Oh, Play That Thing

  I could carry a suit, I had the shoulders – and I knew I was rolling them, now that Hettie had shown me – and the blue eyes that turned push to pull and held up strong women, even as they decided to continue on home.

  —Lord! What are they?

  Blue eyes were rare in Harlem; eyes like mine were news that no girl wanted to share.

  I had to be careful.

  —I swear, I’ll tear your eyes out if you start making those oogle eyes at my big man.

  —What do I care, big bitch?

  I cared, but I wasn’t the big man they were talking about. It was Zutty Singleton or Carroll Dickerson or Fred Robinson – and Earl Hines was in town, some of Jelly Roll Morton’s Red Hot Peppers, and Don Redman came and went, and Johnny St Cyr – and Louis. The big man was, most often, Louis.

  Louis was the King. The silver bulbs popped when he walked through doors, and he filled the hush that went before him. The sharp kids had added Louis’s white handkerchief to their uniforms. They carried them, mopped brows that didn’t need mopping. Louis was everywhere. He let it be known – he told a woman – that his birthday was on the way. The 4th of July.

  —Is it really your birthday? I asked him.

  —Is now.

  —What year?

  —Why, 1900, Smoked. Why you have to ask?

  Already the man of the century, muscling in on the great nation’s birthday. He knew: there was plenty of room.

  —1901, he whispered into my ear.

  He was sitting beside me, in a hot July room above Lenox Avenue. He’d a dancing girl on one knee and a well-heeled flapper on the other. He was watching them kiss.

  —We’re the same age, I said.

  The girls were his birthday present, from – I didn’t know then – a man I’d nearly met before. Outside, the firecrackers bit and hopped.

  —Real birthday the 4th of August, he whispered.

  He patted the girls.

  —Couldn’t wait.

  The next time I went to the alley off Seventh Avenue Mezzrow knew who I was buying for.

  —Uh uh, he said.

  —What? I said.

  I got set to stand on him.

  —I’ll deliver it myself, he said.

  I shrugged, fine, and walked away. I wasn’t going to bring him.

  He followed me – I could hear him – right back to Wellman Braud’s flat. I left him outside on the steps – the stoop – and went up the stone stairway to Louis. He sighed, stood up and went down to get Mezzrow and his merchandise.

  I heard them coming back up.

  I heard Mezzrow.

  —Man, when this tea grabs your glands, you got time on your hands.

  I left them to it, but I had to be careful. Louis always wanted me near, especially when he was dealing with a white man. And Mezzrow, God love him, was pale. That was fine. I was only a shut door away. But I was riding Louis’s that-day girl, the girl who’d brought herself home with him the night before. That was fine too; Louis didn’t mind. Louis had the women he loved, Lil, Alpha, and Louis had the women he liked. And this was one of the women he liked.

  I pulled back the curtain and opened the window. There was a good chunk of night above the street. I couldn’t see stars but they were up there.

  She was sitting up on the bed. She watched me walking back. She smiled, but not sure why. The bed was on castors. I pulled it nearer. Wellman Braud, its owner, was away, touring with Jelly Roll Morton. I kicked a rug out from under one of the wheels, and the bed swam over the boards. I jumped on as it stopped, a foot from the open window.

  —My my.

  She sat on me.

  —Who this for?

  She looked out the window.

  —My brother.

  —He out there?

  —Yeah.

  She stayed up there. She smiled at me, and at the window.

  —He like you?

  —Not really.

  —Eyes blue?

  —I don’t know.

  —Don’t know?

  —I never looked.

  —Like to meet him.

  —Some day.

  I put my hands on her waist, and that was that; she fucked for my dead brother and nearly sent me up there to him. She bucked and messed and, while I took back the boss-place and pulled her onto her back, Louis was next door with Mezzrow, talking gage, sampling gage, negotiating and philosophising gage.

  I had to be careful.

  She was a black woman.

  —Blacker the berry, O’Pops.

  I could hear Louis and Mezzrow beyond the wall.

  —I’ll take six of them muggles, Pops.

  —Good as did, Pops.

  Louis was giving the dealer what he wanted, an audience and a dollar. Mezzrow couldn’t believe his luck; I could hear it through the wall. He was sitting with the King, watching him suck in his merchandise. He had the King’s dollar and company.

  I had to be careful.

  The bed was right under the window now. My forehead was on the sill.

  It wasn’t Louis. He was listening and laughing, looking at Mezzrow trying not to hear. It wasn’t Louis I’d have to be careful about.

  —How many peoples in this big world, Smoked?

  —I don’t know. Millions.

  —Billions, I say.

  —Yeah.

  —And listen here, Smoked. Half of them billions is women. And half of billions still billions.

  It wasn’t Louis.

  She got onto her knees and grabbed the sill.

  —Introduce me to your brother.

  It was the rest. It was the world out there.

  —Which window is he at?

  A white man fucking a black girl. In Harlem. In an open window. No money changing hands. In an open window, three floors off the street.

  I’d have to be careful.

  —Are you fuckin’ watching!

  —Tell him, daddy.

  The next time I saw Mezzrow he was dressed like Louis; the Oxford grey double-breasted suit; the big knot in his tie; silk scarf, lisle socks, the hanky. And kids in torn overalls found the odds to buy, or the speed and wit to rob, a white hanky. They were waving the things all over Harlem. Louis was the latest.

  Louis knew it.

  —What it is, he told me, —is ambition. New York ambition. It’s different here. The music isn’t as good. It’s slick and orchestrated. It’s good. The Duke is good. But it ain’t New Orleans and it ain’t even Chicago. It ain’t new-born. It’s what happens after. It’s organised. Now—

  He stopped for a while. A hand held the word in the air while he inhaled. We were in another dressing room. Connie’s Inn, one of Harlem’s big ones. Just the two of us – I thought. Louis liked to be on time, in charge, looking at the door as others arrived.

  He let go.

  —I like that, he said. —The organising. No reason why wild music can’t be organised. I like nice strings and the rest of that nice shit. I like that Guy Lombardo. No nicer pipes this side of heaven. But me now, I’m wild. Some of the white types and the black want-to-be-white types call me primitive. Fuck them. I sound wild because I want to sound wild. No reason why the cats giving out the wild music can’t be organised.

  —The union?

  —Fuck the union. We got our own coloured local. Local 802. Know what that is? Black tick in a white dog’s back. Fuck the local. See, that’s what I like about here. It ain’t local. There’s ambition here. For the music. Publishing, records. Getting it out there. And white boys tumbling over themselves to get at it. Nice Mister Rockwell, and all of them other nice gents. Trying to get their slice, that don’t rightly belong to them. But it’s scratch mine, I’ll scratch yours. I know that. I’ll do my scratching, and take some. I got the back.

  He scratched it now.

  —Heh, heh. All the best end up here, Smoked. Eventually they do. They roll right in. The best of the good guys and the bad guys, all up for each other. And the nice girls too. They all here or on their way. I pla
y here, in this Connie’s, on a corner in Harlem, but I’ll get myself heard all over the world. In Africa. In Ireland, O’Pops. Because I’m here, in New York City.

  He was talking more than he had in a long time. He was talking to me.

  —Know what I want, Smoked? Know what I really want?

  —What?

  —I want to be known. I want to deserve that.

  —Fair enough, I said. —You do deserve it.

  —Nice to hear you saying that.

  His lungs were full again. He smiled.

  —Ireland? I said.

  He exhaled.

  —Yeah yeah, he said. —Why not?

  He was right; I knew he was. He’d get there; he was there already.

  —Will you write a song for me, Louis?

  —Why, yes, O’Pops. Lay down the specifications.

  —It’s for a woman.

  —Nice. All the best songs. In Ireland?

  —Yeah.

  —Name on her?

  —Annie.

  —Nice.

  —Piano Annie.

  —Ha ha. A friend of yours.

  —Yeah.

  —Good friend?

  —I murdered her husband.

  —My my, said Louis. —That as good as it get.

  He put his head right back, and laughed.

  It’s still out there; you’ve heard it.

  —ANN-IE—

  SITTING ON HER FAN-NY—

  They recorded Black and Blue that day as well, and Sweet Savannah Sue. The 22nd of July, 1929.

  —SHE PLAY THAT NICE PIAN-EE—

  JUST FOR ME-EE—

  Louis Armstrong and His Orchestra. A few months before, the same men had been called Carroll Dickerson and His Orchestra.

  —WHAT A THRILL—

  FIT MY BILL—

  WALKING UP TO SUMMERHILL—

  It’s OKeh 40341.

  —TO SEE—

  ANN-IE—

  PIANO ANN-IE—

  I told Louis what a fanny was on the other side of the Atlantic.

  —Glad you told me, Smoked. Good to know these things in advance.

  —HEN-RY –

  LIVIN’ OFF THE MEM-RY—

  And, somewhere between recording and pressing, our names fell off the credit and Rockwell became the composer.

  —THINKIN’ OF HIS ANN-IE—

  HE DANCE DOWN BROADWAY—

  It was too late – I was gone – before I knew.

  —HE HEAR HER PIAN-EE—

  HE THINKIN’ OF HER—

  FAN-NY—

  I listened to the first take and, for the first time since I’d left, I wanted Dublin.

  —EVEN THINKIN’ OF HIS GRAN-NY—

  SAY HELLO TO ANN-IE—

  It wasn’t one of the best. But, eleven years after I’d promised it, I’d sent the letter to Annie.

  (—Are you crying, Annie?

  —No.

  She lives in a mansion of aching hearts. She been singing for me. She’s one of the restless throng.

  —Was that one of the American songs?

  —I want to go there, she said. —I could do things there.

  She turned to face me.

  —I want to own a piano, Henry.

  And she turned away again.

  —Why don’t you go then?

  —Because he wants to die for Ireland.

  —He?

  —I’m married, remember.

  —I thought you were talking about me for a minute.

  —I don’t care whether you die or not.

  —Ah, you do.

  —No, I don’t, she said.

  And I believed her.

  —Just remember that letter, she said.

  —I will, I said. —Don’t worry.

  —I’m not worried.

  —Anyway, Annie, I said. —I’ll be back soon.

  —No, you won’t.

  —I will, Annie.

  She shrugged my hand off her hip.

  —You won’t.

  —I will, I said. —I swear.

  But she was right. I never did see Annie again.)

  —THINKIN’ OF HIS ANN-IE—

  HE DANCE DOWN BROADWAY—

  She’d still have her gramophone. It would have been the last thing to go, the last thing she’d have pawned. I’d seen her dust and polish it, and position it near the window, to grab any light that was going. I’d given it to her; I’d stolen it, bit by bit. In the months after Easter Week, the good months before I became a rebel again. Hard work, and home to Annie. Good months measured in gramophone parts. She only played American songs – climb upon my knee, Sonny Boy. The months before her dead husband came home from the war and I shot him twice in the head. Not because I wanted Annie, but because I’d been told to.

  I was given a piece of paper. His name on it.

  (—You know what to do.

  —Yes.

  —I know you do.)

  I put the gun to the back of his head and shot him. Obeying orders. I was a soldier. Shot as a traitor and a spy. His name was on a piece of paper, and I’d killed him.

  I stood in the studio. Another hot day, and I listened to Louis.

  —THINKIN’ OF HIS ANN-IE—

  She’d know it was me. She’d laugh. She hadn’t made it to America, but I had. She’d laugh. The bastard, the prick. Her letter from America, sung to her by Louis Armstrong. She’d laugh at the open window. She’d know.

  —HE DANCE DOWN BROADWAY—

  I decided it then. I was going back. Louis didn’t need me. He had Rockwell; he knew how to use him. I was just hanging around.

  I wanted to walk through Dublin. And I’d bring America with me. The strut, the size, the sheet nice and clean. I’d bring home the new world; I’d sell it on the streets of Dublin.

  —WHAT A THRILL—

  FIT MY BILL—

  WALKING UP TO SUMMERHILL—

  It was there, in the studio, clear as the notes that Louis sent at me – the decision. I was itching, and happy. I’d get back to Chicago first. I could see, feel, the three of us. Leaving, and arriving. I’d left Dublin many times but I’d never arrived. I’d always crept back in, on a stolen bike, in someone else’s threads, with someone else’s name. A travelling salesman, a happy father, the second son of a big, big farmer. These men and more men, I’d crept into Dublin as all of them. But never as me. Henry Smart had never gone home.

  He was now, though. Going home. Henry S. Smart. Henry the Yank.

  —SHE PLAY THAT NICE PIAN-EE—

  JUST FOR ME-MOI-OH-MEE—

  I could see myself with Saoirse; I could feel her hand in mine. I could hear the tram bells, and I could hear the shouts, the accent that she’d know was mine. I could hear our feet, good Yank leather on the cobbles. I’d stroll through Dublin for the first time in my life. No more running away or chasing. I’d stroll through Dublin with my daughter, and my wife.

  I let myself say it.

  —Dublin.

  That was it.

  —Your house?

  She put her finger to the wall above the people in the photograph. Me, Miss, Ivan, Ivan’s cousin.

  —No, I said. —I never had a house.

  —Boo hoo, my Henry.

  She dropped her head back to the pillow. Flour stayed there, where she’d been sitting. I blew, but it didn’t stray far.

  —The wife?

  —Yes.

  —Pretty.

  —Yeah.

  —Older than you.

  —Yeah.

  —Not as old as me.

  —Jaysis, no.

  She laughed.

  —Where is she?

  —Chicago.

  —Yes? And him?

  —Ivan the Terrible.

  She laughed again.

  —Another.

  —Same one, I said.

  —No, she said. —Every country has the Ivan. Terrible here, terrible there.

  She held the photograph above us for quite a while; her arms never drifte
d or shook.

  —Where is he?

  —Ireland.

  —And the sad one?

  She was pointing to Ivan’s cousin.

  —I don’t know her name.

  —Don’t remember?

  —Never knew.

  —You knew.

  —No, I didn’t.

  —Yes, she said. —You knew. You don’t remember that you knew. I leaned across and pointed at Miss O’Shea.

  —But I don’t even know her name and she’s my—

  —Yeah, yeah, you tell me all before. I know the story. Miss O bla bla bla. So.

  She put the photograph onto my chest.

  —You will go home.

  —Yeah.

  —You never can go home. No such place.

  —I know.

  —No, she said.

  —Yes, I said. —I know. It won’t be the same.

  —And you.

  —I know.

  —You won’t be the same.

  —I know. If it was the same, I wouldn’t be going back.

  —And she?

  —Which?

  —Which. Miss O bla bla. Your wife.

  —She wants to go as well.

  She said nothing.

  —She hates it here.

  —She will want it to be the same? There?

  —Yeah.

  —Bon voyage, my Henry.

  He was in Connie’s Inn, making it his, giving it the zip that Ellington gave the Cotton Club.

  —JUST BECAUSE MY COLOUR SHADING—

  DIFFERENT MAY—

  BE—

  And, after a shave and sometimes sleep, recording as often as Rockwell could arrange it.

  —THAT WHY THEY CALL ME—

  OH BABY—

  For Rockwell, for himself.

  —I give Mister Rockwell the riff, said Louis. —Watch.

  He stood up and walked across the studio floor, and back to me. The horn was under his arm, a happy man on his way home from work.

  —That the riff, Smoked. The walk. That the part that Mister Rockwell interested in. Every song have it.

  He walked away.

  —That, why, they, call, me. The riff, see? I, can’t, give, you, any, thing, but, love, bay, bah, bah, bah, bee. All the same. Some better than others, that true. But back to the point, Pops. The riff is the walk. The distance here to there.

  Back he came, across the silent studio floor.

  —Up, a, lay-zee, rih, vuh.