Short Stories

A Tribute To Clyde Montgomery

Many people know the names Louis Armstrong, Charlie Parker, and Miles Davis; few, however, know of Clyde Montgomery.  He never soared to popularity as did his musical peers; he played in smaller clubs, earning just enough money to get him from town to town.  He played for love, to love, and with love.  When his lips touched a trumpet, his soul was the breath that made music come out of it.  Clyde was not your typical trumpet player; as he had his own style.  Many tried to duplicate it; in fact, those who did so successfully went on to be great.  These duplicates may have forgotten where they learned to play like this; however, I never did.   

I’m Jack White, retired entertainment reporter for the Kansas City Star.  I was the inconspicuous white guy that stood underneath the cloud in the smoky rooms.  In the corner I sat, writing columns about such timeless cats like Louis Armstrong, Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, and Clyde Montgomery.  I was young guy then, just breaking into journalism.  My articles were small and so was the pay, though I loved the work.  I would frequent the most hopping clubs, listen to various jazz and blues musicians play.  After a while I felt more a friend than a critic to these musicians.  As readership grew, my column would popularize previously unoccupied clubs.  As years went on, my column would eventually help to change the color of those who went to see these musicians.  I would eventually get to know these musicians and be invited to after hour impromptu jam sessions, or poker games (that would many times turn into battles between various horn players).  Those were the days when musicians had to know how to actually play an instrument. There were no sound checks; if your band could fit on the stage, the sound was checked by the expressions of the people when you started playing.  There were no roadies, and nobody to tune the instruments before the musicians would take the stage.  My gripe with modern music aside, let me tell you about Clyde Montgomery and how I became a friend to one of the greatest musicians of the twentieth century.

I first saw Clyde in the Jazz Kitchen, a small Cajun restaurant that sat about 42 people but had standing room for a hundred.  To say the place was not very well lit is an understatement.  It had small tables that sat two people, though many more often crammed in.  Each table was adorned with a red cloth and small candle, depending on which band was playing that particular night.  When the big swing bands played, there weren’t any candles; the owners were afraid the dancers would knock the tables over and burn the place down.  There was a giant mirror behind the bar, and a variety of alcohols to choose from, placed neatly on shelves on either side of the mirror.  The bar itself was made from old oak stained from years of cigarette ashes and beer stains.  Back then one didn’t notice how horrible it really looked; today we call it ‘aged’.  If you ordered food, it was from a hand written menu.  Sometimes waiters would hand them out to you, other times there would be a list of what was available on the blackboard on the way into the restaurant.  None of the silverware matched.  There was no cover charge, and often the place reminded me of a Sunday Baptist service.  Sometimes during performances people were compelled to stand up, clap their hands, or dance on the tables while the musicians played.  During a slow, bluesy number, people would cry out, “Alright”, or “You play it Brother.”  I wanted to just shout, ‘Amen.’  These were my churches; the kinds of places that I would go to have my spirit revived.

Clyde was very young, about twenty-two, when I first saw him play.  He was sitting in the back of the club drinking a tonic and ice listening to the other performers before he went on.  He was in a second hand plaid suit, and wore an old hat that cast a shadow over his eyes.  The hat was creased and slightly worn where his hands would lift it to take it off and put it back on.  I didn’t think much of him when he first took to the stage; that is, until the third or fourth note.  I’d never heard anything that spoke to the soul like what I went on to hear that night.  It was as if a light from heaven came down to shine on him and he was using the tool that God gave him to play the songs of angels.  There were pitches and notes that made it seem as if trumpet itself was crying with joy to be able to play.  He played for a long set, well into the night.  Clyde did not say much; the music was his voice.  His body movements were reserved to simple gestures.  His face strained with the effort he put into his playing; with his eyes tightly shut and cheeks stretched out as far as they could be with reserve air for his longer notes.  When he was finished with his set he bowed walked to the bar finished off another tonic and ice, collected his money, and disappeared into the night.  I was in too much shock to get up and follow him for an interview.  By the time I figured out that the music I had just heard was real, my only interview was with the bartender, trying to figure out how to get a hold of this new musician.

 “Hey Mack, what can I get you?”

“I don’t need a drink as much as some information,” I replied.

“Sure, whatever you need,” he said, as he must have noticed the twenty-dollar bill that I had just taken out of my pocket and was about to place on the bar.

“I need to know all that you know about the Cat that just played.”

“Oh, Clyde is his name.  He rolls into town every so often and plays a couple of nights and well, he’s gone again.”

“Do you know where he stays at,” I must have asked excitedly since I was feeling out of breath.

“Yeah Mack, usually not too far from here at the Blue Moon hotel.  I am sorry, that’s all that I know.  Did you want a drink?”

“No, but I thank you for all of the information.”

I left the twenty dollars and headed out of the joint.  I went the next day to the Blue Moon hotel and got my first of many interviews with Clyde.

He was soft spoken and restrained, nothing like his trumpet playing.  He would answer a question about his life truthfully, but would not offer up too much more than what you actually asked for.  Even after I had interviewed him several times and gained his trust enough to where we could call each other friends, he was the same way.

For some years he would travel around the neighboring states and play his music.  He would usually send me a telegraph and let me know when he was going to be in town again.  Once in a while he would take me up on my invitation and crash at my place while he was in town.  Those times that he didn’t I would at least go see him play and we would treat each other to dinner.  He would catch me up on his adventures and I would catch him up on the local jazz scene and the new musicians coming around. 

 On a very cold and moonless October night was the event that turned out to be the last time that I would see my friend again.  It was a Saturday at the C Note the club Vinny Carmichael.  I never did find out whether the name of the club referred to his last name, a musical reference, or money.  Knowing Vinny and what he was about, it was the latter.  Vinny was known by everybody for being the local mob boss, but it was never proven in a court of law.  Supposedly the C Note was Vinny’s legitimate business.  Vinny was running numbers on the side and had other businesses taking place in the back of the club.  He had an office that was in the back but above the store room with a small staircase leading up to it.  Vinny was the best dressed club owner that I had ever laid eyes on.  He always wore a pinstripe, three piece suits with patent leather shoes and a black hat; and when he walked out of the club, he always wore a full length raincoat.  Vinny called himself a jazz “aficionado” since he had so many of the great jazz musicians of the time play at his exclusive club.  I am sure the other club owners were offered ‘protection’ for not having the great jazz players play their clubs and play the C note instead. 

I was one of the few reporters to be allowed into the C Note.  I wasn’t really considered a reporter since I was an entertainment reporter.   Vinny did not feel that I was a threat to his business or would even pay attention to the illegal things going on around me.  He was right, especially the nights that Clyde played.  It was not that I had a free ride while I was in the club, Vinny always had one of his guys sit uncomfortably close at a table next to mine where he would make sure that I was taking notes on the musicians and not anything else.  On the outside of the joint was a long canvas covered red carpet leading to a thick oak door with a slider so that one of Vinny’s henchman could see you to determine if you should get in or not.  Once you got in you would take a couple of steps down into a large ballroom filled with tables and people.  The stage was a couple of steps up from the main floor area.  There was about twenty feet from the bottom step of the stage to the tables where people could dance.  On both sides of the upper area of the room were two bars that went the whole length of the room.  There were several well-dressed waiters and waitresses who served drinks and appetizers throughout the evening.  Other than several lights focusing predominately on the stage area, the club was dark.  You could see the smoke from cigarettes and cigars in the room as it raised in front of the lights.                                                                                                                                                                                                         The C Note was packed that night since it was the last scheduled performance for Clyde for a while in Kansas City and the surrounding area.  I had a chance to briefly talk with him before the gig.  He was over by the bar, on the right hand side of the stage, as you were looking from the entrance.  For a second, seeing Clyde as I walked up to him reminded me of the first time I saw him.

“Clyde, where are you going from here?” I asked

“I don’t know.  I will probably take a break for a while,” he said. “I need to go have some more experiences in life, try new things, and get new material.”

Clyde excused himself and he went to the corner of the room by the bar, got a tonic and ice and rolled his fingers around the trumpet warming them up.  Just then the conversation from behind me of two of Vinny’s stooges caught my ear.

“It’s his last night,” said the big guy on the left.

“Yeah,” replied the even bigger guy on the right wearing the pinstripe suit.

“Is the boss going to pay him?” the first guy said.

“Come on Louie, you know how Vinny is.  He is going to give him half the money and persuade him that he needs to stay for another week or so to get the balance.” 

While both of the men laughed, I quickly walked over to Clyde, almost knocking into him and spilling his drink.

“Clyde you are not going to believe what I just heard.  Vinny is not planning on paying you tonight.  He is going to hold back some of your money to encourage you to work another week.”  I went on to explain to him how I had overheard the two guys and pointed out the henchmen.

“Thanks Jack, I appreciate all of the information.  I had a feeling the bad Cat would try something like this to me.  If you don’t mind I do need one favor from you.”

After all of these years of knowing Clyde he had never asked for anything from me until that moment.

“Sure Clyde, anything you need.”

“I need you to go to the county jail tomorrow morning about 8:00.  I think you know the one just on the outskirts of the city on E. 13 and Main.  Don’t ask any questions, just be there.”

I nodded my head yes, but I am sure I had a confused look on my face.

With that Clyde walked between the tables toward the stage.  He played nonstop for hours.  Every note was perfect, and some even better than before.  I had never heard him play so well.  When he was done he walked off the stage to a standing ovation.  I don’t think that very many people were not standing already, but those that were not stood up.  Clyde walked right by me with a cocked smile, dipped his head and said, “8:00, don’t be late.”

I followed a couple of steps behind him trying to figure out if what he was doing or where he was going.  I thought that this would answer the question of why I needed to go to the county jail at 8:00.  Clyde headed to the back stairs that led to Vinny’s office.  The two henchmen that I pointed out earlier were standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“What do you want?” asked the big guy on the right.

“I’m done playing. I want to go talk to Vinny and get my money,” said Clyde calmly.  I could not see Clyde’s face but I could tell the hint of sarcasm in his voice.

The big henchmen moved aside allowing Clyde to go upstairs.  I kept checking my watch to see how long he was in the room with Vinny.  At one point I had to wipe off the sweat that had dripped from my forehead on to my watch.  It seemed like an hour, but really it was about thirty minutes later that Clyde emerged from Vinnys office and calmly but quickly walked down the stairs tucking a handful of money into his coat pocket.  Clyde walked right by the two henchmen and proceeded to walk out the front door.  Unlike the first time that I had met him, I quickly headed out after him staying just a few steps away.  When I got outside it was just in time to see Clyde getting into a cab and heading off.  By the time I was able to hail another cab, Clyde’s cab was no longer in sight.  I headed back to my apartment and went to bed.  I tried to sleep but only tossed and turned, constantly checking the clock for the time that I needed to get up.

Finally, 7:30 came around.  I jumped out of bed and threw on some clothes.  I couldn’t think about breakfast so I brushed my teeth, combed my hair, grabbed my jacket and keys and left.  The police station was not very far from my house, but my mind raced anxiously for the short time that it took to get there.

I walked up the short flight of steps to the police station and stepped in the door.  Behind the counter was an officer.

“Can I help you,” he asked?

“Yes, I am Jack White and I am here to meet somebody.”

“Oh yeah, I was expecting you.  Hey Henry, go get cell #7,” he called over to the other officer by the door to the cells.

A few moments later Clyde emerged with the officer.  He was not in handcuffs or even being escorted by the arm.  He walked out placing his hat on his head and still wearing the suit he had on the night before with his trumpet case in his hand.  I was relieved to see that it was him and he was o.k., but I was even more confused than before.

“Take care Clyde.  Thanks for the tunes last night,” the officer said, as Clyde moved closer to me.

“Sure thing, thanks for the bed last night,” Clyde replied, looking back.

“Thanks for coming Jack.  I was wondering if you could give me a ride to the next town,” Clyde said, as we were shaking hands in greeting.

“Sure, but I. . ,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” Clyde interrupted, “I will explain it all on the way.”

As we headed out of the parking lot Clyde asked, “Oh yeah, and if it is not too much to ask, please do not drive by the C-Note.”

That was no problem since it was out of the way but I didn’t tell him that.  I was too anxious to find out what was going on to talk about trivial things with Clyde.

“Alright, I know as a journalist you are dying to find out the story,” Clyde said.  “I will begin with what happened in the room with Vinny.”

Clyde went on to tell me how after I tipped him off that he wasn’t planning on spending another week there so he tried to collect his money.  As he continued, he mentioned how Vinny was trying to persuade him to stay.  Clyde explained how he’d felt nervous but how he needed his money so that he could continue to the next town. Clyde noticed a large amount of money that Vinny was sorting, by highest to lowest denomination, on the table.  Upon glancing around the room, Clyde told me he saw a gun but it was on the table behind Vinny who was sitting in front of where Clyde was standing.  He thought about sticking Vinny up grabbing the money and taking off.  Clyde knew that he didn’t think that he could shoot someone anyway so a gun was worthless to him.  Clyde tried to look calm and walked over to the window, but it was two stories up with no fire escape ladder so he wasn’t about to jump out.  I had to laugh when he explained to me that even with broken legs he could still play the trumpet.  Clyde told me it was when Vinny turned his chair around to get another cigar out of the box that he noticed the paper weight on the desk in front of him. Clyde grabbed the paper weight that Vinny had on his desk and struck Vinny in the head with it.  Knocking Vinny out, Clyde was able to grab the money that he was owed and head out the door.  Because there was no yelling from the boss Vinny’s goons must have thought that Clyde had been persuaded to stay on for the week.  There was no need to stop him since nothing seemed wrong and he would be back the next day.  That was the point in which I saw him coming out of the office door and down the stairs.

                                “Well I took the money, and I want to add it was only what was owed to me, not a penny more, not a penny less.  I knew that when Vinny woke up he wasn’t going to be very happy and since the police on Vinnys beat are paid for by Vinny, I didn’t want to stay in the hotel across the street.  I couldn’t stay with you and put you in danger or ruin your career in this town.  The only safe place that I could think of that would be the county police station.  I don’t know if you have ever been in one but it is free, quiet, somewhat comfortable, and most importantly . . . safe.  I just explained to the guards why I choose to stay with them for the night.  They told me that I was right about quiet, somewhat comfortable and safe, but not necessarily about free.  They asked me to play a couple of songs in exchange for the accommodations.”

                After we both stopped laughing I realized that we were well into the next town and heading into the direction of the downtown/ main street area.

                “Where do you want me to drop you off, where are you going?” I asked.

                “If you know where there is a local bus station, go ahead and drop me there,” he replied.

                “Yeah, just up here I believe there is one.”

                We proceeded about two more blocks and I followed a Greyhound Bus a couple more blocks up First Street to the station.

                It was hard to say goodbye to Clyde that day.  Again I asked if he knew where he was going or what he was going to do next.

                “I will go west, like a cowboy heading into the sunset,” he answered.

                “Are you coming back again?”

                “I don’t know, but I will look you up if I do,” he answered.

I never saw Clyde again after that day.  I will never forget his unique sound and I wrote many articles in the next couple of years trying to describe his style, trying to explain to the next generation of jazz musicians about that sound.  I still hear him once in a while, sometimes like he is down an alley way sitting, playing in a hotel window, sometimes when I sit with a glass of scotch and a cigar listening to some of the classic jazz lps that I have.  I miss Clyde, not only his music, but his friendship.  Besides he was the only story that I won any awards for the story about the events leading up to the last night that I spent with him.

I did however receive a peculiar postcard from Los Angeles about two years later.  The postcard had a picture of the Santa Monica Pier on the front and the back of the postcard read:

The weather is great; you should come see the sidewalk entertainment this place has to offer.  Most importantly I have had no need to see the inside of a jail.  I read your article.  Congratulations on your prize.  You have done a lot for jazz and jazz musicians.  Thanks for being one cool Cat.     

It wasn’t long after receiving that postcard that West Coast Style jazz was becoming popular.  There was one person in particular that was all the rave; even as far east as Kansas.  His name was Fatts Burton.  I never made it out to the west coast to interview Fatts or see my old friend Clyde.  I do wonder if the two ever met, Fatts had quite a unique style of playing to him.  When I listen to Fatts albums I hear him hitting notes that I have only heard one other time before.

As for me I did write one legitimate article that even made the front page.  I wrote an article from an insider’s perspective of the C Note and about some of the things that went on there.  My article corresponded with the other article on the front page about Vinny Carmichael getting arrested for serving alcohol during prohibition and for tax evasion.  I only hope that Clyde had a chance to read it.