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Ralph J Gleason on jazz club audiences
The SF Chronicle recently reran this Gleason column from 1960:
In the nightclubs you meet the strangest people ...
There's the pseudo hippie. He's the one who has that razor-sharp crease in the trousers (and in the arms of the jacket), whose shirt used to have the latest white-on-white design but now it features an involved tab collar arrangement and is pure pukka sahib madras. He slides up to you and says in a confidential voice, "Nice to see Joe Albany working again."
Then there's the cat who arrives early just to be there when Monk misses the first set.
"Last time he was here he told me he didn't like Frisco," this one confides knowingly.
Then there's the one who stands alongside you for a whole set staring at the wall behind the bar, and as soon as the music stops he opens up by saying abruptly, "Miles is in Stockholm this week."
You happen to know that Miles is in Birdland right that minute, but this cat REALLY knows, and he shows you.
"Had a card from him last week. He says the tour is swinging and 'Trane isn't going to split."
So much for YOUR information.
Then there's the one who has to be Inside the Inside. He calls Philly Joe Jones "Philadelphia Joe Jones," even though Mr. Jones refers to himself as Philly Joe. He also always calls Zoot Sims Jack Sims, Dizzy Gillespie John Birks and refers to Monk as "T."
But the hippie is not a bad customer. He's infinitely to be desired over the squares, and by the latter I mean the party of four who stumble into the club after a long dinner topped off with plenty of juice. They ALWAYS sit in front of the band, and as soon as the music starts, they begin to talk. When the music stops, they stop talking and stare. The softer the music, the louder they talk.
They complain about the drinks -- as if anyone in his right mind goes into a jazz club to drink! They don't know that the price of the drinks is the fee you pay for the privilege of sitting there to hear the music.
"I ordered House of Lords," the guy who is so juiced he couldn't tell domestic scotch from white mule in broad daylight always hollers.
The waitresses all love these people, too. They're so friendly they feel it would be insulting to leave the waitress a tip: She might get the idea they think she's a servant.
Then there's the guy who comes in a week after the group is gone and demands to know, "Where's the band ?"
And the guy who sits through a whole set of the Modern Jazz Quartet and gets up and, as he walks out, says to his chick, "Last time I saw Dave, he had a saxophone player with him."
But the worst of all is the conventioneer. He HAS to get into the act. When the architects were here, a trio of them behaved like drunken Roman legionnaires at the hungry i during Leon Bibb's performance and had to be warned by the management.
And the other night at the Workshop, I tried to listen to Red Garland's beautiful piano playing while some idiot who worked for an insurance company told everybody who would listen to him how great he thought Red was.
"Yeah, baby! Go, Red, Go!" he yelled.
You couldn't discourage him either. Nothing worked. Couldn't even insult him. The only thing I could think of was, "Bring back the Mickey!" Not a bad idea at that. It served a real function and was better than homicide.
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