, and drummer. The bassist didn’t particularly impress him, but the guitarist and drummer did.

When the song ended, there was a little applause, mostly from employees doing prep work for the evening. The musicians had left the stage, so BobbyT thought he’d finish his drink and then head back home. He hadn’t noticed that someone had stopped by at his table. It turned out to be JaMes, the drummer who had been on the stage.

Hey, was all he said, and then took a seat.

What up? BobbyT asked.

Are you a musician? JaMes asked. When BobbyT nodded, he did, too, adding, I thought so, by the way you were into the music.

That drum solo was killer, BobbyT said, motioning to the stage, parts of it reminded me of Art Blakey and Philly Jo Jones.

No shit?! he said, a new respect coming into his eyes. He held up his index finger, turned his head around, and said loudly, Yo, Larwin! C’mere a second.

Just a minute! Larwin yelled back. He was drinking a Heineken and talking with a girl at the bar. Larwin finished talking to the girl and came over, taking a chair from an adjacent table. He turned it backwards and straddled it, dangling the beer and his free arm over the back.

So? he asked, looking at JaMes.

This man was watching us, JaMes said, motioning to BobbyT, says he’s a musician. Larwin turned his attention to BobbyT for the first time, and a slow recognition came into his eyes.

Damn right he is! Larwin agreed, Don’t you know who this is, homeboy?

JaMes shook his head, puzzled.

This is BobbyT, Larwin answered, and then grinned, shoot, I’m forgetting my manners. I’m Larwin Johnston, and he’s JaMes. BobbyT shook both of their hands.

I saw you at The Brick House the other night, Larwin continued, that wasn’t a bad show.

Maybe not in the end, BobbyT said, shaking his head, but in the beginning, there were problems. The pianist was so drunk he could barely bang out ‘Chopsticks’. After three songs, I told him to get the hell out. And the guitarist had a hard-on for this woman in the front, showing off, and fucking up everything. I told him during intermission to play bass, and I took over lead. The woman had left by the time we came back on, so things improved.

Is that your band? JaMes asked.

Hell no! BobbyT answered, Those guys couldn’t play for shit! I owed the manager a favor sometime back, and stood in for the bassist who had the flu. He finished the rest of his martini, and thought he’d stay for another.

You guys want a drink? BobbyT asked. Larwin raised his Heineken, and JaMes said Bourbon and soda. He came back with the drinks a few minutes later, and noticed both of them already had money on the table.

Your guitar playing is really fluid, Larwin, BobbyT said, I heard a lot of influences during your solos.

Is that right? Like who? Larwin asked, interested.

Let’s see, BobbyT began, thoughtfully, Wes Montgomery and Kenny Burrell, mainly, a little Grant Green.

Those guys are good, Larwin agreed.

BobbyT noticed that Larwin, like himself, wasn’t good with compliments, agreeing with rather than acknowledging a statement. BobbyT was the same way.

So what are you doing these days, Bobby? JaMes asked.

Ah, some studio work here and there, whatever my agent can find, BobbyT answered, nothing concrete at the moment. How about you guys?

Some gigs when we can find them, Larwin said, working part-time otherwise until something comes along. BobbyT could relate to that; he had worked his share of menial jobs when he was starting out.

Do you guys have an agent? BobbyT asked.

Nah, we’re looking for one right now, JaMes answered, some we’ve talked to were like total bloodsuckers. It’s like you sign up with them, and they own the rights to your fucking soul. What JaMes said was accurate; there were some instances he remembered where some ruthless agents drove a few musician friends into bankruptcy. He pulled out a business card from his wallet.

This is my agent’s card, BobbyT said, sliding it towards Larwin, call him if you want. He can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but he is fair. The agent, Pat Cohen, of Cohen & Cohen Associated, was always trying to do the Hollywood ‘let’s have lunch’ bullshit with him. BobbyT always refused; he wasn’t particularly crazy about the agent as a person.

Thanks, maybe we will, Larwin said, noncommittally, pocketing the card, so, Bobby, how long have you been playing guitar?

Shoot, let’s see, BobbyT began, staring into space, fifteen, sixteen years, something like that. I figure I still have some good years left before I put it down. The last thing I want to do is hobble across some stage in a walker with a guitar strapped across my back barely able to play chords because of arthritis. He was being melodramatic, sarcastic and humorous all at once since he was only twenty-eight. Larwin and JaMes both laughed.

Well, before that happens, Larwin said, amused, wanna jam with us?

Now? BobbyT asked. Both JaMes and Larwin nodded. I would, but I don’t have my axe.

You can use one of mine, Larwin said, motioning to the stage, we still have an hour or so before we have to split.

Hey, who was that guy playing with you before? BobbyT asked.

Oh, him, JaMes said, dismissively, Some dude that works here, don’t even remember his name. Hope he doesn’t give up his day job. They all stood up to walk to the stage.

Yeah, he didn’t impress me that much, BobbyT agreed. They had all finished their drinks. Tell you what, Larwin. Since you’re letting me use your guitars, I’ll buy the next round afterward. I insist.

The three of them were onstage. JaMes sat down behind his drum kit, and Larwin looked at BobbyT.

Bass or lead? he asked, simply.

How ‘bout we alternate? BobbyT said, diplomatically, I’ll play bass this time, lead the next?

I can hang with that, Larwin said agreeably. The next several minutes were spent tuning instruments, checking volume levels on amps and JaMes testing parts of his drum kit.

Anything in particular? BobbyT asked Larwin, afterwards. Larwin thought for a minute before answering.

Well, you mentioned Kenny Burrell before, Larwin said, apparently still in thought, how about ‘Chitlins Con Carne’?

Sounds good to me, BobbyT replied, and turned to the drummer, how about you, JaMes? JaMes nodded, silently, and Larwin started the countdown.

The song started with an eight-bar bass and drum rhythm, before the lead joined. BobbyT was briefly amused by the song selection; not because he disliked it, but that it had been recorded long before anyone in this trio had been born. BobbyT was twenty-eight, while Larwin and JaMes were both twenty-five. He didn’t know where these two had learned to play jazz, but they knew their stuff and were tight. And this felt good to BobbyT. He had played with more than one musician recently that wanted to do that smooth jazz shit. Although he didn’t like it, sometimes one did what one had to do to pay the bills. BobbyT’s head was more into be-bop with a strong background and respect for the blues.

After ‘...Carne’, the trio took turns calling out and playing numbers by various artists. They were having so much fun they didn’t notice how much time had passed.

Shit, we have about ten minutes left, Larwin said, looking at his watch, before they throw us and our instruments out on the street. They actually had more time than that, but Larwin considered loading up their instruments as well.

Ten minutes? BobbyT said, Sounds like we can do one more. Want to end this jam with a little blues?

Sounds good to me, JaMes answered, and Larwin nodded.

What do you have in mind? Larwin answered.

Whatever we want, BobbyT shrugged.

What key? Larwin asked.

Start out at C, and we’ll go from there, BobbyT answered.

Great! Let’s do it! Larwin said, sounding like a child in a candy store.

Here, give me the bass, than, BobbyT said. It was his turn, because as agreed, they alternated the guitars during each song.

No, go ahead and stay on lead, Larwin suggested. After some discussion about tempo and a few false starts, they found their grove, and took off from there. The improv had a rhythm primarily in blues, although one of them would throw in a jazz element at times. Towards the end, BobbyT generously allowed Larwin and JaMes to stretch out on their respective instruments. When they finally ended the number, none of them cared about acknowledgment, although quite a few employees in The Danger Zone were applauding. The most important thing was something they already knew.

They had just played some damn fine music!! The three men nodded and exchanged glances at one another. BobbyT was the first to speak.

Holy shit!! BobbyT said, We have to get together and do this again.

Anytime, brother, JaMes agreed.

Besides, you owe us both a drink since I let you use my guitars, Larwin joked, we’ll have to do a rain check on that.

A rain check on both, BobbyT clarified, here, let me help you guys load up your gear. JaMes and Larwin weren’t about to turn down that offer; with three of them working, the instruments were loaded in Larwin’s van in no time.

Larwin, let me have that business card I gave you, so I can write my number on back, BobbyT said. JaMes, in the meantime, had found a scrap piece of paper in the front seat and written his and Larwin’s numbers. When they exchanged information, Larwin got in to start the van.

Drop you off somewhere, Bobby? Larwin asked.

Nah, I think I’ll walk around a bit and clear my head, BobbyT said, I’ll see you guys next time.

Later, Bobby, JaMes said, and the van drove away.

They weren’t aware of it, but someone else, besides the employees at The Danger Zone, had been listening to them as well.

Chapter 2

Just around the time the trio started playing, Erin Morgan had come in to see the manager about some business. The manager was out on errands, and it wasn’t certain when he’d be back. She had been doing the same, running nonstop since late morning, and still had to attend some business cocktail party later on. She decided to take a short break before she went home to change, and sat in one of the back tables with a glass of Merlot. She felt herself starting to relax for the first time that day.

Erin Morgan was a very popular jazz pianist and vocalist. Although she was grateful for things her celebrity status afforded, she sometimes resented the bullshit that went with it. But she was also smart enough to know that that’s how the business was. If you didn’t play the game, you didn’t work.

Erin looked at the musicians on the stage, two of whom were black – the bass guitarist and drummer- but unfamiliar to her. The lead guitar, a white male, looked familiar to her. Erin combed her memory to recall who he was. Hadn’t she met him once before, or heard him play? After a minute, it came to her. His name was BobbyT, and the answer to her question was both.

Erin had heard his work on CD and through various people in the music industry. Any music publications about BobbyT always dealt with the music at hand, and nothing personal about the man behind it. She knew that was because BobbyT despised the press and rarely granted interviews.

Erin had also met BobbyT at an industry party some time ago. She wasn’t sure why he was there in the first place – perhaps he had done some session work for an artist on the label? Her manager had been escorting Erin for the past hour, introducing her to supposedly important people, none of whose names she would remember later. She was tired, both physically and mentally, when her manager introduced her to BobbyT.

BobbyT, meanwhile, was by the Industry Table, where they put complimentary CDs and publications on newly signed artists, featuring photos and short bios on the artist and/or group. He was reading one of these publications; actually, he was pretending to. Parties like this bored him senseless, and he wondered how much