About Carmen McRae…first, go listen on the Concert Vault to her concert from the Great American Music Hall (GAMH) in San Francisco in Feb.,1975 and then come back and lemme try to tell you about witnessing a little bit of her epic career. One of my earliest and best friends in the Biz, she was a successful veteran, hey, a living legend, long before I stumbled along. She became like another mother to me, and I’m forever indebted to her for good advice, for always a ready and practical helping hand, for a whole helluva lotta good listening fun, and, for damn good pay for my meager participation (as King Diz would say, “Don’t forget DAT perk!”).

She had already played countless gigs in San Francisco, had hordes of fans there and many long-time friends, had done an album Live at Sugar Hill in SF some 10 years before her first gig at GAMH. But, oh so luckily, it was love at first sight between Carmen and GAMH, the elegance and acoustics of the place were perfect for her, and her audience loved GAMH. And was I ever lucky to hit it off with her, must have appealed to her maternal instincts, being still a callow youth in many respects, ha, a babe just stumbling in, lost in the woods of the cut-throat nightclub biz. And she took me in hand, whipped me into shape, uh, figuratively, but I never doubted for a minute that if I didn’t pay attention, she would damn well jump up, grab and whip my ass literally.

Carmen was our first of the great jazz divas at GAMH, and then I was in like Flynn with the other divas, because Carmen wholeheartedly recommended GAMH, and me, to Sarah Vaughan right away, like, “You gotta play that place!” and then, directly or indirectly from Carmen and Sarah, the other great jazz divas, like Betty Carter, Chris Connor, Anita O’Day, Blossom Dearie, Morgana King, and others.

Carmen loved recording live, by far preferred that to studio work. And she touted GAMH as THE place to record. On command, Diz showed up to play and record with her, well, summoned he was and he knew that he damn well better show up. By that time, I was used to her calling me “boy”, but when, backstage about to go on, running down her set list with the band, at the last minute of course, no rehearsal, nothing planned beforehand…Dizzy of course started clowning at some point during her instructional speech and she sternly addressed Him as “boy,” and he did a quick shuffle and a low bow to her that was almost a kowtow. I erupted in laughter.  Diz gave me one of his patented and copyrighted don’t-you-dare looks, shaking his jowls as he whirled around to glare at me, and said, “Carmen’s allowed, my sainted Mama was allowed, but anybody else call me ‘boy’ gits CUT, you hear DAT, white boy?”  It was schtick of course, a set piece, set to teach this boy, and part and parcel of entertaining the band and the backstage crew, Diz being always and forever ON and getting everybody UP! Let’s GO!

Diz was born and raised in South Carolina, so was versed in such matters as how to handle not just white folks, had deftly extrapolated that early work into handling World Music audiences as well as supremacy-seeking wannabe-bosses everywhere. Diz the Diplomat.  Hey, derisively sometimes, but always in good fun, he put everybody in place. As he said to some friends hanging in his dressing room after a gig, “There ARE some good rednecks down South, like this boy (pointing at me with his chin)…oh, yeah… and Prez Jimmy Carter is awright, too.”  Bit of Presidential history here, Jimmy Carter was hip enough to invite Diz to the White House and even sang “Salt Peanuts”  with Him.

Vastly experienced in the biz, Carmen and Diz already had soft spots in their hearts for clubowners and staff, comprehended with empathy those mostly thankless jobs, understood the biz from top to bottom and inside out, saw and acknowledged the jobs individually, the jobs of such a motley and generally much maligned, not to say raped and pillaged species perennially verging on extinction, average life expectancy of a nightclub operation being something like 6 months.

But then Carmen was extraordinarily sensitive to everything happening around her, and succinctly philosophical about it all, and she not only still loved the life she lived, she was appreciative of how much work went on behind the scene, shit, weeks and months BEFORE the scene, in order to make it all happen. And she had good business instincts. Well, I like to think that she saw some potential in me and, over a couple of decades of working together, that she was gratified for that foresight. And she did like to introduce me to her women friends as her tame young Southern gentleman, from Ms Slippi.  That was always good for a laugh. She’d say, “Of course, he’s, well, I think not quite, but almost all white… but that’s no fault of his own… and… I ain’t sure, mind you… but I betcha he’s got a black root somewhere in his genes…(laughter)…hey, that’s g-e-n-e-s, not j-e-a-n-s… see, he’s wearin’ proper flannels with his tweed jacket, not like these half-gentrified leftover hippies, and it’s your guess as to what might be in his flannels.” And, to her many gay men friends, “Keep your hands off, don’t waste your time on my Tommy Boy, he’s hopelessly hetero.”

At the beginning with Carmen at GAMH, the extent of my own real experience in the biz had been a couple months at GAMH, which was supposed to be a hobby. Ho, ho, ho. My day job was as a science writer and editor for the American Chemical Society, who had sent me to San Francisco after an apprenticeship in their Washington, D.C. and New York offices. My job was to cover science and technology news on the West Coast and beyond.

On arrival in San Francisco, I re-connected with an old friend and college room mate, Sam DuVall, a jazz buff, too, who’d been in SF for several years and was well-established in the restaurant and bar business. We right away started plans for a music club, a dream that we’d shared in school. We discovered that beautiful old building on O’Farrell Street, that had almost been condemned, but had then been purchased by an extended family of Indian hotel-motel owners named Patel, who had leased it to Robert Charles, a well-known French restaurateur in SF, who substantially renovated and equipped it and then went bankrupt. We took over from there, in 1972, and I named it the Great American Music Hall, which we reckoned would allow for doing and presenting anything we pleased.

Of course, we planned to present a helluva lotta jazz, THE Great American art form. We presented all the still extant big bands, Duke Ellington a couple times, Count Basie many times, Woody herman often, Stan Kenton a few times, Maynard Ferguson many times, and Buddy Rich many, and, certainly not least, right up there, the Thad Jones-Mel Lewis Band, and Don Ellis and his various bands. And we did a lot of blues of course, and Bluegrass and country (not just one country), ethnic? now what the hell would ethnic include? …oh, various breeds of folk music, Celtic, Greek, Bulgarian, Afro-Indo-European-Finno-Ugric-Transylvanian Bebop, a lot of Latin – Cal Tjader, Tito Puente, Mongo Santamaria… and Classical, like the Kronos Quartet on their own and with jazz diva Betty Carter…  lotta R&B, western swing… much of that nicely jazz-tinged R&B and rockin’ Irish cowboy bogtrotter Van Morrison, and some other rather acceptable rock ‘n’ roll like Jerry Garcia’s spin-offs from the Dreadful Grate with Merl Saunders.  And don’t forget David Dawg Grisman. If you asked Dawg to play some country music, he’d ask, “Which country?”  And we did a lotta comedy, for example, the young, yet-to-be-known Robin Williams paid some dues there….

We weren’t aware of much of the history of the building until older customers who had been there years before brought us old photographs, menus, picture postcards, etc., some of which you can see at www.gamh.com  It was originally known, beginning in 1907, as Blanco’s, then in the 1930s, when Sally Rand and her fan dancers were there, Boss Sally called it the Music Box, an apt name which we probably would have taken, had we been aware of it, because the interior is like the inside of an ornate music box, an Italian rococo opera house, marble columns, bas relief figures and sculptures of cherubs bordering the ceiling, and large paintings on the ceiling a la Michelangelo.

As I said, it was supposed to be a hobby for me. The plan was that my partner Sam would manage the operation, I’d help pick bookings, write press releases, and hang out there at night. Ha. Within a few months, it demanded my attention full-time.  Sam got tired of it quickly, the roller coaster of making a lot of money on one gig and losing it all on the next, and he left to concentrate on his restaurant biz, wise man. So I quit my day job and took over running GAMH, with a lot of help.

I had played piano and violin in my youth, and trombone in high school and college bands, and played dance music, jazz, blues, and country styles in little juke joints, roadhouses, uh, dives, in Ms Slippi and Lousyana, and observed the clubowners leading the lush life, sitting at the bar drinking, listening to music and counting money, and I thought, well now, that’s a cool gig. That was the extent of my experience of the biz before GAMH… well, had done a lot of hanging out as a fan in clubs in the big city of New Orleans, then later in Europe, Florida, New York and San Francisco.

At the University of Ms Slippi, “Ole Miss”, the music scholarship they offered me wouldn’t have paid for my lunch. But the U.S. government was pumping money into science education, and I liked science, too, so got a science scholarship to Ole Miss, then a Fulbright scholarship to the University of Munich, Germany, and then to Florida Atlantic and Florida State Universities for graduate school. I was only runner up for a Rhodes scholarship to Oxford, England. No, not runner up to Bill Clinton, not second to the likes of him. He’s from Arkansas and a lot younger than I am. This year I’m 69, so far a very good year, even though at the end of every decade I seem to get a bigger 9.  But I swear I did not have six with that woman.

Back to Carmen, she was a very well-spoken woman, with one of the quickest minds I’ve ever witnessed, articulate, with perfect diction, as expressive as any great actress, and not just great at mouthing words written by others, she was quite the wordsmith herself, original.  She was often very out-spoken, to put it mildly, and sometimes in a downright dirty street-wordy vernacular. From having just sung a sophisticated song, or told a story, or expressed an opinion in accent-free perfect American-National-Talking-Head-English, in the blink of an eye she could slip into dirty slang and yet manage to make the coarsest imaginable language sing like poetry. Then she’d often laugh at herself and say something like, “Well, you can take the girl outta downhome, but you can’t take downhome outta the girl.”

She was afraid of nobody, nowhere, no how, and, when provoked, or just plain grumpy, she could be a real tongue-lashing bitch…uh,  ’scuse me, and maybe we bettah make that “person” instead of “woman” and “actor” instead of “actress” in the preceding paragraph… trying to be PC here…uh, shit, what’s the use of trying to be PC here, of all places, talking about Ms McRaw?!  Never mind so-called gender “issues”. Carmen of course wasn’t just a woman, but would certainly admit to being a bitch, proud of it. She herself would tell you that she was a sexual switch hitter, and, hey, switch every which way, as in “I’ve tried it all, I think, but if you wanna tell me ’bout somethin’ new, then come whisper in my ear and maybe we could get it on….. uh….uh huh…Oh!… later, Babe.”

About her sensitivity to what was happening around her, a real multi-tasker, she kept an eye on everything, especially watching…uh, making eyes at… our elegant, lissome waitresses delivering food and drink just a few feet away in front of the bandstand. Listen closely to hear her asides, adroitly worked into the middle of a very dramatic, quiet lovesong, she slips in, without missing a beat, “How romantic, a pizza!”  In the 1st set from 2/21/75, the second tune “It Might As Well Be Spring” is full of such asides, and titters from the audience when she ogles the waitress.

Lots of edifyin’ talkin’ by Carmen between songs. After all, she was famous for her delivery of the lyrics of songs, and she also told stories simply spoken without music, and she damn well always got it across. Articulate, sophisticated, very worldly wise, in a word, hip, and could be very well-spoken in the polite society sense, too, uh, when she rarely felt like behaving herself.   Cross her at your peril, she was a wordslinger like a gunslinger shooting straight from the hip.

her first gig at GAMH, we’d only been open a month or so, and we had had big bands like Don Ellis and His Electraphonic Orchestra, and local blues and jazz bands wailing and comics yukking it up.  For the sudden quietness required for proper ambiance for Carmen, shit, the ancient cash registers we had inherited from the previous bankrupt occupant of the premises, these machines were RINGING! and suddenly very disruptive. So I rushed around, telling the bartenders, Hey, shut them machines down, just take the money, we’ll count it later! And turn the ringers off on the damn phones!

But, soon as that was all quieted down, there came droning this big deep and resonant voice from a table at the rear of the main room.  Big black, ’scuse me, African-American guy, dressed like the proverbial pimp, talking to his girl, and Carmen was singing a particularly soft song. People were turning their heads to look back at the guy, but then quickly looking back toward the stage.  I steeled myself, went over and said, “Sir, sh, please, while Carmen is singing.”  Guy gave me a contemptuous look and went back to talking to his girl in his big voice.

Well, shit, I headed to the front door to find Luther, our black-velvet-skinned sledge hammer of a Security Chief.  And we headed in tandem back to the scene, uh, me behind Luther, and on the way we very gratefully heard Carmen stop singing and say, “Hey you, in the back there, talkin’ shit in yo’ big loud voice while I’m up here tryin’ to sing…Yeah, you, Muthah Fuckah, (pointing) you in the pimp hat, I’m talkin’ to you! You wanna come up here or do you want me to come back there?”  A long dead silence, and then she went back in mid-phrase to her soft love song.

Not another peep outta that guy. But he maintained dignity, sat in rapt attention to her for the rest of the set, nodding his head in time to the music, very thoughtful look on his face.

I said to Carmen afterwards, “Hey, thanks for that.”  She said, “Well, I saw you go over and talk to him, so at least you’ve got your eye on the ball.  But I knew damn well that he wasn’t gonna pay no attention to yo’ puny white ass, no way no how.  So I figured I bettah step in.”

That’s when I nicknamed her Ms McRaw.

There will be a lot more of Carmen, Sarah, and our other great divas at GAMH, coming up from the Vault, soon, I hope. Hallelujah!

Cheers from yours truly,
Mot Bardwash

[Notes From The Great American: Carmen McRae is a post in From the Vault - The Wolfgang's Vault blog.]

Today on Wolfgang’s Vault, we premiere a new collection of concerts recorded at the oldest nightclub in San Francisco, the Great American Music Hall. Recorded between 1972 and 1989, these new concerts capture remarkable performances by artists like Bill Evans, Dizzy Gillespie, Stephane Grappelli, Eubie Blake, and Sarah Vaughan. To coincide with this release, we would like to introduce a new contributor to our blog, Tom Bradshaw. Mr. Bradshaw owned and operated the Great American Music Hall during the 1970s and ’80s, and his first-hand knowledge of this new collection is outstanding. We are pleased to bring an insider’s view to this collection, and we hope you enjoy his stunning insight.

Enjoy his first post….

The first two releases, Sass & Diz and Bill Evans Trio, bring to mind utter delight (no, Mama Sass, not udder, but thanks anyhow) and abysmal sadness. Happiness for the memory of Sass & Diz exuding so much fun, sadness for the passing of Bill Evans so prematurely, in his prime, just five years later. But I hasten to say that this set of Bill’s is definitely NOT a downer, rather a delight in its own right and I dare say that Debby would waltzingly agree. And not a bad rhythm section, eh? To Senor Gomez, olé!

What hasn’t already been said about Bill Evans’ piano playing, his musicianship, the piano player’s piano player, the musician’s musician? And for this set, he was indeed in his prime, was apparently getting over his heroin habit. When I first presented Bill at GAMH in the early ’70s, a gentle soul obviously damaged by the harsh realities of the touring jazz musician’s life, he was so sadly introverted, hung his head over the piano, never looked up, never looked at his audience. By the time of this set, he would actually talk, look at and address his audience, seemed very healthy, and I think that came through in his music of the time. If WV are presenting the entire set, it was something like 95 minutes. That’s quite an epic set when you consider the intensity. And after a short intermission he played another such set that night.

Some of our concerts at GAMH were as close as I’ve ever come to religious experience. Bill Evans counts among those. His audience was full of musicians and music students aspiring to jazz and classical, all worshiping, no socializing chitchat while Bill was playing, unh-unh. Like being in church, but, of course, swinging too. Uh, we didn’t do a big bar business with Bill’s crowd, they were jazzed enough by the music, indeed, mesmerized.

As Miles said about Bill, “like a cascading stream of crystalline water,” he made even our antique battered-by-rockers Baldwin nevertheless grand piano sound good. Of course, for Bill’s gigs, we always put the old box through a thorough overhaul, not just tuning, but voicing, shaving and pricking and fluffing up those hammers. Ms. Baldwin was an aged aristocrat and Bill kindly said, “She does have soul.” Which I took as a compliment.

On to Sass & Diz. There were, are, no greater masters of jazz, certainly not of the bebop generation. Now, in my considered estimation, this is real jazz improvisation, and it don’t get no better than this completely impromptu, unrehearsed collaboration. It was her gig, Diz showed up as a complete surprise, passing through San Francisco on his way to Japan. I had him booked for a gig a month later, on his way back.

Sarah did an inspired first show, juiced by knowing that Diz was in the audience, then they had a while to reminisce during intermission, and she went on for her second show and in due course introduced him. On from there, clockwork precision, as if they had still been doing gig after gig together in Earl ‘Fatha’ Hines’s band and then with Billy Eckstine, all of that some 30 years before, with rare get-togethers since.

They had great respect for each other. The irrepressible Diz shows remarkable control and discipline here, is downright subtle in His accompaniments to Her, impeccable He is, lyrical.

Oh, for sure, there’s also heaps of fun with his trademark clowning and mugging, you can tell from her giggles. And, grand masters of scat, they both were. My title for the album, and the soon to be hit single, is, “The Nth Great American Scatological Congress.” Scooby dooby bebop boom shit! Onward and upward WV!

Cheers, TT

[Notes from the Great American is a post in From the Vault - The Wolfgang's Vault blog.]