on one hand. There were the half-Choctaw, half-Creole cheekbones, the dark, hooded eyes. He fished in his pocket, came out with the broken bottle neck he used as a guitar slide, and said something to the band.
Babe said, “That one’s good-looking too. They’re all good-looking.”
Johnny Clay had sat in my dressing room and talked about his friend, and I’d never once thought he might be talking about Butch Dawkins.
They played for over two hours, and they were good. Even with part of one finger missing, my brother tore up that trumpet like he’d been playing all his life. He was better on the trumpet than he’d ever been on guitar. The drummer was a wild man, shouting out to the crowd, hollering lines of music every now and then. The piano player, the man with the hat, didn’t look up from the keys once. The saxophonist jittered about the stage, like he couldn’t keep still.
Butch Dawkins glanced up from his guitar every now and then, but most of the time, like the piano player, he bent his head over the instrument, lost in the music. He only introduced one of the songs, letting us know it was something they were still working out. In the same whiskey-and-cigarettes voice I remembered, he said, “I first heard this tune in Chicago. I thought, ‘I’ve got to get a little bit of that song,’ so I asked the fella if I could have the chorus.” The music was different from any I’d heard Butch play before. Something in it smoldered, as if any moment he might let loose, but for now was holding himself back.
Around twelve thirty, the band walked off the stage, and someone else went on. A few minutes later, my brother made his way through the crowd, trumpet under his arm, stopping to shake hands with the people congratulating him on the show. He leaned against the bar, ordered a drink, and said, “Well, little sister? What’d you think?”
I said, “When did you learn to play trumpet?”
He laughed and laughed, delighted with himself. “Training camp. After I busted the lip of our bugler, they made me play reveille every morning for a month. I found out I was a natural.” He looked down at his finger, the one that was half-missing, and then nodded at Babe and Hal. “Are these fine people your friends, Velva Jean?”
“Babe King, Hal MacGinnis, my brother Johnny Clay.”
He shook hands. “Sure, sure, I recognize you. Y’all are movie stars.” He winked at Babe.
I said, “You forgot to mention that Butch Dawkins was the friend you kept talking about.”
“I was so happy to see you, little sister, it slipped my mind.” My brother was nearly impossible to be mad at, something he knew.
At some point, he said, “The Downbeat closes around one thirty. What say we go over to Lovejoy’s? They go till six or seven, and there’s always a jam going on.” Before I could say anything, he fixed a look on me. “Butch is going to meet us over there.”
Lovejoy’s Breakfast Club, “Home of the Big-Legged Chicken,” was located at Central Avenue and Vernon. Inside, we walked through a crowded, smoky hallway, up a crowded, smoky stairway, through another crowded, smoky hallway, and into a crowded, smoky room, where Johnny Clay’s drummer was pounding away, and a man, as wrinkled as an old nut, sat at the piano.
Butch sat at a table by himself, bottle in front of him, guitar hooked over his chair, which was tilted back on two legs. His arms were crossed and he was watching the piano player. He didn’t see us till we were standing there, and then he stood and nodded at everyone and said, “Velva Jean,” like it hadn’t been two years since we’d seen each other. He pulled out the chair next to his so I could sit down.
We ordered fried chicken baskets, and glasses for the liquor Butch had brought, and then a good-looking colored man walked up beside the piano and started to wail away on the alto sax. Johnny Clay said, “That’s Charlie Parker, god of the future.” While Hal sat across the table,
Babe said, “That one’s good-looking too. They’re all good-looking.”
Johnny Clay had sat in my dressing room and talked about his friend, and I’d never once thought he might be talking about Butch Dawkins.
They played for over two hours, and they were good. Even with part of one finger missing, my brother tore up that trumpet like he’d been playing all his life. He was better on the trumpet than he’d ever been on guitar. The drummer was a wild man, shouting out to the crowd, hollering lines of music every now and then. The piano player, the man with the hat, didn’t look up from the keys once. The saxophonist jittered about the stage, like he couldn’t keep still.
Butch Dawkins glanced up from his guitar every now and then, but most of the time, like the piano player, he bent his head over the instrument, lost in the music. He only introduced one of the songs, letting us know it was something they were still working out. In the same whiskey-and-cigarettes voice I remembered, he said, “I first heard this tune in Chicago. I thought, ‘I’ve got to get a little bit of that song,’ so I asked the fella if I could have the chorus.” The music was different from any I’d heard Butch play before. Something in it smoldered, as if any moment he might let loose, but for now was holding himself back.
Around twelve thirty, the band walked off the stage, and someone else went on. A few minutes later, my brother made his way through the crowd, trumpet under his arm, stopping to shake hands with the people congratulating him on the show. He leaned against the bar, ordered a drink, and said, “Well, little sister? What’d you think?”
I said, “When did you learn to play trumpet?”
He laughed and laughed, delighted with himself. “Training camp. After I busted the lip of our bugler, they made me play reveille every morning for a month. I found out I was a natural.” He looked down at his finger, the one that was half-missing, and then nodded at Babe and Hal. “Are these fine people your friends, Velva Jean?”
“Babe King, Hal MacGinnis, my brother Johnny Clay.”
He shook hands. “Sure, sure, I recognize you. Y’all are movie stars.” He winked at Babe.
I said, “You forgot to mention that Butch Dawkins was the friend you kept talking about.”
“I was so happy to see you, little sister, it slipped my mind.” My brother was nearly impossible to be mad at, something he knew.
At some point, he said, “The Downbeat closes around one thirty. What say we go over to Lovejoy’s? They go till six or seven, and there’s always a jam going on.” Before I could say anything, he fixed a look on me. “Butch is going to meet us over there.”
Lovejoy’s Breakfast Club, “Home of the Big-Legged Chicken,” was located at Central Avenue and Vernon. Inside, we walked through a crowded, smoky hallway, up a crowded, smoky stairway, through another crowded, smoky hallway, and into a crowded, smoky room, where Johnny Clay’s drummer was pounding away, and a man, as wrinkled as an old nut, sat at the piano.
Butch sat at a table by himself, bottle in front of him, guitar hooked over his chair, which was tilted back on two legs. His arms were crossed and he was watching the piano player. He didn’t see us till we were standing there, and then he stood and nodded at everyone and said, “Velva Jean,” like it hadn’t been two years since we’d seen each other. He pulled out the chair next to his so I could sit down.
We ordered fried chicken baskets, and glasses for the liquor Butch had brought, and then a good-looking colored man walked up beside the piano and started to wail away on the alto sax. Johnny Clay said, “That’s Charlie Parker, god of the future.” While Hal sat across the table,
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