Some Sing, Some Cry

  At the stage door everybody was looking for Baker, and the surprise of Cinnamon took the band members aback. They had just gotten used to seeing him with Memphis. The impertinent teen ran right up to Baker and fell into his arms. Baker tried to untangle himself but to no avail.

  “Baker, what on earth happened to you? Tonight is a Battle of the Bands. Chick Webb himself. So, where’ve you been, huh? Tell me or I won’t let you go.”

  Baker tried to let Memphis know her cousin was there right next to him, but Memphis could only see Baker. Finally, Cinnamon said, “Hi, Memphis. How you doin’, darlin’?”

  Without missing a lick, Memphis replied, “I’m just fine, how you?” then whispered, “Don’t you dare say anything about my age, don’t you dare.” Since the night of the contest, Memphis had been cutting school to hang out with the fellahs. To push herself forward, compare, learn, affirm. Now that Fletcher Henderson had let her sit in a few sessions, she considered herself a featured singer. She took all kinds of liberties and never stopped flattering or endearing herself to Baker no matter how he responded. Finding her schoolgirl crush amusing, he indulged her.

  Baker took out his horn, fingering it deftly. “Come on, guys, we gotta warm up.”

  Honoring her bargain with her beau, Cinnamon squeezed his hand and said, “I gotta go have a conversation with your band leader.” As she left, she could hear Memphis chattering all the way down the hall with the rest of the brass players.

  Cinnamon came upon Fletcher Henderson at a delicate point in conversation with the trombone player Todd and Esther. “I’d love to take you back in the band, Todd, but we can’t have a white girl traveling with the band. Half my guys will get lynched or beaten to death in the towns we play in if there’s an ofay chick with us. Esther, if you really wanted to sing, you shoulda picked Whiteman, Miller, Dorsey, anybody, but not a Negro band.”

  “That’s so unfair, Fletch. If I could sing with you, I’d be with Todd all the time.”

  “That’s what I mean. Todd would be one dead nigger, too. Think, Esther!”

  Esther ran off crying. Fletcher Henderson turned back to his charts and shook his head. “Sometimes I just can’t believe what people think goes on in the world doesn’t go on in the world. We’d lose half our gigs, if I carried a white girl around with me. Jesus . . .” He caught sight of Cinnamon.

  “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, Mr. Henderson. Didn’t think I should interfere in your talk with Esther.”

  “That’s all right, doll, what can I help you with?”

  “It’s Cinnamon, Cinnamon Turner,” she interjected. “Baker says you enjoyed my performance at the Ebony Club. I came to ask for an opportunity to sing with your band.”

  “Well, welcome aboard, Cinnamon Turner,” the dapper, soft-spoken band leader said. An impish look came over his face. “You and Memphis together will be a blast. We’ll give Chick Webb and his little chicks a run for the money.”

  “Well, thank you, sir.”

  “Call me Smack. Smack is fine.”

  “Thank you, Smack,” Cinnamon said, puzzled. “I’d like to tell Memphis, but I don’t know where she is.”

  “Oh, that’s no problem. She’s probably in the dressing room. Do you know where that is?” Henderson asked offhandedly.

  “No, but I’ll find it. Thanks again.”

  Cinnamon made her way through the halls ablaze with musicians warming up their instruments: trumpets, clarinets, flutes, saxophones, bass violins, and drums. Everyone was getting ready for an evening to remember. The Savoy with its wild blue and orange–colored walls, the marble stairway and revolving stage, mirrored walls and dance floor the size of a football field, for years had only had one king. Drummer Chick Webb’s Harlem Stompers reigned at the Savoy. The diminutive drummer and band leader compensated for his crooked spine and truncated legs with a Shango-blessed upper body that pumped out rhythms, vanquishing every challenger, Harlem lindy-hoppers stompin’ ’em into the dance floor. He had thrown down the gauntlet to Henderson, the cool gray-haired patrician whose band was heralded as the tightest on the scene and whose arrangements were sought after, copied, and covered by every big band there was, black or white.

  This was a serious challenge. More serious than Cinnamon was up for. She felt herself in the way. Everyone seemed to know where they were going except for her. At last she reached the brass players’ section, only to find Memphis on Baker’s lap. Baker nearly dropped Memphis to the floor when he saw Cinnamon. But Cinnamon prevented what could have been an awkward moment by blurting, “It’s okay. I can sing with the band. I just can’t call him Smack, though. I gotta call him Mr. Henderson.”

  Baker grinned with pleasure and Memphis jumped for joy. “Oh, see, I told you so! I knew you’d come around, Cinnamon. I’m so happy. Now it’ll be just like when we won the contest. This is just great. C’mon, I’ll show you what we’re doin’ tonight, so you can catch up.”

  “Well, Memphis, I was just going to watch tonight.”

  “Watch, my foot! If Smack says you’re in, that’s what he means. Here, come look at the charts, you’ll do fine.”

  Baker was busy warming up his trumpet and his lips while the other guys, especially Todd, were teasing him.

  “You in a real mess now, my man.”

  “Right, if Cinnamon is goin’ to be singin’, too. Man, you’re too hot for me.”

  “Bold, if I do say so.”

  “Y’all got it all wrong, fellas. My heart belongs to Cinnamon and always has. You know that.”

  “But does Memphis know that? That’s the question!”

  “Memphis is just a kid, be serious.”

  “Oh my, oh my, and they in the same family, too. Baker, you must be out your mind.”

  Baker was getting riled by his compatriots’ joshing and turned around to them. “Listen, there’s nothing, not a thing, going on between me and Memphis.”

  “Well, my man, you better watch your back, ’cause Memphis is a slick lil ol’ thing.”

  “That’s enough! Y’all got that? That’s enough talk like that!” Baker retorted.

  “Fifteen minutes!” the stage manager announced, sticking his head in the door.

  Memphis had hurried Cinnamon to her dressing room, where she busied herself picking out something for her cousin to wear.

  “Don’t make such a fuss, Memphis. People aren’t really here to look at us. They’re comin’ to dance! I doubt if they even know we’re here.”

  “Oh no! When I open my mouth to sing, folks goin’ to know the name Memphis Minor. I’m goin’ to turn heads and be proud of it. There, this ought to look good on you, Cinnamon.” Memphis held up a scarlet silk pleated dress with a small Asian pattern. “This will look perfect. Here, try it on.”

  Cinnamon took the dress from Memphis and held it in the mirror in front of her. Pleats? Print? “Memphis. Are you sure?”

  “Nothing’s too good for my cousin. Maybe after the gig tonight you, me, and Baker can go out together?”

  “Sure,” Cinnamon said, “that’d be fine.” Cinnamon quickly changed, and Memphis brightened her makeup for her.

  “Places, everybody!” The stage manager made his final rounds.

  Although Chick Webb was frail and often ill, he held his band together, and at the Savoy the challengers never underestimated him. With his two new singers, Memphis and Cinnamon, Fletcher Henderson was determined to fare better than the last time he had been up against the Chick Webb Orchestra. At that duel, Webb had introduced a new weapon in his arsenal, the young Ella Fitzgerald. Fresh off a recent win at the Apollo Theater’s amateur night, Ella that night was astonishing and since then had become a permanent fixture in the band, as respected as Webb himself.

  Henderson hoped that tonight he would have similar luck with the two chippies he caught at the Ebony Club. Memphis begged Henderson to give her a shot. If her pipes weren’t anywhere near as good as Ella’s, at least she was a looker. He was just about to chalk up another victory to Webb when that othe
r one, the tall brown-skinned girl, showed up. We might make this, might give Chick a run for his money. Still, Cinnamon and Memphis had their jobs cut out for them—singing against the one and only Ella.

  “Love and Kisses” was the tune Webb started out with, Ella scatting and exhibiting her astonishing vocal range, over three octaves. Cinnamon’s operatic training came in handy on “Dicty Blues,” which Fletcher set up against the second Webb piece. Baker led the brass section on “Sugar Foot Stomp,” and the crowd that Webb usually had in his pocket was beguiled. Throughout it all, the dancers competed against each other as much as the bands did, the crowd, always the crowd determining who was the best. Cinnamon’s solos were daunting; Memphis hung in with her improvisation and sense of timing. But in the end, it was the dancers doing every kind of movement possible, tossing each other in the air, turning like there was no tomorrow, that was the crowds’ main attraction to the Battle of the Bands.

  The dancehall’s hollers for the King of the Savoy returned the crown to Chick Webb, but there was no animosity between the bands. Benny Carter, Edgar Sampson, and Jimmy Harrison all shook hands and hugged their cohorts in Henderson’s group. Cinnamon and Memphis went over to Ella and complimented her without fawning. Memphis just wanted to keep singing until she could wow a crowd like the great Ella Fitzgerald. After all, Ella was proof that age didn’t matter. She was an “under twenty” diva, and Memphis’s dreams were fueled by this. Sensing that the strength of Cinnamon’s voice might overshadow her, she worked even harder. Cinnamon on the other hand was always listening for a chance to show off her own three-octave range without showing Memphis up. Baker was right, she was the stronger of the two vocally; but she didn’t have Memphis’s yearnings to live the jazz life, to exploit her mother’s name. Actually, Cinnamon was bored with the whole swing scene, but she would do anything for Baker. As the musicians left the bandstand for their fifteen-minute break, Baker went over to Cinnamon to sneak a kiss. Memphis, always looking for him, missed this.

  “So Baker, where are you taking us tonight?” Memphis said when she returned, “Let’s go somewhere hot and bluesy, okay?”

  “How’s that with you, Cinnamon?” Baker asked.

  Cinnamon was confused about what was going on between Baker and her cousin, but she decided Baker was just looking after Memphis, giving her some guidance, keeping those doggish jazz musicians away from a young girl. For her part, Memphis thought that Cinnamon needed encouragement to be more outgoing. Cinnamon was obviously comfortable hanging with the two of them, and Baker got along with a lot of fellas, any one of whom might be interested in Cinn if she lightened up. Baker found it hard to shake Memphis to get a few minutes alone with his true love. Memphis was so enthusiastic about the music, she was so eager to learn, he could never say no to her. She was a sweet kid, after all. Cinnamon thought of Memphis as a young girl infatuated with the jazz life, fame, and adulating fans. Memphis longed to be what Cinnamon abhorred. The next Mayfield Turner.

  Even if Memphis didn’t, Cinnamon and Baker thought of themselves as a couple. In between sets they often spoke of life together and the marvels of music, any kind of music. Baker was constantly edging Cinnamon to see the world through his eyes and ears—swing. He knew she could see it, ’cause she could sing it. But every Monday night he was off with Cinnamon to the opera rehearsals. He didn’t know how long this was going to go on, creeping down some lonely church steps to an auditorium with children’s drawings of Jesus, Moses, and David and Goliath decorating the walls. He knew he could play anything Mrs. Dawson put in front of him. The question in his mind was, why? Why play any of this at all? There were plenty of white folks dying to play it, so let ’em. But Baker would do anything to keep Cinnamon happy. They were practicing a section of Aida when he missed a cue. Mrs. Dawson nearly burst her lungs screaming about how “This isn’t going to work, young man. Your heart isn’t in it. I’m sorry, Cinnamon, but it’s obvious that Baker here is not a devotee. Hush, don’t take up for him. Now everyone’s awake, let’s take it back to the coda.”

  Elma was doing Memphis’s hair. The curls she could do with a twirling comb, but those edges needed some heat. Elma had yet to meet this Baker of whom both her girls spoke so highly. It puzzled Elma. Cinnamon and Memphis were usually on opposite sides of any issue, but this Baker Johnson had both her girls humming.

  “You know what, Mama, Baker just looks so sharp in those slick suits the bands wear. Why, when the horns rise up to do their chorus, he looks better than Duke Ellington. You see, different sections rise and sit down when they’re featured in the music. Oh, Mama, I can’t see how they can play so well and actually do choreographed movements with their horns. They look so good and move so smooth, high style! Really, they do! There’s more to playing swing than just picking up an instrument. You’ve got to feel it, live it, even dress it. You’ve got to respect the power of rhythm and jump up when the feeling gets to you. Wait till you come see me and Cinnamon, Mama. You comin’, Papa?” she shouted to Raymond, who was down the hall listening to the radio.

  “We’re comin’, darlin’.”

  Then Elma, still ambivalent about this “swing,” nodded yes. Memphis turned her head to see what Elma’s response was, and the hot comb in Elma’s hand nearly burned her.

  “Gosh, Mama, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just asked a question.”

  “Then sit still so I can finish up this head, all right? You told me there’s going to be photographs of the whole orchestra this afternoon, and I want you to look nice,” Elma reassured her child.

  “That’s not the most important thing I told you, Mama. Always worried about how I look. Ought to be worrying yourself about how I sound. We’re recording this afternoon. That’s what’s important. Where’s Cinnamon anyway? She should be getting herself ready, too.”

  Elma knew where Cinnamon was. She was on the roof practicing her opera exercises, but that was of no concern to Memphis. Memphis thought the whole world revolved around Baker Johnson and Fletcher Henderson.

  “Well, I’m going to be on time and look like a princess, huh, Mama? Think Baker will notice?”

  “If he doesn’t he’s blind and walks backwards, baby,” Elma said, smiling at her handiwork.

  Cinnamon entered, buoyant and gleeful. “I got that note. I tell you, Mama El, I got that note. Vedi? Di morte l’angelo radiante a noi s’appressa. / Ne adduce eterni gaudi sovraaaaaaah! See, didn’t I tell you?”

  “Sounds beautiful to me, sweetie, but Memphis says you’ve got a big day today. Want me to do something real quick, while I’ve got the comb in my hand?”

  “Yeah, that would be nice, Mama El. I keep thinking about the music and forget all about how I look. And I don’t want to do that. Not today, too much to do. Too many folks to see today.”

  Elma started to work on this second head of hair just as she’d always done for her two girls. Raymond came into the kitchen and smiled.

  “One of these days I’m going to hear you on the radio. You both are going to make me so proud. I know it.”

  “I’ll do my best, Papa,” Memphis glowed. Cinnamon didn’t say anything. She just wanted to be good, not necessarily famous. Admired was enough for her.

  When the recording session began, Cinnamon and Memphis were stationed at the mike to the left of the horn section, so they could both see Baker. He nodded to them and blew a kiss to Cinnamon that Memphis thought was for her. The band started off with “Queer Notions,” but the recording people kept asking them to do more takes and the hours slipped by without a break. They had just started “King Porter Stomp” when Cinnamon looked at the clock and realized she was about to be late for a lesson with Madame Olivetsky, who had invited an important operatic figure on a visit from Milan to hear her sing.

  Cinnamon signaled to Henderson and the engineer to stop the session. Baker looked over at her and couldn’t believe she was trying to interrupt the recording. Studio time cost money and there were a number of pieces left to be done. Finally Cinnamon j
ust picked up her things and ran out of the room. Henderson saw this and stopped the session. “Take ten!” he announced. “Baker, go find out what in the hell is going on with that woman.”

  Baker immediately put his horn down and ran out the door, trying to catch up with Cinnamon, who must have lost her mind, running out on Fletch like that. This was her big break. Didn’t she get it? Finally he saw her going down the second flight of stairs. He shouted, “Cinnamon, wait. Wait! Talk to me.” Out of breath from following her, Baker questioned her fiercely. “Where in the hell are you running off to in the middle of a session? What’s the matter? Are you sick, or crazy?”

  Cinnamon indignantly responded, “I’ve got an important lesson with Madame Olivetsky—”

  Baker didn’t even let her finish the sentence. “Are you going to be a fool forever? I indulged you as much as I can, maybe I shouldn’t have done that, but there is no life for you in no goddamn opera. You must be crazy to think these white folks are gonna let you sing opera!”

  Now Cinnamon turned on Baker. “I am singing opera. I sing with the National Negro Opera Company. And I’m going to continue to sing opera. I’m not going to wallow in the gutter with this swing, this ‘jazz,’ like you and Memphis. Don’t you see there’s nothing hallowed about swing? It’s colored folks doing what colored folks have always done, making things up as they go along. Just noise and pelvis grinding is what it is . . .”

  At that point Baker raised his hand to slap her, but didn’t. “So, that’s what you think of me when you get down to it, huh? I guess I might as well go on back upstairs.”

  At that moment, Memphis came running up to see what was the matter. She’d heard the two yelling all the way from the fifth floor.

  “Nothing’s the matter, Memphis,” Baker said quietly. “Come on, Cinnamon has something else she wants to do.” Baker put his arm around Memphis the same way he used to hold Cinnamon and turned to walk back up the stars.