Ed. note: Jim was inspired to write this piece after Lynn Osborne Bobbitt, Riverwalk Jazz Director of Development, discovered two photos of unknown origin in the collection of her late father, Robert Jean Osborne, who had been a photographer for the San Antonio Light for 30 years. Lynn brought the photos over to Jim's house. They triggered a flood of memories.
When the jazz band started my father proclaimed it: “The Happy Jazz Band.” He said, “The music is supposed to be happy music. It’s supposed to make you feel good.” So off we went in pursuit of musical happiness. Mostly, we found it. That was in 1962.
I look back on the sweep of all the years—all the versions of the band, all the music, the people, night after night of it. And, all of it so charmed by the beauty of the River Walk. Maybe the most special times were those years just after our “big bang” beginning.
Sometimes that original Happy Jazz Band could really get it going. A critical key was Benny Valfre and his old Bacon and Day banjo. Benny played with such a sense of swing and so well in tune that it was pretty to hear.
The banjo, considered a noisy
musical monster by many jazz
players, was, in Benny’s hands, so
pleasing. The “human metronome,” I
called him. He was quite an artist,
and, except for his steadiness,
should not have been compared to a
metronome at all. He would pull just
ahead of the beat and drive the
band. Mostly, his attack was a tiny,
imperceptible mini-fraction on top.
Benny knew the correct chord changes
to thousand of tunes. How he had
learned all that music was a
mystery. He taught himself, he said.
We didn’t question.
When we kicked off that first night
at the old Landing, April 18, 1963,
I was pinching myself. Could this
really be happening? I was 21 and a
half years old, going to college and
struggling with my lip.
I couldn’t wait to get down there.
It was a thrill just to walk into
the place. I would step off the
River Walk, behind a beautiful old
railing of wrought iron lace work,
though the antique, giant front door
and survey the scene. At 7:30 the
place would already be half full.
Usually that early crowd was
smiling, happy and anxious to hear
the band.
White walls and pillars set off red
lights, red table cloths, red
waiters jackets. It was loud in
there and smoky.
Willson Davis, the sousaphone
player, having warmed up, would be
stretched out on five of the
Landing’s little chairs. Already on
the stand, Benny would be fine
tuning the banjo. He worked on that
for 10 minutes every night before we
started.
“Gotta be right up on the pitch,” he
would say.
All of the guys would be waiting for
the start. Gradually, sort of
casually, they would get up there,
like horses into the gate, I’d
think.
“Call a tune, let’s go!”
I would half turn to them. “Ok,
‘Fidgety Feet,’” and
bam, there we would go
blowing pretty loud in that loud
place.
“Jelly Roll Blues,” I would call,
and we would get after that. Another
hot tune and I would squint at the
crowd. Now the little room would be
almost full.
“They will be standing in line in
another 10 minutes.”
Those nights were fun—serious fun!
My sharp memories are clear as
snapshots:
A man is standing on a table with a
whiskey bottle in his hand; he
dances a little and falls, but they
catch him.
“Copenhagen,” I call. We hit it
pretty hard. The crowd roars!
Waiters thread through the little
tables with trays of beer and tubs
of ice. The people pour their own
drinks—stiff drinks. They get loud,
too.
“Gotta get outside for ten minutes,”
I think, “the smoke is really
stinging my eyes.”
Benny is back there kicking it. We
sit in chairs and stand up for the
last few ensembles. The trombone is
wailing right next to me and some
guy bellows in my ear, “Better than
Lu Watters!” he yells.
“Nah,” I yell back, “Never!”
People, so into the music, are
dancing between the tables. I watch
them, and a couple of times a woman,
cheered on, starts taking off her
clothes. They never really strip
down. Nobody is arrested!
There are several memory shots of
people jumping into the river. In
one picture The Landing has four
student waiters. The school year has
ended, and it is their last night.
The crowd gets up and moves outside
and cheers as the four waiters, in
their short red jackets, stand
abreast, and with trays holding full
pitchers of beer, march off together
into the River.
The crowds pack into that little
space, 200 strong, and all of the
chairs and tables are jammed in
there, too. The Landing is the “in
place.” It goes on that way for the
first few years. Then it’s not quite
so “cool” — not quite so
fascinating. It seems about the
same, but seldom is there a line.
Gag after gag—every musician’s
joke—so many corny jokes for the
crowd.
But the band keeps on. I am learning
the classics: “Milneberg Joys,”
“That’s a Plenty”—even Bix exotics
like “Ostrich Walk” and “Susie.” We
play “Panama” with all its five
strains.
By the fourth set my lip is slowing
down. The band is
bearing down.
Play, play! It gets louder.
The old State liquor laws have us
stopping at midnight (1:00 AM on
Saturdays).
The “Saints,” always the last piece,
is on and the whole crowd gets up
and starts making a serpent line
between the tables. They are into
it. They are up and across the
stage—two steps up and they are
coming across. One lady makes it and
on the far side, instead of stepping
down, she stops momentarily, and
then falls. It is a belly flop—down
from the edge of the stage onto the
cement floor, and I am standing
there out of the way, and I see her
going. I try to grab for her and
miss. She hits the floor hard.
Splat!
I think, “Oh no! She’s killed
herself!” Somehow however, she gets
right up, and keeps dancing.
We are really blowing hard. Here
come the key changes to A-flat, then
to B-flat. Oh my lip!
It flits through my mind, “Save a
little—got to make it to the end!”
“Hey, let’s go! It’s the last
chorus!” I am thinking, “More air,
more air!” Here comes the ending. I
make it—bang a high C. The cymbal
crashes short, and the band’s sound
evaporates. Whew! There is a three
second pause, then two big booms on
the bass drum set the tempo for the
closing theme, Morton’s “Winin’ Boy
Blues.” It’s slow—softer and
haunting.
The trombone man, Gene McKinney,
says “End on a high F. I’ll cover
you if you miss it.”
I shake my head. “Forget it, Man,”
and it will be years before I start
ending on F.
Its over! A couple of people call
for an encore, but we ignore them,
responding only with smiles.
I bob and weave over to the bar and
slap down 75 cents.“Gimme a beer,” I
say as the people start to stagger
out. The beer is really good and
cold. It goes right down.
With waves and farewells I am
outside, moving along the River Walk
and up the flight to the street.
Strong as I am at 21, I feel so
spent, I have to push to make it. I
grip the handle of the cornet case.
“Where’s my second wind?”
Usually it comes, and I make it to
one of the all-night restaurants:
the Chinese joint on West Commerce,
or one of the Mexican places—Casa
Blanca, Mario’s, Mi Tierra, The Pan
American.
The guys arrive with their usual
cry: “Menudo for everybody!”
“Not me! I can’t stand the stuff.”
All of them lap it up.
They advise, “You won’t ever have a
hangover if you finish with menudo.
There’s pepsin in the tripe!”
“Boy, you guys were really hot
tonight,” I say.
One or two return the compliment:
“Yeah Kid, you did pretty well
yourself.”
I am thinking, “I don’t know. But,
tomorrow I will try it again. Maybe
I am doing better. Got to
practice more.”
Somebody says, “Jazz is like
pinball—if you do well you get to
try again. See you tomorrow night.”
Pinball? But
they are right in a way. The
performance is a bit of a game of
chance. Fortunately, I get plenty of
tries.
Again and again my “snapshots”
remind me: what times, such high
living, those characters, what
joi de vivre.
A sound track comes with the
pictures, too: from across the
years, I can so clearly hear my
father’s clarinet tone—so rich, so
distinctive that I could still
identify him by the sound alone and
pick him out of a group of 1,000
clarinetists!
Somehow our jazz band universe
continues to expand in the echo of
the original Landing’s big bang.
There now have been thousands of
nights, millions of notes—45 years
of non-stop jazz.
Lots of snapshots, lots of pinball!
© 2007 Jim Cullum, Jr.