By Bob Wilber
Bob Wilber is likely to be most generally identified for his association of the tune for the movie The Cotton Club, yet between jazz aficionados he's hugely revered for his paintings on clarinet and saxophone. In Music was once no longer Enough, Wilber recounts his profession as a jazz musician, either in the USA and in Europe.
A protégé of jazz nice Sidney Bechet, Wilber has identified and performed with the various nice jazz musicians of the final 3 a long time. After major his personal band in the US, he went to Europe with Mezz Mezzrow's all-star band, and later turned concerned with the Six, and the bands of Bobby Hackett and Eddie Condon. Later nonetheless, he performed a number one function with the World's maximum Jazz Band, Soprano Summit and the Bechet Legacy.
Wilber's account of his stories with Bechet and different early jazzmen, his makes an attempt to outlive as a musician in the course of the fifties and sixties--including his restoration from drug addiction--and his next go back to status make this e-book a major contribution to jazz background.
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We took a cab to her hotel, went up to her room and knocked. Tallulah opened the door to greet us, stark naked! "Come on in, dahlings," she said. "Get out your horns. " She sashayed across the room and climbed back into bed to rejoin her gentleman friend. We took out our sopranos, and, seating ourselves at the foot of 30 I MUSIC WAS NOT ENOUGH the bed, we started to play the blues. " I soon realized that my main job was to sneak her drinks while her companion, who I gathered was her leading man, was chasing his recalcitrant feathered friend around the apartment.
He loved to be thought of as a black man and affected a real black accent; it was ridiculous to hear this Jewish guy from Chicago coming out with a rich southern drawl. On the other hand, there was also a paternalistic streak in him: the Great White Father looking after his slaves. The black musicians were very conscious of this patronizing attitude, and they resented it. If anything went slightly wrong, they would take their dissatisfaction and frustration out on Mezz. I remember an incident after the festival, when we were doing a string of one-nighters and everybody was tired and short of rest.
He pulled the throttle out, fiddled with the choke, and pressed the button again. Still nothing happened. After numerous abortive attempts, Sidney's smile gradually changed into a puzzled scowl, and, as the boat drifted away from its moorings, the guests started heading for their cars. Sidney threw me a rope so that I could secure the boat. His main preoccupation for weeks after that humiliating occasion was a search for the Russian, but unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, he had vanished without a trace.