It’s impossible to write of any phase in the history of jazz, most especially a first-person account, without finding oneself constantly dealing with bigotry, meanness, and the gross insensitivities that are just as prevalent in jazz as in the rest of our society. Such character flaws are not, of course, restricted to white, southern musicians. And from time to time, I’ve even made the joyful discovery that not all southern jazzmen are cast in this mold.
One of the noblest young men New Orleans jazz ever produced was George Girard, who died in 1957 at the age of twenty-seven. George played the trumpet and was the original leader of the Basin Street Six in which teenaged Pete Fountain played the clarinet. His trumpet sound, admittedly inspired by Bunny Berigan, had reached an exceptional proficiency, and its superior quality was matched by his entertainment skills. Representative of the musical school identified with Louis Prima, Wingy Mannone, and Sharkey, George was a true gentleman—thoughtful and considerate, concerned for the welfare of others.
One night in 1954 I was preparing the usual all-star session that was part of every monthly meeting of the New Orleans Jazz Club at the Roosevelt Hotel. One of the members, Don Perry, met me on Royal Street and mentioned to me that Lee Collins was in town. “It’s a shame we can’t have him playing at the meeting,” Don said.
“Why not?” I asked, with the naivete that has oftentimes enveloped me.
My esteemed colleague was surely skeptical about my astonishment in learning that we were operating under an unwritten segregation law. But since I had for years been presenting Journeys Into Jazz concerts in more civilized climes, I had failed to notice that a color line survived in this one. I’d been away too long.
I promptly invited Lee Collins to attend and to perform. I even arranged to pick him up myself and to see that he wasn’t required to go upstairs via the service elevator. With Lee ensconced backstage, I had a talk with George Girard. I planned to bring Lee out during George’s forty-minute stint, and I asked if he’d mind going to a little trouble to make the old maestro comfortable.
“A great musician like Lee Collins!”—and I was shocked at an actual tear in George’s eye—“to think you’d have to ask a jazzman to treat him like a human being!” The tear ran down George’s ample nose. He was an emotional kid.
I made no prior announcement to the audience. My plan was just to bring Lee on, let him play, then wait to see who raised an objection. Lee told me he’d heard that black musicians never played at the Jazz Club. I decided that if I got any flack from the board, I’d just resign with a public—and published—statement of my reason. The more I contemplated the confrontation, the more hostile I became. Then I found myself on stage. Turning my head, I could see Lee Collins standing in the wings. George and his New Orleans Five stood behind me as I was saying to the crowd, “And now, friends, here’s an unscheduled treat to delight you. We have with us tonight one of the great masters of hot trumpet. It’s been my pleasure in the past to introduce him on some of the most prestigious stages in this nation. And it’s an honor and a privilege now for the first time to present him in my own home town—and his. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Lee Collins.” I thought I could hear some sharp intakes of breath, but in a split second I was conscious of applause behind me. As I turned and joined in, I could see George and his band clapping their hands vigorously and smiling broadly. Then the audience joined in the swelling crescendo as Lee walked sedately to the center of the stage, carrying his brilliantly polished, golden horn. He was, as usual, beautifully groomed and poised, with all the confidence you’d expect of an outstanding performing artist.
I don’t remember what he opened with or what his program consisted of. I do recall that it was all superb. But even more, I remember George Girard submerging his well-known ebullience to concentrate on playing magnificent, skillful, and deliberate second trumpet, using his horn to showcase every nuance of Lee’s performance. Lee, of course, was both musician and showman enough to be aware from the start of George’s intent and the masterful effectiveness of his efforts. The combination of his gratitude and affection reflected itself in every phrase Lee played. The audience, whatever the philosophical flaws of some of its members, was enthralled by the overriding beauty of the performance. They responded with volcanic applause.
At the end, George embraced Lee—even kissed him. Louis Scioneaux (now Sino), the trombonist, stepped up to shake Lee’s hand, and the rest of the band filed by to do the same. George thanked me for giving him the opportunity to play behind Lee.
As I left the stage, George Blanchin, who was president of the club that year, said to me, “Another great show, All”
I never heard a critical word. After that we had mixed groups on the stage right along, and nobody thought anything of it. Their comments always pertained only to the quality of the music.
I wrote George a personal letter of appreciation, expressing my admiration for his handling of this delicate circumstance. Now he’s been gone for a quarter-century, and I continue to think of this fine young gentleman with the same warmth and affection, wishing all jazzmen shared his personal generosity and sympathetic understanding.