JOHN BIRKS “DIZZY” GILLESPIE
The Joyous Soul of Jazz
Introduction
INTRODUCTION
This story is not about Dizzy Gillespie seen as the world-famous artist, the musical innovator, the composer and arranger who led the way to new, daring, harmonic and rhythmic inventions. Nor need we refer to the amazing instrumental performer.
We shall not dissert on his historic importance, nor will it be a biography, there being an excellent To Be or Not to Bop translated into many languages. Dealing mainly with his adventures in Europe, you could consider this an addition to that biography, which does not mention his longstanding relationship with Italy.
It could also be useful to the “lay” reader interested in the general world of music thus discovering a stimulating, unusual personality, a hero of the Afro-American culture for which the United States is admired and appreciated the world over.
You might consider this book a “bedside” companion, aimed at giving you a different insight on the private, humorous, and thoughtful human being that was John Birks Gillespie as we knew him.
ACT I—TO BEGIN
Having an exuberant, multifaceted personality, Dizzy Gillespie has no doubt amused, amazed, annoyed, angered, and perhaps scandalized people with his irreverent “so what?” and “why not?” attitude. In an interview he had explained that, living as a black boy in the Deep South, therefore in a dangerous world, he had trained himself to face any harmful problems from early childhood. In fact, for many years he had carried a pocket knife to defend himself from the attacks of drunken rednecks on a “Saturday night nigger spree.” He still had a vivid recollection of the horrible death of his friend Bill, who had been tied down to the railway tracks and run over by a train.
“Good heavens, Dizzy! That must have shocked you for life! Was that what made you so aggressive?”
“Heck no! I spent all my childhood getting into mischief. I was small and skinny but real fast and real mad. In the end, even the big boys would stop heckling me and steer away.”
“And at home?”
“Well, I was the youngest, so my brothers and especially my sister were really pushy with me.” His big laugh: “In fact, one day Eugenia really pushed me…out the window! Said I was too wild!”
Another facet of his irrepressible personality were his outspoken political ideas, albeit formulated with humor. Some might recall that in 1963 he had given election politics a shake when, tongue in cheek, he had presented his candidacy for president of the United States, running against Barry Goldwater. What had begun as a joke, with Ralph and Jean Gleason prompting the whole affair, was soon taken up all over California, where students wore “Dizzy Gillespie for President” buttons. From California the action spread out, reaching the media throughout the United States. It was obviously treated as a joke, and yet this “why not?” stunt may have contributed to open eyes—and eventually doors—with regard to future black statesmen.
A delicate matter had been his heavy drinking problem, which had developed in the 1960s and would eventually lead him to an emergency hospitalization. Once again, his wife, Lorraine, had taken him in hand, nursing him toward definitive recovery. However, concerning drugs and other addictions that were rampant, especially in the jazz milieu, he was firm and adamant on the mortal harm that could ensue.
It should be added that through those many years when Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie were creating a musical revolution that would change the sound of jazz forever, his strong bond with Charlie made Dizzy watch over him to the day Bird died. He not only disapproved of and fought Bird's addictions—which would lead him to a tragic end in 1955 at age thirty-four—but he stood by him with enduring devotion.
He also took in hand, with a committee of other artists, the harrowing decisions and actions needed to extract Bird's body from the Bellevue morgue, to be sent to his mother, and to be buried decently in Kansas City. Dizzy said that Norman Granz paid practically all the bills.
Through the years, especially during the difficult problems Dizzy had to face because of Parker's hectic behavior, the press would try to obtain from him some negative comment regarding Bird, but Dizzy would smile, sphinxlike, and enunciate clearly: “My association with Charlie Parker is far above anything else I have ever done musically. He gives me tremendous inspiration, always and at all times.”
After Parker's passing away he declared: “It is said that our Creator chooses great artists. There is no other explanation for the fact that an artist like Charlie Parker had so much talent other than he was divinely inspired.”
And he would conclude: “Charlie Parker was the other side of my heartbeat.”
Dizzy Gillespie was a mixture of wiliness and ancient wisdom mingled with a juvenile naiveté. His flamboyant personality is probably foremost in the memory of the general public. To this effect, one excuse he would offer to explain his tendency, sometimes, toward an explosive behavior, was the fact that, having been born on October 21, 1917, he was a child of the Russian Revolution, which had “exploded” then.
However, leaving all these well-known stories behind us, for you can find some of them as part of his official biography, with this chapter I wish to pay homage to the very special human being he matured into, during his later years. Consider it a collection of memories lived over a period of two decades. Perhaps, while reading, you will catch a shadow of his laughter, his joy of living, his sharp humor, and his husky-nasal voice, and feel as if he has never really left us.
ACT II—A TRUE ROMAN
In the mid-1960s in Italy I was dedicated to the diffusion of that “elite” music called jazz by presenting a weekly jazz radio program and working on national TV not only as a singer but also producing, presenting, and interviewing famous international jazz artists.
That afternoon I was to meet “the great Gillespie,” whose quintet was to perform in a TV special. In those years he was not the mellow, wise, and relaxed human being who would bloom later; he was peppery, wisecracking, electric, and devil-may-care. He had the reputation of being a most unexpected personality who might create problems with the straight-laced TV producers of those years.
We were very formally introduced, and he gave me the big eye. I began explaining how the program would unfold, but he kept leering one minute and frowning in mock concentration the next. Aware that he was not really listening, I stopped talking altogether.
He nodded, grinning.
“OK-OK. What did you say your name was?”
“Lilian. Lilian Terry”
“That's not Italian…”
“No. I'm British, born and raised in Egypt. However, my mother is Italian.”
“Bet she makes great minestrone, huh? I love minestrone!”*
I smiled and gathered up my courage to ask if he could possibly play one of his earlier tunes that held a special meaning for me, like a good-luck chant.
“It's the one that goes ‘Oo shoo-be-doo-be, oo, oo.’”
He shook his head—sorry, no. They had taken it off the book and now were playing newer tunes. At my disappointment he smiled: “But one day I'll play it for you…”
He wiggled his eyebrows in a mock leer and whispered loudly: “If you promise we'll sing it together…”**
We still had a few minutes before the show was to go on the air, live. Now, any friend of Dizzy's will tell you how risky his live appearance on any show could be, but, in my innocence, I asked him if we could work out some Qs and As so as to have a smooth interview.
“Oh yeah? Don't you like surprises? They're the spice of life!”
“I love surprises, but unfortunately they don't.” I pointed to our stage supervisor. “You see that gentleman in the grey suit? His job is to check that everything is according to RAI standards, including the dialogue, and they are very formal.”
Dizzy smiled, one finger to his chin and head bent coyly to one side:
“Oh, yeah? And just what would shake them up?”
My instinct rang a bell, so I answered breezily: “No problem. I'll begin by explaining your leading role in the birth of bebop, so the public is made aware of your importance in the history of jazz. There will follow a brief interview where you'll answer me in English and I'll translate into Italian.”
“Ah-ha! So you'll clean up any bad language…”
“Of course not!” I replied in a mock stern tone. “Because I'm certain you're going to be the perfect gentleman!”
He gave me an odd look: “Hey! For a second I thought I had Lorraine there! My wife. You sounded just like her.”
“I take that as a compliment. Ah, there we are, they're calling us onstage.”
Lights, OK. Cameras, ready. We roll at zero. Ten, nine, eight…. Rolling!
Standing next to him, in front of his musicians, I told the public how very lucky we were to have the great Gillespie play for us for the next twenty-five minutes. A brief, relaxed interview followed in English and Italian. Yes, he was indeed happy to be back in Rome. Matter of fact, he always looked forward to coming to Italy at least once a year. Such culture, all those art treasures…not to mention the delicious food! The cappuccino! Ah, yes, he had many friends in Rome, where he felt very much at home. In fact, he was learning new Italian words every day. Like the Roman slang compliments that the guys shouted at the girls on the street; very, very interesting…
My instinct again…so I beamed at the camera: “…but enough small talk now. It's time to enjoy the wonderful music of the Dizzy Gillespie Quintet.”
Turning to him, I motioned: “Maestro? It's all yours! Prego…”
He watched me walk away, fiddling with the horn and grinning, then roared out with gusto his favorite, very brief if rather heavy, Roman compliment: “Aaaah Bonah!”
Such “compliment” could be translated approximately into “Rather appetizing!”
There was a sudden combined reaction. Simultaneously, I froze in my steps, the cameraman barked a laugh quickly smothered, while the inspector almost fell off his highchair. Satisfied, Dizzy flickered the pistons of his horn, counted off, and they exploded into “Birk's Works.”
I was not sacked that day, but it was some time before they would let me produce another TV special concerning any jazz artist.
At Newport
Two years later, in 1968, I was on my way to the Newport Jazz Festival to interview as many important jazz artists as I could approach, in order to produce a special radio series for RAI, the Italian National Network. Fortunately, I was driving up from New York with Max Roach and Papa Jo Jones in Max's blue convertible. He led me through the four days, from artist to artist, like a kindly guiding spirit.
Among the artists to be interviewed, Dizzy's name was underlined with a large question mark as I cringed at the thought of what might come out of his laughing loudmouth, but Max had said not to worry—come along and we might catch him in a thoughtful mood.
With my faithful tape recorder in hand I stood outside Dizzy's dressing room waiting, as agreed, for Max to call me in. It was unusually silent inside. Had I missed the appointment? Crossing my fingers, I knocked and peeked discreetly around the door.
Dizzy was there all right, with Max and other musicians standing or squatting around him and listening intently as he read in a very intimate voice from a book he held open in his lap. Max motioned for me to come in. This was a most unusual scene and a strange lecture from a man renowned for his aggressive good humor and unconventional behavior. It sounded like the teachings of the Gospel, the Koran, and the Old Testament sifted together. Very interesting, and for a fleeting instant I considered recording it, but, from the sober look on Dizzy's face as he read, I realized this was a very private moment, so I walked out on tiptoe, signaling to Max “later,” which he acknowledged with a nod.
Years later Dizzy explained that he had been reading from a book on the Bahá’í faith.
So there I was again in Dizzy's dressing room, introduced by Max as a good friend from Italy; a singer who wished to interview him for the Italian radio.
Dizzy, once again the hyper entertainer, immediately started reciting dramatically:
“Ah Roma! Cappuccino, tortellini, carbonara, calamari…. Say, how is Nunzio? You know my friend Nunzio?”
“Nunzio Rotondo? Yes, we've recorded an LP together with Romano Mussolini.”
“Ah yeah! Romano and that beautiful wife of his! Did you know she's Sophia Loren's sister? Lucky guy! And Loffredo, how is he? Say hullo to his mother for me. Tell her next time I come to Rome we'll take her to meet the Pope. You know she lives in Rome and has never met the Pope?!”
“Well, neither have 90 percent of the Romans…”
While talking, he kept eyeing me suspiciously, trying to trace me to some memory at the back of his mind; I just smiled at him.
The radio interview unfolded very pleasantly with the Gillespie verve, and he was obviously enjoying himself, trying to speak Italian in a message to all his Italian fans. A knock and a voice, announcing he was on next, brought the meeting to a close.
We parted with hugs and patting on the back. See you in Rome this autumn. Absolutely! Ciao! As I walked away from the dressing room, satisfied with the interview, he stuck his head out the door to call out: “Hey, wait a minute…! That walk…I remember you now…!”
His big laugh, then his yell: “Aaaah Bonah!”
ACT III—GETTING TOGETHER
By the mid-1970s, through various occasions to interview our artist, Dizzy and I would gradually discover points in common—similar reactions to particular happenings and those items that slip out in a conversation to enlighten you on the “other” side of the man: the simple human being, as opposed to “the entertaining star.”
A regular meeting would take place at the Jardin des Arènes at Cimiez during the historical and irreplaceable annual Grande Parade du Jazz in Nice, France. It was produced and organized by George Wein and Simone Ginibre, and every year I recorded various interviews for my Italian radio program.
My son Francesco, in his teens, was a budding piano student at the Rome Conservatory and totally mesmerized by Dizzy's brilliance. Throughout the festival days he would follow the Gillespie quartet from one stage to the next, noting diligently their tunes, absorbing each solo like blotting paper. On the long drive back to Rome he would give his blow-by-blow description of what eighteen-year-old Rodney Jones had played on his guitar; Mickey Rocker's fantastic drumming; the solid bass backing by Ben Brown; and how guest saxophonist Eddie Daniels would fit smoothly into Dizzy's phrasing. Not to mention the incredible repertoire with nuances of flamenco, as well as his famous Afro-Cuban of course…and a touch of funky…and even some rock! And what an entertainer! Concluding with: “He is sheer genius, he IS jazz!”
The turning point came when RAI accepted my proposal to produce a TV “Special Performance” with Dizzy Gillespie, who was to spend his day off, between concerts, in Rome. We had our theme: Gillespie in Rome. And what could be more Roman than the Coliseum?
The whole program was taped by the TV crew as it unfolded from his arrival at Fiumicino airport to his direct transfer to the Coliseum where, among a curious crowd, Dizzy went into his antics: a large cowboy hat perched on his head, humorous comments on the history of the place, all religiously recorded by the TV cameramen, as well as a crowd of Japanese tourists trailing behind with clicking and whirring cameras.
I was slightly alarmed at the thought of spending a whole day with this force of nature, when a small group of music students arrived and one of them presented Dizzy with a large color drawing representing him dressed in a Thousand-and-One-Nights costume, playing his periscopic trumpet from which emerged the Genie of Jazz. Dizzy was instantly interested and touched, and, giving all his attention to the young people, he listened patiently to their questions, which he would answer while the young artist translated both ways.
It was finally lunchtime, and Dizzy was informed that a jazz club had opened its kitchen to fix a special luncheon for him. The top Italian jazz critics had been invited along.
“You see, if they meet you when you are relaxed and nursing a contented stomach, they might discover a different Gillespie, not only the artist/clown you usually show onstage but the ‘other’ Giovanni Gillespo…”
He had been eyeing me in his shrewd way, miming a fake offense.
“The artist/clown? The other…what was it…Giovanni Gillespo? OK, I'll be Giovanni, but you'll be my interpreter and you'll translate exactly what I say, OK?”
And from that day on, throughout the many years, I was to act as his interpreter—and often regret it—translating not only his normal answers but also some of the most outrageous explanations he would give to that worn out question: “How did you get to play a twisted horn?” Most of his fellow musicians and friends have heard the different answers he would give, according to the pleasantness of the interviewer, but there were times when he would say such incredibly embarrassing things, expecting me to translate them faithfully, till I would give him the “Lorraine” glare and he would burst out laughing.
On that day at the Roman Jazz Club, he plunged into his special chicken dish with great gusto. The Italian critics, chatting and eating along, were enjoying this unusual press conference where he was truly relaxed and mellow. He was willing to listen to everybody and answer every question: personal, musical, religious, or political, and at one point our eyes met and he gave me a most benign smile, something of the wise Buddha. He nodded his approval of the “day in Rome” I had organized for him and, to punctuate his satisfaction, he offered us—journalists, fans, and complete TV crew with rolling cameras—a very discreet series of burps.
During another special moment that afternoon, Dizzy sat at the club piano with the young music students from the Coliseum crowding around him, most attentive and inquisitive. He would explain—illustrating his words on the piano—some of his solos on his famous records. The young artist who had translated for Dizzy at the Coliseum was right there with his questions, showing how deeply he had studied Gillespie so that later, stepping out of the club for a digestive stroll, Dizzy had pointed him out, expressing his surprise at the boy's knowledge of Dizzy's music.
I had called the young man over: “Francesco…Dizzy is surprised at how well you know his repertoire…”
My son had grinned and replied: “Well, so I should, with all the festivals where I've been lucky enough to follow you around…thanks to mother…,” pointing at me.
Caught off guard, Dizzy's eyes had widened, and he had started the long “aaah…?” which turned into his famous rolling laugh; he grabbed each one of us by an arm as we strolled along.
From that Roman day onward there was a subtle change in Dizzy's attitude. The superficial benevolence he usually bestowed on everybody matured into a different behavior toward me. The “flirting” attitude gave way to a relaxed familiarity. It was as if we had always known each other, feeling at ease like old friends. When we commented on this “at ease” feeling he shared with my family—for also my mother had entered into the picture with her excellent “minestrone per Dizzy”—his amused explanation had been that we had probably all lived together in a previous life. He had opened his arms asking: “Why not?”
We had an open invitation to join him whenever he would appear in Italy, or at the annual Grande Parade in Nice, and during the long years that followed we established a firm relationship with “Giovanni Gillespo”; Dizzy had adopted the name immediately and through the years he would phone—sometimes at dawn—and roar his good humor: “Prontow? Buon-gee-ornow, this is Gee-iovanni, comee sta-eeh?!” and be delighted at my complaint for the ungodly hour. We would then gossip until he would say: “OK-OK, that's enough now. Go back to your beauty sleep…you sure need it! Hah! Hah!”
And he would ring off.
ACT IV—A RADIO INTERVIEW
In 1979 my “Portrait of the Artist” radio series presented—through interviews and special recordings—the most famous jazz personalities available. Evidently, Dizzy was included.
We began taping the interview after a satisfactory lunch and a brief “Jew's harp serenade” with our artist in a benign, reminiscent mood, as he sipped the cappuccino he favored.
“Tell me, Dizzy, just what is your secret?”
Raised eyebrows over the coffee cup and a surprised smile. I explained: “If I remember well, your very first bebop combo was organized in 1944, with Oscar Pettiford, to play at the Onyx Club on Fifty-Second Street, right? And who were the other members of the group?”
“Oh yeah. We had Don Byas on sax to begin with, then he was replaced by Budd Johnson. George Wallington on piano…but he was later replaced by Clyde Hart, and Max [Roach] on drums. But the real first combo was formed earlier, in December ’43 with Lester Young, Oscar Pettiford, Monk, and I.”
“However, the secret I want to discover is the following: If we listen today to your Verve recordings made in the forties and fifties, like ‘Groovin’ High’ or ‘Manteca,’ they are as fresh as if you had just recorded them. I mean, you belong to today's music even when you offer practically the same sound and repertoire you played back then. In other words, you can't be pinpointed to any particular era…”
“Well…the truth is that the ‘new’ style we created in the forties was itself directly developed from the ingredients and the atmosphere of the late thirties; and from that moment the evolution of our music, having those solid roots, simply developed right into the music that's played today.”
“Yes, but there's also the matter of your own very personal style…”
“As for my style…well, when you establish a certain style, you sort of stick to it, regardless of what you do. You try to resolve all the different possibilities, which are limitless in any given way. The style of the music I play is simply my way of playing. Whatever I'm playing, my phrasing will always be that way. If you are always cognizant of fundamentals, you hardly ever go wrong because you've got one foot in the past and one in the future. You're fundamentally the way that things have gone before.”
“Yet there's something particular about you. Many other excellent musicians who have remained true to their personality have experienced long ‘off’ moments with their public. You have never suffered from it.”
“I think another reason is that I'm also an entertainer, and I had good experience! I worked under some great entertainers such as Cab Calloway, Lucky Millinder, and Earl Hines, who is a real master showman! I watched them, and tried to find out why the public liked them rather than somebody else.”
“And what did you learn?”
“I discovered it's that personal touch, and the people know that I'm sincere, they detect it even if they don't know the language I'm speaking in. They can hear it in my voice and my demeanor, so that's another thing. There are lots of things you learn as you go along, you know? I am completely at the mercy of an audience. I know that it's my duty to reach them, not for them to reach me. An audience has no obligation; it stopped when they put their money in the box office. From that point on it's the obligation of the artist.”
“You mentioned Earl Hines. Some years ago he came to Rome to play at a jazz club called ‘Meo Patacca’ in Trastevere. During the radio interview, we got talking about his fantastic big band in 1942, with you, Bird, Sarah Vaughan, and all those other great artists. As we say: ‘la crème de la crème.’ He reminisced and spoke especially about you and Bird, how you would study together to develop your own special patterns that nobody else could figure out at that time. You were inventing together unusual things that you would then insert in the changes of the tunes, when playing in public.”
“Yeah…. We had like…a meeting of the minds, we were constantly inspiring each other. You could say I was more advanced harmonically but Bird was very advanced rhythmically. He was a great influence for all of us.”
“Going back to your way of reaching your audience: one fact on which all your fans will agree, no matter where you appear, is that while you do clown around on stage—don't frown, you know it is true…—yet the moment you count off and put your horn to your lips…”
“I know.” He grinned, “…I play my ass off.”
“Err…yes…. Now here's another question. Have you ever been curious, tried any of the new hybrid things that are being played nowadays?”
“Listen, I was doing that stuff they call rock-jazz or fusion music—whatever they call it now—way back. I mean, they're doing things now which we did in 1946, the same exact riff that we did then, so it's nothing new to me, nothing I hear from that angle that I haven't heard before, in some context. You could say I play that ‘new music’ too, because we've been doing it for a looong time!”
“Yes, but what you play has logic to it, while some of the things we hear today have very little to do with jazz as we know it. If we go all the way to free jazz: apart from Ornette, Paul Bley, and of course Mingus and his “free form” music, and a handful of others—what do you make of it? For instance, some of the electronic things that Miles Davis has been experimenting with recently…?”
“Well, I can't comment on what Miles Davis does because I wouldn't dare to take it upon myself to comment on an artist such as Miles.”
“That's exactly what is puzzling us. Because an artist of his stature, who has created a special world of music “à la Miles,” has no need to turn his back on it and look at the rock world for something…which he may not have found yet, or has he?”
Dizzy shook his head with a large grin: “Well, he's found a lot of money, I'll tell you that! Ha, ha, hah! So maybe that's what he was looking for? But seriously, you know? I've been trying to figure it out myself, and when I ask Miles, he kind of fences me off, saying, ‘You know what it is, ’cause you taught me.’ And all that kind of stuff.”
“But in your own opinion?”
“I figure that, perhaps, it's because at one time Miles had the perfect vehicle for his personality and his creativity, you know? He had Wynton Kelly, Jimmy Cobb, and Paul Chambers, but I don't think he's found that anymore, since then. Of course, at one time he had Red Garland and Philly Joe Jones; and that was something where he got off…”
“I know, and we can't forget the Kind of Blue period with Bill Evans! That's the Miles Davis I miss very much. Or those eerie heartbreaking sounds he gave us with Gil Evans?”
“Ah yes. But, you see, maybe right now, when he found that he can't find another Paul Chambers, or a Wynton Kelly—and they were just perfect for what he wanted then—well, maybe now he doesn't want to play any of that music without those guys…and he's got to wait until he gets to heaven to do so! You know, there must be some reason for him not wanting to play the way he used to.”
“I guess it's his right, even if I do wish he would surprise us romantics just once. Ah, well…I have another question for you. What's happening to jazz in the United States nowadays?”
“Oh, there's a big…but big upsurge in jazz now. I see a lot of young people in the public, and that's very good. And the new cats, they play real nice. You know, most of the time, in the past ten years, you used to look around and say, ‘Hey, I'm middle-aged, cause all my fans are middle-aged people,’ but now all the young kids are coming out, to play and to listen.”
“You're right. In fact, most of the young people in Italy are definitely your fans. And they are discovering Charlie Parker, Sonny Rollins, and John Coltrane, and also the fact that the music called bebop, which you guys invented in the forties, is a very basic moment in the history of jazz music, leading to what is being played today. But would you tell us more about yourself and Parker…?”
Once again, he was drawn back into his memories:
“Well…Yardbird and I just blended together from the moment he came to New York in 1942. They used to say we were like twins; our contribution just blended naturally. We were a great influence on each other's musical development, and in the way we played our notes, which were so close together. His enunciation of notes, the way he went from one to the other…that's what set the standard for phrasing our music.”
“In an interview, Miles said you and Bird played the same chords, played the lines together just like each other so he couldn't tell the difference. And Benny Carter explained that when you and Parker were playing those ‘other’ tunes within the original chords of the melody, the two of you were a natural irresistible association. He declared you simply turned the whole jazz picture around.”
“Well, like I said, Bird came to New York, to The Street, in 1942 and he sat in with us. That night I was hooked just by the way he assembled his notes together, and we sort of recognized ourselves in each other as colleagues and decided to play and exercise together every chance we got. By 1945 nobody played closer than we did; just listen to ‘Groovin’ High,’ ‘Shaw ’Nuff,’ and ‘Hot House.’ When Bird came in my life, he brought a totally new dimension on how to attack a tune and how to swing it. Our difference was that he had this ‘sanctified’ rhythm inside him. His accents had a definite bluesy feeling, while I got my accents from percussions. I guess we inspired each other with our differences.”
He grinned, remembering, and added: “But the real difference in our development was that I had to work constantly and hard, while Yardbird just grew into it naturally!”
“Just now you were saying that Bird played with a ‘sanctified’ rhythm?”
He grinned again and explained: “In Cheraw the blacks were divided into many levels of Christian churches. Starting from the top we had the Second Presbyterian Church, then the Methodist, the Catholic, the Peedee Baptist, and the A.M.E. Zion. The last and lowest was the Sanctified church where the whole congregation shouted. I would sneak in there, though I was raised a Methodist, and that's where I learned the meaning of rhythm and harmonies and how it could transport people spiritually.”
“Was that a ‘spontaneous combustion’ sort of thing?”
“Oh yes! There were four brothers in that church: one played the snare drum, another one the cymbal, another the bass drum, and the last one the tambourine. They had at least four different rhythms going on at the same time, and then the congregation would add the foot stomping and hand clapping, and jumping up and down on the resounding wooden floor. And the singing! It was just mind blowing. That's what I mean by ‘sanctified’ music.”
“What an experience that must have been! But what is happening now, jazz-wise?”
“You know, I honestly believe, actually I know that our music is conducive to what they are playing now. Our music and their rhythms…. In fact, I'm gonna make an album for the kids, to show them that our music is perfect for their kind of rhythm, because our music is really multi-rhythmic.”
“There's that record you made in 1977, with the ‘Shim Sham Shimmy’ and those other tunes that have the Gillespie imprint but are of easier reach, for those people who are not particularly jazz oriented.”
“Yeah…!” he smiled, reminiscing: “‘The shim sham shimmy on St. Louis Blues,’ that was fun!”
“Tell me, has this idea of a new record for kids just come to you?”
“No, actually I have already made one, not with my compositions but with Lalo Schifrin's. It's called ‘A Free Ride.’ Now I'm gonna try with my music, and it's really groovy.”
“We'll look forward to it. Well, I needn't ask you when you're coming back to Italy, as you are practically an Italian by now, especially with your ‘marranzano’ Jew's harp. So have you any special message for your Italian friends? Apart from ‘Ah bona!’ possibly…”
His wide grin: “Yeah! Ciao! Arrivederci Roma! Wait for me! I'll be back!”
ACT V—“TO BE OR NOT TO BOP”
I was acting as his interpreter at a press conference when Dizzy suddenly turned to me: “Do you also write translations…like…could you translate my book into Italian?”
“Yes, but do you have an Italian publisher?”
“Well, Doubleday tells me this Mondadori guy is interested…”
“It's not a ‘guy’ but the largest publishing firm in Italy. They're probably interested because Arrigo Polillo works with them.”
“Polillo!? We're friends from way back! So you think you could translate the book?”
“Well, I was interpreter-translator with FAO of the UN in Rome for seven years. And Ellington requested my translation for some articles for an Italian editor. But at Mondadori they surely have their own translators.”
“But would you like to do it for me?”
“Obviously. It would be interesting and amusing, I'm sure…. But you should let me have a copy of the book so I could tell you if I am up to it.”
“Here, write down your address and I'll have them send you a copy, and I'll tell them I want you on the job. I'll tell Polillo!”
Doubtfully, I complied. I was wrong to doubt, for in April 1980 our friend and jazz critic Arrigo Polillo had obtained Mondadori's decision to publish the book—even if Mondadori was not particularly interested in jazz—and the translating job for me, adding with a little laugh that he might not be doing me a favor, as I was given a firm request that of the 502 pages of the original story, plus about fifty more as selected discography, filmography, honors and awards, and index, there should remain—after a heartless slimming diet—only about three hundred pages, all items included. Otherwise, the cost of the actual printing would not be covered by the number of copies they were expecting to sell.
I wrote to Dizzy on April 22, 1980:
Dear Giovanni, I have this minute been informed by Mondadori that they have acquired the rights to publish To Be or Not to Bop in Italy, and I am to translate it. They are also asking me to render the book attractive to the non-jazz Italian reader as well. So here we start with two main problems we must solve, together.
First of all there is the enormous number of pages that Mondadori requests me to chop off here and there, as the book is too voluminous. We'll have to examine that together. Next, I must point out that although you speak at length of the many European countries where you played, naming various musicians, critics or whatever, you do not mention Italy or Italians at all. It would be very diplomatic if you were to add some Italian anecdotes. I am sure that interesting or funny or drastic things must have happened to you also in Italy. So please put down these paragraphs for me, as it would make the book more attractive for our Italian readers. Let me know how you wish to go about it. Meanwhile, I shall get on with the translation.
Now, a professional translator will understand my plight, as I had not only to translate from a black American jazz idiom into an Italian language “hip” enough to reflect Dizzy's personality; but I also had to choose where and how much to “slim it down” by a good 250 pages. Rolling up my mental sleeves, I opened the book with a dubious heart.
I was soon in total despair, and I called Dizzy and told him so. He asked me to give him a few days to talk to his co-author Al Fraser and they would come up with some advice.
Some time later I did receive a very pleasant and encouraging letter from Al Fraser, who wrote, among other things: “Dizzy and I have discussed the matter of foreign language editions, and because of his friendship with you, I am confident that you will complete an excellent translation.” He then gave me a few points of advice and encouraged me: “Feel relatively free to make small cuts where the book seems too repetitious or digresses too far from the narrative's thrust. Everything must be done to preserve the book's value as modern jazz history and points of disagreement between Dizzy and other narrators should be preserved at all costs. Every effort should be made to retain the spoken rather than the written quality of the narratives in order to convey the idioms and the rhythmic and poetic qualities of the jazz musician's speech.” More suggestions and advice and then a closing phrase: “I'm counting on your translation to help make To Be or Not to Bop the book Italian readers will dig with all their hearts and souls.”
Feeling relieved, I thanked him and Dizzy. However, I suggested that they also speak to the American editor, so Dizzy in turn spoke with Sandy Richardson of Doubleday in New York, with whom I subsequently spoke on the phone as well, and finally I was told to go ahead.
When I mentioned my worries Dizzy simply laughed, saying blithely, “Listen Lil, I trust you. So you just use your judgement.”
“It means I'll have to chop off here and there.”
“OK-OK!”
“I mean abundantly, lots.”
“OK-OK!”
“Well, fortunately you do have the habit of reiterating words more than once.”
“Oh, I do?”
“You do.”
“OK-OK, just follow your instinct, and do your best. Ciao Bonah!”
And he rang off. That was all the assistance he gave me.
It took me two excruciating years to translate the book into “soft” Italian slang, while chopping off a repetitious paragraph here and there. When the first draft went to the editors in Milano, they sent it back with compliments for my effort but asking for further slimming and to please make it a little more “good Italian,” as their readers were used to a different style of language…
Some time later I wrote to Dizzy:
The Italian editor invited me to lunch the other day, coming all the way from Milano to ask me to take the book in hand a second time and give it a further slimming diet, as it proved too bulky and expensive the way it is now. He explained once again that, should it cost more than what they expected to earn in sales, they wouldn't be able to publish it at all. I hope this does not cause a harmful delay in the publishing date. What with repeated printers’ strikes, strong attempts at “taking over” from another publisher, and various judicial haggles and all…. But, like we say in Egypt, it's ‘Maktoob’: Fate will have its course. So here we go again, Giovanni Cappuccino!”
I turned out a last, slimmer, “good Italian language” version, and Mondadori promptly paid me.
Epilogue
However, our troubles were not over, as, by then, Mondadori had become involved in a long financial/legal/political/judicial battle, and in time it changed owners. In the end the new owners decided to cross off about 40 percent of the manuscripts about to be published. Jazz not being essential to their cultural image—they had most of the famous Italian and foreign authors—I was informed that the book would not be published at all. Heartbroken for Dizzy, I asked if I could offer the book to another Italian editor, considering it was translated and ready for publication. The answer was a firm NO, they had already informed Doubleday and in fact they had sent the bulk of my manuscript to the shredder. If some other editor wished to start the whole business of approaching Doubleday…fine, but they would have no access to the translation I had produced.
I asked Polillo at Mondadori to inform Dizzy personally and officially, before calling him myself. We were both very disappointed, and I was particularly upset for him. However, in the end Dizzy, God bless his nature, was the one to console me.
ACT VI—THE MAGIC MIMIC
It was 1981 and he was appearing as “guest star” at the Pistoia Jazz Festival. Just as they were setting up the bandstand for his group, all at once, the skies had burst open like a gigantic water balloon. They had never seen anything like it. Huge drops fell like liquid hail-stones, drenching not only the large piazza, mounted into an amphitheater—with the public running for shelter in all directions—but also and especially the very large bandstand, drenching the sound and light equipment, and anything that could have been used for the concert.
The young organizers were dashing all over the place trying bravely to mop up a constant pouring, checking over and again the useless state of the stage, while their faces expressed their distress and helplessness to deal with the catastrophe.
Finally, they came to where Dizzy was sitting backstage, in a makeshift dressing room. They explained how, to their despair, the stage had been declared definitely out of use by the Fire Department. Dizzy, relaxed and benign, puffing on his Cuban cigar, looked out onto the stage, up at the skies, around at the public in hiding under the scaffolding, and then asked: “What if we don't use any electricity at all, will the Firemen give their OK?”
The two men looked at each other then at Dizzy as if he had gone mad.
“But…Maestro! It's a huge Piazza, how could we hold a concert without any amplification?”
Dizzy gave his amused wise smile and pronounced: “I have done so much…with so little…for so long…that now, I can do anything…with nothing at all!”
Uncomprehending, they stared at me for a translation. They listened, speechless. I added that if Dizzy was willing to try anyway, then perhaps they should hurry and issue the information before the public gave up and left the place. They nodded, galvanized, and went out to shout the news, asking the public up front to pass back the information:
“Dizzy Gillespie is going to play for us as soon as the rain stops!”
His musicians and his manager, Bobby Redcross, expressed their doubts and worries, but Dizzy just laughed, reassuring them.
It took half an hour for the rain to gradually turn into a light, sporadic drizzle.
Unannounced, Dizzy stepped out with his musicians and, while the mopping and cleaning went on frantically behind him, he walked to the very edge of the high-perched stage and stood there, looking at the public and fiddling with his trumpet pistons. Eventually, more and more people noticed him standing there, till there was a roar of applause and they all rushed back to their wet seats, in excited disorder. Dizzy kept fingering his trumpet, looking around at the entire facility, and then made up his mind.
He bent down toward the large group of young fans standing, drenched, by the bandstand at his feet and motioned for them to hop right onto the stand, which they did immediately with enthusiasm. This produced a huge roar of protest from the public way back to the farthest rows, but Dizzy knew what he wanted.
He blew a long, high note then put his finger to his lips and went “Shhhhhhhhh…..”
Then he shouted out: “Hey back there…you hear me? Listen to me, you guys. Just listen to me!”
There were various cries of “Silenzio! Ascoltiamolo!” till the whole crowd was miraculously silent and expectant.
There followed a most efficient scene of mimicry. He pointed to the skies, looking up and bending sideways in biblical fear, and then put his hands in his hair, shaking his head in despair. He pointed to the various electronic instruments, lights and all, and then motioned to cut his throat, staggering. At this point the crowd was giggling but waiting earnestly for the rest of the improvisation. What would be the finale? He pointed to his temple. Idea! He pointed around at all the public, inviting the people to come down from the farthest seats and as close as possible.
By then a good size of the front crowd had settled right upon the bandstand at his invitation, till the Fire Department and the police had stopped any more ascents for safety reasons.
With practically all of his public as close as possible, and mimicking his words with his hands, in a most Italian style, he said loud and clear:
“OK-OK. Now if you guys, all of you—TUTTI—keep perfectly silent, SHHHH…we'll play for you and I promise you'll hear every note. So all you guys: SHHHH…We: MUSICA! OK? OK? OK?”
By then the whole audience was yelling OK.
Meanwhile the musicians had set up their instruments alongside him in a single line, close to the edge of the stand. There were young men and women all around them, delighted with this forced change of seating. At that moment the drizzle stopped falling altogether.
Dizzy looked up and, smiling, shouted his thanks to the heavens in his rough Cheraw-born voice: “GRRAZZIEH!”
Thus, on that magic summer night a huge, drenched, crowd practically held its breath and enjoyed a miraculous, totally acoustic concert as Dizzy counted off and they all went to spend “A Night in Tunisia.”
ACT VII—GILLESPO, ITALIAN STYLE
During the ongoing editorial struggle for the ownership of Mondadori, the final translation of To Be or Not to Bop had been approved, but there was still that lack of Italian anecdotes for the Italian version of his autobiography. Therefore, I had been requested to please grab the author during one of his tours and obtain the needed material from him. It would be inserted in the book as a special chapter, a bonus, for his Italian readers.
Joining him in his Roman hotel room I offered him a steaming cappuccino on condition that we tape a long chat about the Italian Gillespie. OK-OK.
“Giovanni Gillespo, you don't love Italy.”
“…Are you kidding? I feel at home in Italy, got lots of friends here. Lorraine loves Italy too.”
“Yet in your biography there is not one single line regarding your Italian memories. Think how your Italian friends will feel when they read the Italian version…”
“Hey, but…are you sure? There's no mention of Italy in the book?”
I shook my head and he went on.
“But I remember my very first time in Italy like it was yesterday! It was even before I came with Jazz at the Philharmonic. I remember arriving at the airport and there was this band waiting for me, with Nunzio Rotondo and Carlo Loffredo…”
“What year was this?”
“Oh, I'd say in 1951. That's when I became friends with Nunzio and Carlo. Did Nunzio ever learn to speak English after all?”
“I don't think so.”
“You know, it was really very funny the way we communicated. Neither one spoke the other's language so, while we were sitting together, Nunzio would suddenly jump up and rush to the nearest phone to call a girlfriend, who spoke English…no, I'm not kidding you. Anyway, he would tell her something in Italian on the phone, then pass me the receiver and this girl would say in English, ‘Nunzio wants to tell you that…’ (Dizzy started laughing), so I would answer her in English and pass the receiver back to Nunzio; I swear I'm not joking, that's exactly how it was. And, you know? This went on for years and years, always the same girl and always on the phone.”
“But why didn't you just bring her along with the two of you?”
“I don't know!? For years it went on this way. Nunzio would say something in Italian, shake his head…and off to the phone!”
“…with the two of you standing there, facing each other and not speaking directly? Madness!”
“Yes, yes! That's how it was! It was so funny…how we laughed! And then I remember the time we took Carlo Loffredo's mother to see the Pope. Think of it, to live in Rome and never have seen him! It was the Pope before Pope John, what was his name? He was a tall, thin guy.”
“Well, Pope Pius XII was tall and thin with a very ascetic face…”
“Yeah, that's the Pope we went to see…and she had never seen him before. We had lots of laughs that day, and then we all went to their home. Ah, Rome…”
“What other Italian cities do you know? Ever been to Venice?”
“Yeah, sure. That's the city with all that water…”
“Well, you might describe it so…”
Poor Venice, reduced to a “city with all that water.”
“Ah, and then Torino, Bergamo…. Wait, here's another funny story. I was coming from Paris to go to Bergamo and I was on this train by myself. I didn't know I was supposed to change trains in Milano so I just stood at the train window, looking around, and there was this guy with a beret that said ‘Interpreter.’ He asks me in English, ‘Do you need a hand?’”
“No, no, thanks, I'm OK.”
“And where are you off to?”
“To Bergamo.”
“What?! Bergamo? Jump off the train immediately if you have to go to Bergamo!”
And he helped me get off and change trains. You can guess how we laughed! I've often wondered where the hell I'd have ended up if I'd stayed on that train.”
“But with what band were you playing?”
“I think it was an Italian band because at the time I was on my own. Maybe with Romano Mussolini…must have been in the late fifties.”
“Very well. Now, if you think of Italy what is the first thing that comes to your mind?”
“Sophia Loren! Hah, hah!”
“Have you any unpleasant memories happening in Italy?”
“No, I really can't think of anything unpleasant relating to Italy. I recall when I came with my own band, and Lorraine was with me. We played in that theater in Milano…could be the Teatro Nuovo? Anyway, I remember I had lots of fun with the Italians when I'd find out they didn't speak English. I would tell them lots of strange words, totally invented, and they would laugh. Once when I was with the stagehands I asked one of them, ‘Hey, do you speak English?’ and he said, ‘No capish…. ’ The second one shook his head, the same with the third guy. So, looking bewildered at them, while they were laughing, I started exclaiming ‘What? You mean none of you guys speaks a word of English?’ and we went on like this, joking with my fake indignation, till Lorraine came to the door of my dressing room and told me, with that unmistakable voice of the wife who tells you off…she just said, ‘Dizzy?!’ And then you bet the stagehands understood English! They laughed like crazy! Just the tone of her voice was enough to straighten me up!”
“You said Lorraine enjoyed Italy?”
“She likes Italy very much. We were staying at the Hotel Duomo, nice place…”
“Tell me about the Italian public; have you always been happy with it?”
“Well, you know, Italians are a very particular people. Just think of the concert the other night when the rain ruined everything. I invited them to join me on the stage and it all went well, what more do you want? I don't know, I feel really at home among Italian people. It's as if I knew each one of them; there's a spontaneous link that's created between us.”
“So you had no particular problems in Italy?”
“No…ah, but yes! Wait, you've gotta hear this. I was part of Jazz at the Philharmonic, and we were playing this theater in Rome. Stan Getz was playing, and I was to close the show. Stan gets a big hand of applause and, as the time is almost over, Norman Granz motions to Stan ‘OK, that's it. Dizzy, get ready, you're on next…’ and he walks out on stage to announce me with a long spiel in English. The public—maybe because they didn't like him—starts throwing coins at him. My god, did Norman get mad! ‘That's it!’ he said. ‘Nothing more!’ But I hadn't played yet, and the public was ready to tear down the theater, so I said to him, ‘Hey Norman, I haven't played at all!’ ‘Damn! Well, go ahead and play just one number and then, no more!’ So I went out, played my tune, got a lot of applause, and then withdrew backstage. Well, do you know that, to make a long story short, they had to call in the police to protect us? We stayed in that theater for over three hours, with a mad public waiting for us outside!”
“Yes but, as you said, it was because of Norman's special way of coming onstage with his raised eyebrows, talking endlessly in English when the public wanted to hear the musicians, not him!”
“Yeah…ah, Rome…I remember one night, maybe the same of that concert, when we went on the Via Veneto to Bricktop's. It was very nice. Via Veneto was really beautiful then…”
“Did you take part in the Italian ‘Dolce Vita’ of those times?”
“The what?”
“The ‘Dolce Vita,’ you know…the famous film by Federico Fellini, with private parties, sexy girls…”
“Hell no. All I saw of Italy was a row of hotels and theaters. Ah, yes, and I saw the Pope!”
“Do you notice any difference between today's public and the old one?”
“Well, yes. They are all very young today. And at that time, in the fifties, the Italian public was more oriented toward traditional jazz rather than avant-garde. I mean not like in Sweden, or Denmark, where bebop was really at home even then. Italy was definitely more for traditional jazz.”
“But today you see many young people who do love bebop very much.”
“You're right, and I'm very glad. After all, it's like the music is going round and round; sooner or later you've got to get back to bop. Yes…the Italian public is really very warm—look at the other night, how disappointed they were when the sound equipment had gone for good, because of the storm. I got them to climb onstage and they were very cool. Actually, it was Bobby Redcross and the other guys who were nervous and scared. It didn't matter if once in a while some guy would get up to stretch his legs or smoke a joint…”
“Ah, by the way; that evening they offered you something…when you bent down toward the public on the edge of the stage, right?”
“Right! A big pipe full of hash! I was wondering what it was and that guy just offered it to me. I smelled it and gave it back…hell, it was hash!”
“I thought so. Unfortunately, in Italy we have a big problem with the heavy drugs. Many kids lose their lives.”
“It's what happens in the States, you know? Over there if some guy has an urgent need of a dose, and if he's very sick, he could even harm his own mother just to get it.”
“And what's the solution?”
“Perhaps if they could obtain it without harming anyone else…maybe helped by the State itself…who would then take them in hand to help them get cleaned up. Well, if after that you really want to kill yourself, then that's your own business. But I'll tell you something. There's too much money involved in the drug business. And every time there's too many dollars involved, you can be sure of one thing. They'll look for every possible way to fight it, except the right one.”
“You're right. But let's talk of something lighter—some other memory, some other name?”
“Romano Mussolini. I was very impressed when we first met, especially because he was the son of Benito, obviously. And do you know he invited me to his wedding, with the sister of Sophia Loren? I believe she was a singer too. Are they still married?”
“With Maria? Unfortunately not. I like Maria very much; she's a very sweet young woman and did sing rather well. But I'm not sure she really tried for a career.”
“Ah, I have another memory, when I think about Italy…the food!”
“I'd never have guessed…”
“I tell you, I discovered that in Italy they love to watch you eat and enjoy your food, and that's beautiful. There's that restaurant in Bologna…can't think of the name now but, I'm telling you, the food is really fabulous there. Now, you know that we usually eat whenever it's possible. It can be two in the morning or four in the afternoon, depending on the gig. So we were in Bologna to play a concert and then off again, and it was six in the afternoon. So I rush out of the hotel, get to the famous place…and it's not open yet. Closed to the public! Very disappointed, but, seeing some people moving inside, I start knocking and calling till they come to the door. I explain that I can't wait for the evening but if I cannot eat at their place I cannot say I have tasted a real meal in Bologna, worthy of its name. Anyway, the owner comes to the door, unlocks it, and invites me in. He leads me to the kitchen where they are just setting up the fires and he asks me what I would like to eat. Well, do you know that those wonderful people cooked just for me? And served me this marvelous meal in the main dining room, where I reigned all by myself? Ah, what a lovely memory I have of those people! It's something that could only have happened in Italy. Certainly not in New York! In Italy they have human warmth; Italians have a heart. If they see you have a problem, they will help you in any possible way. Give you anything you need. While in some other countries you can be sure they will help “remove” from you any possible thing. Oh yes, when I come to Italy it warms my heart. I am really sorry I did not mention Italy in my book, but it's not for lack of affection, it's more because my memory, my souvenirs, need to be held up by the memories of my friends. You know, I spend my life flying from one place to another, and in the end I have a hard time remembering.”
“It's understandable. Now, have you ever been to Sicily?”
“Sure! That's where I got my collection of ‘Jew's harps.’ Do you know I used to play it as a kid? But when I listened to those Sicilian harps…wow! Boy, they were perfection, not like the American ones. So I got myself a whole box in Palermo, but now I have only four left. I've got to return to Sicily to get another box.”
“The proper name in Italy is not Jew's harp but Marranzano.”
“M-a-r-a-n-z-a-n-o?”
“Right, except it has two r's.”
“Marranzano…I remember when I saw them in that little shop…and when I tried them…I said to myself ‘Ah-ha! This is something else; this is the sound I need…’ I think I'll make a whole record with the…marranzano…what do you think?”
“It would be very…interesting! But tell me, how come you played a Sicilian instrument while living in the Deep South? Have you ever lived near an Italian community?”
“Yes, but not as a kid. About fifteen years ago we lived in Corona, in New York State, where also Louis Armstrong used to live. I remember this little Italian shoemaker, on my street, with whom I had become friends. Every time I came home from my tours I would go look him up, sooner or later, and have a talk. Yeah, he hadn't the slightest idea of who I was. To him I was just a neighbor with whom to share a bottle of wine, homemade by him. And he would fix my shoes with his magic hands. One day I tell him I'm going to Europe and what would he like me to bring him back? ‘A Borsalino hat!’ When I got back to the States I gave it to him, but I would not take his money; we were just good friends. Anyway, one day I come home from a tour and find his shop is closed. So I ask his neighbor at the candy store: ‘Where's Frank?’”
“‘He has a bad heart, so he's shut his shop and gone to live with his daughter in the Bronx. Here's her phone number.’ So I call her: ‘Is Frank there, please?’”
“Yes, can I ask who is calling?”
“Dizzy Gillespie.”
“She drops the receiver, amazed, and I hear her asking her father, ‘What? You know Dizzy Gillespie?’ He comes to the phone: ‘Who's this? Dizzy who?’ I explain to him who I am and in the end he says, ‘Ah, sure! Gillespie, my next door neighbor…. So you are…YOU?’ How we laughed! He'd never had any idea of who I was; we were simply good neighbors. Great old man. He was Sicilian.”
“And when is it that you and Lorraine will come to Italy, simply as a couple of tourists?”
“Well…not as long as I'm playing…but I'll tell you something. I've bought a piece of land with Kenny Clarke on the French Riviera, and that's where Lorraine and I want to end up staying. It's close enough for us to come to Italy, visit our friends, and eat the food.”
“But you still don't speak either French or Italian?”
“Ah, but do you know the first word I learned in Italy, over thirty years ago…?”
“Is it something to do with food?”
“No, no. There were all these beautiful Italian girls who had me jump out of the car window, so guess what words my Italian friends taught me…to shout at the girls in Rome…?”
Remembering our first TV meeting I mock-frowned at him, to his delight.
“Yeah! Bbona! Hah, hah…Aah Bbbooonaaah!”
The interview ended there.
ACT VIII—CUBANO!
Dizzy enjoyed traveling using the Venice airport. Driving there in time for us to sit down in the comfortable waiting section and sip one last “outgoing cappuccino” plus cigar, we would comment on the past events and the next meeting to come. This time I commented on his headgear, which was, as always, very particular.
“By the way, Giovanni; you have the widest variety of hats, caps, berets, African headdresses, et cetera—now where on earth did you get THAT cap? It looks just like the one Fidel Castro wears!”
He gave me an amused, clever, little smile and then an offhand reply: “Well, yes. Fidel gave me this cap himself, in exchange for my cowboy hat…”
“Sure. And that's one of his personal Cuban cigars you're smoking, of course?”
A long side-look at me, then he carefully drew some snapshots from his wallet and handed them to me, in silence. There they were, grinning and pointing at each other, each with a fat cigar in his hand. Fidel was wearing a Stetson and Dizzy donning the famous cap. He then handed me a cigar with a gold band, where I read “Dizzy,” very briefly, for he put it jealously away in the special humidor portable case. Always silent, he puffed on his cigar with a satisfied smile.
“But how did you manage to get permission from the U.S. government to go to Cuba at all? I thought it was strictly forbidden for U.S. citizens to go there?”
“Right; but I've been going every year, invited by the Cuban Jazz Festival authorities, and by Castro himself. No problem.”
“No, really now…wasn't there a total embargo to visit Cuba? I mean…”
He interrupted me, and for the first time I saw a very sober man.
“Sure there was, and they tried to stop me the first time. But I told the State Department that if Eisenhower had chosen me—and used me—in 1956, as the first jazz musician to lead an orchestra to go on goodwill tours in countries where America was not too popular…”
“You mean the famous State Department Cultural Mission all over the world?”
“That's right; we were to represent the ‘democratic spirit’ with a racially mixed big band. They sent us to Africa, the Near East, Middle East and Asia, including India…”
“And you were the very first artist to be chosen?”
“Right, it was Adam Powell in Washington who convinced Eisenhower that we could smooth things out through our music, if we played for the very crowds who were protesting and throwing stones at our embassies all over the world.”
“And you did? I mean…smooth things out?”
“You bet, though at times it was scary…but mostly because they would have us play in the embassies or other U.S.-controlled venues, and the public would be made up of chosen guests while the little people were protesting outside. It was also because the organizers were selling tickets that were much too expensive. So you know what I did, in Karachi? I got a huge bunch of tickets from the impresario and just went outside and gave them away! And whenever possible we would go out to the parks, the markets, wherever, and we joked and started playing for the people, and it worked fine. We went to Persia, Lebanon, Syria, Pakistan, Turkey, and Greece.”
“And did you hold press conferences, debates on jazz history, or talk about the American way of life?”
“They had Marshall Stearns for that. He lectured on jazz in the various schools and colleges. As for the American way of life….” He shook in his silent laugh and nudged me: “You want to know? The State Department was worried as hell about my ‘unpredictable’ behavior, so they kept asking me to go to Washington, before the tour, in order to ‘brief me.’ But I was already on tour in Europe, so they got hold of Lorraine, asking her to convince me to come back for a few days. I told Lorraine to inform them I needed no briefing. I knew all about the American way of life and what it's done to us for hundreds of years! So if anyone asked me particular questions, I would give them an honest answer.”
“However, I know the results were highly appreciated by Eisenhower. You were given a special plaque at a special dinner at the White House, weren't you?”
This time he laughed outright. “Yeah, and some of the guys still kid me. About when the President started giving around these plaques calling each one by name. I was away from the stand so I didn't hear him at first till he called my name real loud, so I went forward waving to him and calling out: ‘Right over here, Pops!’”
“You didn't! Pops?!”
“Well, he didn't mind ’cause that was the start of a whole series of tours for the State Department; in fact we went to South America soon after.”
“Was that when you went to Cuba for the first time?”
“No, Cuba was something else. I had always wanted to go there. I think Cuba became special to me because of Chano Pozo. He made me discover a whole new rhythmical world right there in New York. He knew nothing about jazz; he was really African with his congas, and he got us all standing there like dumb kids, watching and listening to him play. He taught us what multi-rhythm was all about with those Cuban chants, each one from a different African root. I learned about the Nañigo, the Santo, the Ararra, and that's when I learned to play the congas. Chano taught me. He didn't speak English, he didn't know anything about jazz rhythm, but he taught all of us, starting with Gil Fuller, when we all worked on ‘Manteca.’ And Chano worked also with George Russell for ‘Cubana Be—Cubana Bop.’ It was really magic; it was the birth of Afro-Cuban Jazz.”
“But then what happened? Suddenly there was no Chano Pozo anymore?”
“Well, one day Chano went back to Cuba ‘for some business,’ he said. Seems he was involved in bad stuff with the wrong people. When he came back to New York, he got shot to death. It was a great loss for our music. In fact, I would like to be able to open a school in Cuba as a living monument to him.”
“But you still haven't told me how you got permission to break the embargo rules?”
“Well…I told the guys in Washington that after all those Cultural Diplomatic tours for the State Department for all those years…after that service, the least they could do was give me a free exit and entry visa back to the U.S. from anywhere in the world! So they did, and after that I've been going to Cuba whenever possible.”
“Good for you! It must be great to play in Cuba with all those musicians who look up to you from the time of Chano Pozo. I organized a concert last month with Arturo Sandoval and his incredible musicians, and there's no doubt as to who inspires him!”
“Arturo plays great trumpet. In fact, I've obtained for him to come and visit me in the States and play with me. And if I can, I'll get him a green card. He deserves it, and I'd love to have him in a future big band.”
“Tell me: of the young emerging musicians in Cuba, who would you say impressed you the most?”
“Ah, I know! There's this very young cat playing piano…Gonzalo Rubalcaba. You keep his name in mind, he's sure to emerge worldwide.”
“Gonzalo Rubalcaba. OK, noted.”
An announcement brought our conversation to an end.
“Ah, there we are, they're calling your flight. Give my love to Lorraine. I'll send you the clippings soon as I have them all in hand.”
We exchanged a hug as I continued: “So your Italian barber can read them to you…or you to him…you're practically an Italian by now…”
ACT IX—ANOTHER RADIO INTERVIEW
In 1982 Dizzy discovered Italian soccer through my son's enthusiasm for the Italian “Squadra Azzurra” and Paolo Rossi. It took place during the Jazz Festival at Lido degli Estensi, near Ravenna, on the very day of the Spanish World Cup finals, when Italy was to face Western Germany.
I spoke to Dizzy about the famous Italian football coach, Enzo Bearzot, a great jazz fan who tried to train the national football team to play together with the same “feeling” that links together a jazz band. He had also confessed to sneaking away to New York every year to “fill up with lots of good jazz.”
Out of curiosity, Dizzy settled himself next to Francesco in the crowded hotel TV room, among the other excited fans, and before long he was caught up in the general enthusiasm and was rooting for Italy. To their great satisfaction Italy beat Germany 3 to 1, winning the World Cup.
In Ravenna I proposed a radio interview, and Dizzy accepted willingly. With a cappuccino warming his hands, we were off:
“Apart from your music, which other things really interest you? I mean, what do you do with your free time?”
“Well, I sleep a lot…sure, go ahead and smile; however, I've got fresh news for you. Maybe you don't know this, but they are building a Dizzy Gillespie Center, for the cost of two and a half million dollars…”
“And where is this taking place?”
“In Laurinburg, South Carolina.”
“Wasn't that your old school?”
“Yeah, that's where I studied as a kid—and listen to the idea that they worked out in order to collect the money. It's rather original, I would say unique. It will be a Center for the Arts, Communication, and Teaching. With a theater and a permanent library that will gather all my papers and documents. Then there'll be a gallery of famous names.”
“What about the money?”
“Wait now. Right on the front of the building they'll put a small bust of myself, placed right on top of a wall of bricks, and every single brick will have a number carved on it and inside the building there'll be a panel with the corresponding number and the name of anyone who wishes to become a founding associate…It will cost five thousand dollars for each brick.”
“And you've already started gathering members?”
“Norman Granz was the first one and George Wein; then Quincy Jones, Lionel Hampton, Morris Levy, which makes five. Then Oscar Cohen of ABC Associated Agency, Willard Alexander…”
“Apart from Quincy and Lionel, they are mostly promoters, organizers, and agents, aren't they?”
“Yeah, and it won't be difficult to sell those bricks because I know I have that kind of friends with that kind of money. Another thing, always inside, for those who have less bread, like me, there will be bricks for twenty-five dollars…and everything will be computerized with an information center. You'll press a button and have your answer.”
“And what'll be the objective of such an institute?”
“Well, when it's completed, all my friends will want to give part of their time to teach there.”
“Now that's a beautiful idea; have you already started construction?”
“No, not yet; right now we are simply putting the money together.”
“It will take a few years then…?”
“Yeah, but I'll be hanging around, keeping busy. I'm not going anywhere else.”
“What about your plan to retire to the south of France and build a house next to Klook?”
“Well, right now I have the land next to him; all I need is the money to build the house…and that will take some four or five more years, I think. Lorraine likes the idea; she likes France.”
“Let's talk about Lorraine. There's always a great woman behind a great man, they say. And from your autobiography I get the impression that she has always been your backbone, providing the firm ground on which you've been able to skip and hop at will.”
“Lorraine is the anchor and I am the sail…”
“And how long has it been since she last came abroad with you? I get the impression that she would rather stay home and enjoy the house, the privacy. But you, being always on tour…how much time would you say you spend at home?”
“Not enough, but next year I intend to shorten my activity.”
“And what will you do?”
“I'll enjoy my house. I'll have lots of things to do.”
“Talking of things to do…it's been a long time since you've composed any new music or written those arrangements for which you are famous. I mean, after all, there is a whole Dizzy Gillespie world of music. Why did you stop? Too lazy?”
“Well, that's one of the reasons, I guess, my laziness. But I do have something special in mind. You see, as you know, I belong to the Bahá’í faith, which preaches unity in all the aspects of the Universe. Unity in diversity. And this includes music. Well, in the music of the Western Hemisphere, the one I know best…and I'm talking of Cuba, Brazil, the West Indies, and the United States…this music has its own unity, and I mean to put it together in such a way that when it will be played, you won't be able to say this is Cuban and this is something else. Music has only one mother…and that's what I'll work on, during my free time…. Like a United Nations band.”
“Have you started working on it, or is it just an intention?”
“Well, I know exactly what to do; all I need now is the time to do it.”
“Tell us a little more about Lorraine.”
“Lorraine is probably the most incorruptible person on the face of earth. For her there are only two solutions to a problem: the right one and the wrong one. There are no halfway solutions for her, and at times this is a positive fact…but at times it isn't.”
A small wry smile as he goes on: “I'm not saying she has the answer to all the problems of humanity, but she's the one who comes closest to the solution of many human problems. You know what would be her favorite pastime? Honest? Her greatest joy would be to be a real multimillionaire…and then give away all her money in the best way according to her ideas. That's what she would like. She never wants anything for herself, nothing at all; she's extraordinary, you know? After over forty-one years of marriage—we celebrated our anniversary on May 9th…”
“And were you together for the occasion?”
“No, I was on tour…but she and I know that some things have to be done, there's no problem…”
“Did you get her an adequate present?”
“No, but I'll tell you…I was waiting to come here, close to the Vatican to get her something special. Maybe you could help me. She's a very fervent Catholic as you know…and I thought I might perhaps find something that Christ used to carry around in His pockets…”
I gave a gasp, then burst out laughing “Oh, Diz, come on!”
“Yes, yes, don't laugh…that would really be something…”
“Yes, something special and most uncommon and very precious, I'm sure! But I hardly think they would sell it, even if such an item existed…”
“You think He had no pockets?”
“If He did, whatever He was ‘carrying around’ in them would not be for sale!”
“Yeah…I guess not…,” he smiled wryly “Well, then I'll have to get her a gift really worthy of her. It's no good just going to a jeweler and bringing her a piece of jewelry…”
“No, I guess it would have to be something very special and personal.”
“Once I brought her a rosary made up of gold pearls, eighteen-karat gold and every pearl had a different sculpture…. It was really a wonderful object.”
“Is Lorraine a very religious woman?”
“Ah, yessir! She is Catholic and very active.”
“And what does she think of the fact that you are Bahá’í?”
“She doesn't understand it, but she respects me and recognizes that each one must make his own decision regarding his relationship with God.”
“By the way, you and Lorraine have never had any children, right? Have you any other person…like some youngster, a nephew, someone you might have adopted sentimentally?”
“We have two of them, which we adopted. Today they are adults, and we help them financially. It's easy to help your family, Lorraine says, but you need a kind heart to help a stranger.”
“How very true. Now, let's get back to the Bahá’í philosophy. What attracted you to their doctrine?”
“It's the philosophy on the unity of human beings. Their teachings are based on the following theme: Humanity has gone through many generations, and three epochs have been fixed in the evolution of man. The first was the concept of Family, then came the linking of the Tribe, then came the Cities, the States, and the national Governments. All this was done. Now the next logical step is the unifying of all these various components, and this is the aim of the Bahá’í: a World Commonwealth where everybody would participate.”
“Yes, but isn't it just a very beautiful Utopia? How do you make it come about concretely?”
“With an administrative organization, like the one the Bahá’í already have. It would be enough for the rest of the world to refer to it. It had been hard to create the Family, and then it was difficult to put together the Tribe. As for the Nations, we are still making a mess of it today. But we can still obtain the final goal, with God's grace, because what will happen is this: With the fact that most nations have nuclear power, nobody seems to be afraid of his neighbor, and they wouldn't think twice of throwing an atom bomb. The United States have already done so since 1945. So there really is no other way to save ourselves but to have unity among the people of the world.”
“Yes, but how long will it take?”
“That's not what is important…”
“Maybe you and I will no longer be around?”
“Not necessarily—something could happen in the future that would force them all to reconsider…. The idea is to love humanity enough to realize this project. Whether you can directly participate or not is not what's important.”
“But then wouldn't it be a political action?”
“No, no! We Bahá’í are not authorized to move politically, but we must give these ideas to the people, get them to think about it. We do not have a clerical hierarchy, or preachers, et cetera…. We are all equal; our way of acting is through the contact person to person.”
“How many countries host Bahá’í groups?”
“There are about 200 countries in the world. [The Bahá’í] teach that all religions are really one. The difference is in the various epochs. There is the message Moses gave, then the one from Jesus and also the other religious leaders. The message is really the same. The difference is only in the social order, which goes with that one religion that is most appropriate for the times in which it appears. Each religion taught the best way to live in its time, and each time has its message.”
“But do you have a leader, like we have the Pope, for instance?”
“We've had a Guardian of the Faith; he was the nephew of the First Prophet, but he died in 1959 and is buried in London. He decided that there would be no other Guardian after him. He simply left us the instructions that were given by the First Prophet.”
“And the religion is spread worldwide?”
“Yes, we are a sort of huge world family. Wherever I go, like if I see some flowers in my hotel room? I know who sent them, before I read the card.”
“That's right! There were those flowers at your hotel in Bari, from ‘Gianni’ and that nice family who came to the theater to say hullo…”
“Yes, the Bahá’í brothers always come to say hullo to me wherever I'm playing in the world. One large prefabricated family…”
“It's very interesting. And now let's talk of your future. Is there still something you would like to tackle in the time ahead? Or are you really thinking of retiring to the French countryside?”
“There's no time for peaceful retirement…. I guess as a last activity I'll take up teaching.”
“Have you any plans? Will you write texts, print your own Method?”
“Well…” he mused. “You know, there's the video…could be a good means for the new generations. Yeah, but right now…I'll tell you, all I have in mind is to play!”
At that, he grabbed the case containing his trumpet and opened it, laid out a hand towel neatly on a side table on which he deposited the various cleaning items he needed. Then he proceeded to take his instrument totally apart.
ACT X—A SYMPHONIC GILLESPIE
One evening I asked if—after having done so much; having been acclaimed all over the world as a Jazz Ambassador for the State Department; having wined and dined with presidents from Eisenhower to practically the latest man in the White House—there was still a secret wish, hidden in a corner of his heart, which had not yet materialized?
He looked at me musingly with his head to one side, pulling at his lower lip, and then leaned over to answer confidentially: “You know one thing I've never been able to do? Play my music with a large, but laaarge, real symphonic orchestra right here in Europe.”
“Wow! That's a tall order! You know how stuffy and longhaired they are…”
“I know, I know…they've been trying for years to approach one of these European outfits; I've got some symphonic arrangements ready, but nothing's happening.”
His downcast musing touched me.
“Giovanni, I can't promise you anything, for it really is difficult to make a breach in their walls. Years ago I was asked to organize a concert at the Vatican where Ellington was to play his last Sacred Concert for the Pope. We almost made it, then something drastic, like “Famine in India,” came up, and it all went down the drain. But the Italian RAI TV has three different symphonic orchestras, in Rome, Milano, and Torino. I'm not promising you anything yet, and it may take a year or two, but who knows…one day I might be Mistress of Ceremonies at your symphonic concert somewhere in Italy?”
Giving me his amused-evaluating look, he patted my hand: “You know something? You remind me so much of Lorraine, you could be her kid sister. When you girls talk, you can tell there's no bullshit. Do you knit?”
Taken aback, I replied, hesitatingly: “Well, yes, actually I do.”
“You make dresses, sweaters, coats?”
“Yes…”
“And caps and berets?” I nodded and he was delighted: “Just like Lorraine, I knew it! Wait till I tell her. You two girls would get on like a house on fire….” He hesitated; eyeing me, then shook his head: “Nah…. Better the two of you never got together…you'd gang up on me and I'd be in reeeeeal trouble!”
But when he went home, he did speak to Lorraine about this young woman in Rome who “took no bullshit from him.” That was the beginning of a long-distance friendship between us, and through the years there would be many telephone conversations, and many were the points we had in common; from our Catholic religion to our various allergies, the knitting, the love for our house, and the look-out for Dizzy's feeding weaknesses—which would become ever more dangerous as his diabetes progressed. When we finally did meet in person, it was as matter of fact as if we had dined together the previous evening.
Dear Lorraine…I wonder if she ever realized how very important she has always been to Dizzy. There was not one single day, when Dizzy was away from home, that he would not phone her from any far corner of the world. If I was present he would dial her number and pass me the phone, immediately whispering, “Here, let's surprise her, you talk to her, say something in Arabic!” Whereupon I would say, darkly, “Al Salaam aleikum,” and she would answer: “Oh hullo Lilian, how are you? Have you tried that allergy medicine yet?” and off we would start chatting, while Dizzy would raise his eyes to heaven. I was very impressed with the relationship between them. They seemed so different from each other as to be living proof that opposites can live together in harmony.
One aspect I most enjoyed in Lorraine was her humorously critical way of speaking about Dizzy. I would phone at 10 A.M. Englewood time, and she would inform me that he had already gone out on his “tour” of the village.
“He's worse than a streetwalker, the way he knows every man on the street. Takes him hours just to get from one block to the other! Lord knows what he has to say to them, but at least he's out of my hair, ’cause he's a real mess at home!”
Another time he had just returned home from an overseas tour and had already left for California. To my surprise she had commented:
“I tell you, Lilian, I see more of his ass going out the door than I see his face coming in!” It was always entertaining to speak to Lorraine. We would laugh at our mutual allergies, commiserating with each other and exchanging medical suggestions from our respective experience; then we would talk of the remodeling of their home, which seemed to be taking an incredible length of time. It went on through the years, and just when it seemed about done, some other part of the house would fall into urgent need of repair. This seemed to aggravate Lorraine as much as it amused Dizzy.
“Sure,” she would say. “He's out the door the moment he gets back; he doesn't have to handle it!”
At times it would seem as if she were really annoyed at him, and I do imagine he was not always easy to have around, more like a turbulent offspring to heed, curb, and console. But in a world where couples meet and seem to get married for the pleasure of divorcing as soon as possible, it was a constant wonder and encouragement to see how the years had welded their union into something as solid as it seemed matter of fact. It was Lorraine and Dizzy—then, of course, the rest of the world.
Thankfully, after the disappointment caused by Mondadori cancelling the publication of his autobiography—and after more than two years of discussions—I was able to give him good news about another project just as important to him. He was probably grinning on the phone upon hearing that, with the help of Simona and Toni Lama, producers well placed in the Torino RAI TV network, we had obtained—after much discussion, long meetings, hesitations, and misgivings—that he should play with the famous RAI Symphonic Orchestra of Torino in a special concert to be aired both on national radio and TV.
Shortly afterward I joined him in Paris for his sixty-fifth birthday on October 21, 1982, and he firmly accepted the engagement and promised to compose—after twenty years of silence—a special suite for the occasion. It was agreed that he would come to Italy with his jazz quintet, which would play the second half of the concert while an experienced director, of his choice, would conduct the Symphonic-Orchestra-plus-Quintet during the first half.
So began a series of letters, asking for detailed information, essential to the network organizers, but which never arrived.
On June 9, 1982, I wrote:
Giovanni, my dear; please let me know soon the following facts:
The program and the formation of your quintet. Perhaps Klook, if his health is up to it, and Stitt or Moody? Eddie Daniels also sounded very good with you in Nice. Last month, in New York, you mentioned Tom MacIntosh to direct the orchestra. As for the symphonic arrangements, could I suggest one by Lalo Schifrin for the Gillespiana Suite? Or George Russell with Cubana Be Cubana Bop? Also, Kush with the symphonic brass would be excellent. These famous works are mostly unknown by the younger generations here. Of course, you could take some time off at the end of your European tour in July and be our guest, with Lorraine, at our country house near Venice, where we could be joined by Simona and Tony Lama to work out the final details.
How is the Laurinburg project coming on? And are you really taking it easier this year, as you had planned to do? Take care of yourself and slow down the pace; it's worth it. Please answer soon so we can get on with the organization. We've been talking about this symphonic concert for almost three years now, and at last we have this Torino opening—let's fix it, OK? All the best to both of you from mother, myself, and Francesco, who is here from USC for the holidays with all sorts of electronic gadgets, just like you, so that music blares at us all day long from all over the house. Ah well. Ciao Gillespo.
I received no written reply from him, of course. From the tone of our phone conversations I suspected he still did not really believe this operation would finally come through. But things were indeed moving on. Foremost was the fact that the Torino RAI director-general, Emilio Pozzi, was a fan of Dizzy's. He had one formal request: Dizzy should compose a special suite for the occasion. Naughty Dizzy readily accepted and announced the creation of the “Bella Italia Suite 1983”—which, in the end, turned out to be a series of his most recent tunes that had not yet been played in Italy.
At one time I wrote to him, but particularly to Lorraine, begging her to see that he complied with the conditions of the contract. The letter requested, among other information:
Last two points: as we have to give all details in advance, almost to the color of your socks, according to the stiff RAI regulations, I have given the names of the quintet as you mentioned, as well as the program, and—most important—I have told them you were already preparing a new suite dedicated to Italy, after all these many years of lazy absence from the writing table. So sit right down and start fiddling with your piano, capito? Incidentally, Polillo and other jazz critics, both in Italy and Europe, are extremely interested to hear your new work. “Why…does he still write? I thought he only played by now.” So you'll “sock it to them!” Please?
You will probably be contacted in the United States by Toni Lama, who will be taking care of all administrative problems regarding your contract, transfer of funds, working permits, etc. Please tell me if you are satisfied with all details?
Of course, he didn't write back but left a phone message with my mother: “Tell Lilian it is ‘Yes’ to everything.”
Finally, he did meet Tony Lama in New York to sign the contract. So we proceeded with the overall organization. On April 1, 1983, he received a final letter with reiterated details and recommendations:
The RAI Torino program and posters for the whole concert season have been published and they include your jazz concert as part of the official Symphonic Concert Season 1983. Simona Lama will send you copies as soon as they are available. Your seats have been booked for May 9th. I'm off on a brief tour—yes, found the time to sing again—and will call you by mid-April. Ciao, Giovanni Cappuccino!
ACT XI—LIKE VON KARAJAN
On May 10, 1983, we went to pick up Dizzy and his musicians at the Milano Malpensa Airport, as well as my son Francesco, who had flown in from USC to put himself totally at his Maestro's disposal during this symphonic adventure. Taking advantage of the fact that RAI was paying all expenses, we surprised Dizzy. All our rooms were reserved in a good-range hotel, except for his VIP suite in the hotel, just across from us.
“For once you are going to be treated like royalty, Maestro Gillespo, and just as Ellington would have all the band, including Mercer, stay at a good hotel across from the Rome Excelsior, where he had the best suite, so will you wallow in luxurious service as if you were von Karajan. Aren't you happy?”
He made a face and sighed, “I guess so, but what about everybody being together? I'm going to be real lonely in this place…”
During the next four days in Torino, rehearsing and then playing the two concerts, Dizzy would sigh resignedly as we all accompanied him to the marble lobby of his hotel, wishing him a good night with ostentatious deference; and every morning he would appear at our table to have breakfast with us, escaping the rarefied atmosphere of his own hotel. However, looking back at those days, every time he would remember the Torino experience he would give me a little nudge and chuckle, “You sure took good care of me…von Karajan, hah!”
On Dizzy's first day in Torino the RAI TV Press Office had organized a very formal press conference with reporters and critics from both the jazz and classic music milieu. I sat on the dais, between Dizzy and Tom MacIntosh, to translate for both of them. It all went very smoothly while Tom described the suites that would be played with the RAI Symphonic Orchestra: they were “Con Alma,” arrangements by Robert Farnon; “A Night in Tunisia,” orchestrated by J. J. Johnson; and a symphonic metamorphosis on the theme of “Algo Bueno” by Tom McIntosh. With his quintet, Dizzy would then play the “Bella Italia Suite 1983,” composed for the occasion. Tom was also patiently efficient in answering the veiled ironic questions that some “classic music” critic would put to him. On my left, aware of it all, sat a very bored Dizzy, expecting the usual trite old questions he had heard for too many years.
Familiar with his reactions, I gave each answer directly, the way we had agreed upon on past occasions until came the fatal question of why he used a “bent” trumpet, and unfortunately it was asked by the ironical classic music reporter mentioned above.
Before I could give the usual explanation, Dizzy clamped his hand on my arm and moved forward to his microphone:
“I'll tell you how it happened. Some smart-ass guy who kept bugging me with his smart-ass questions came too close to me on that day, so I just stuck my trumpet up his smart-ass and gave the bell a twist. That's how it happened!”
There was a loud gasp and giggles from those reporters who spoke English. A silence followed while Dizzy smiled broadly at me shifting his microphone toward me:
“Go on…”
Once again I smiled and explained that Dizzy had just given an improvised answer to a question that really bored him to tears; however, the real reason for the shape was…et cetera.
Another incident happened later, when—Dizzy having rehearsed with the quintet formed by pianist Bobby Rodriguez, drummer Bernard Purdy, bassist Michael Howell, and Big Black on the congas—came the time for Tom McIntosh to take matters in hand and insert the quintet with the full symphonic orchestra to rehearse the special arrangements created for the occasion. I was backstage when Francesco came to me and murmured:
“Ma, trouble ahead…. It seems Dizzy's pianist does not read music at all, so he can't play the symphonic arrangements…”
Speechless, I rushed out to face an aloof pianist, and a sheepish Dizzy who widened his arms in apologetic despair.
“Lil, he's a brilliant pianist, so I just didn't…I mean, he never said anything when I spoke of symphonic arrangements to be played…”
For once Dizzy was at a loss, though he tried a crack at how I was giving him the “Lorraine” look. Tom McIntosh, lowered eyes, just kept shuffling through the pages, asking the orchestra if everybody had his music…. The symphonic musicians were all young, a number of them American, and they all looked forward to playing a symphonic Gillespie. Spying their pianist seated idly at his instrument, I was blessed by an inspiration. Grabbing Dizzy, I led him over to the pianist:
“Maestro; Dizzy has a special request for you. He is so happy to be playing with this wonderful orchestra that he would like to keep it complete, as it is. He would like to substitute his own pianist with you. Would you accept his invitation?”
“Signora Terry, I am a fan of Maestro Gillespie, I'll be honored to play with him.”
Dizzy laughed his relief, patted the young man's shoulder, and then demanded that we start rehearsals immediately! What were we waiting for?
“…annow…laydees an’ gennelmen…”
On Thursday, May 12, and Friday, May 13, 1983, at 6:00 P.M., Dizzy Gillespie's first and only concerts with a full European Symphonic Orchestra took place. On the second evening—which was announced as the “6th Concert of the Spring Season”—while watching from the wings we were amused to see the Symphonic Auditorium filled with the habitual “classic music” season-ticket holders, mostly older ladies with pearls, sitting primly next to noisy jazz fans.
There was no reason to worry, though, for Dizzy was at his most brilliant, fascinating, scintillating self, and by the end of that concert both the “pearls” and the fans were calling for encores, which he conceded graciously. The concert ended with an improvised “Torino Mama Blues” with his quintet, where, clinging on the tip of his toes to the microphone—which was fixed up to the height of his trumpet bell—he sang at the top of his rough voice, informing all and sundry that this “Torino Mama Blues” was dedicated to the RAI director Emilio Pozzi (pronounced Eemilio by Dizzy), who had made his “symphonic concert in Europe” a dream come true. And then he closed singing: “And if it wasn't for Lilian Terry, I wouldn't be here at all…!”
The thundering and amused applause, alas, triggered his unpredictable nature. Having just left the stage with his musicians, he caught us all by surprise by springing back onto the stage. Calling me to join him, he drew from the pocket of his elegant Italian silk suit…his beloved Sicilian-marranzano-Jew's-harp and instructed me to inform the public that he would play, as a last solo encore, a “Sicilian Serenade” FOR them and WITH them. Yes, for at given moments during the performance he would wiggle his brows at them while making a music break, and I would lead them to sing out—and mind the rhythm—the phrase “Watch that Booty!” and he would then resume playing.
In disbelief I muttered, “Come now, Dizzy, you can't ask this public…,” but of course I had no option but to translate his presentation. He called for their attention and actually “rehearsed” them a few times…. To make it short: it was an amazing—and fortunately brief—performance where Dizzy would huff and puff rhythmically on his marranzano, then at a certain point he would wiggle at me, nodding in time, and I would lift my arm and “conduct” rhythmically the whole auditorium to sing out with him whatever they had understood of his phrase.
It struck one as typical of the man who, having brought to a close an excellent symphonic concert, would feel this impish urge to have a long-haired symphonic audience sing and laugh with him and his Sicilian marranzano. You can imagine the applause, laughter, and shouts while I ran away before he could think up some other prank.
That night Emilio Pozzi, with all the Italian officials involved in the musical effort, offered us an extraordinary dinner, and Dizzy's satisfaction shone on his face as compliments were lavished on him from all sides and all through the dinner. Yes, he was truly at the happiest peak of the evening, and as we hugged goodnight, later, in the icy marble hall of his hotel, he held me at arm's length and said: “Liliah-nah, you, I love!” and gave me a noisy kiss on the cheek.
The French Riviera
Considering it had rained every single day and night in Torino—with Dizzy wishing us goodnight, saying, “Tomorrow, I promise you the sunshine”—we were delighted to learn that we were expected at another RAI studio, this time on the sunny French Riviera. The next day we would be driving from Torino to Cannes, to the site of the film festival where Dizzy would be interviewed by Gianni Minà, jazz fan and TV personality.
At that time there were still frontier posts between Italy and France, at Ventimiglia. Our car, containing Dizzy, Emilio Pozzi, Tom McIntosh, Francesco, and myself, was rapidly waved through, with Dizzy receiving the usual smiles and waves of recognition by the frontier guards. We noticed, however, that the second car with the other musicians was not following. We could see there was some form of heated argument going on, so we drove back to the Italian post to discover that our jazz pianist had another surprise in store for us. His Philippine passport had just expired that very day. He was caught between the two nations and neither France nor Italy would let him pass either way. We could not help chuckling at the thought of the man navigating forever, like a Flying Dutchman, between the two frontier posts.
Fortunately, Emilio Pozzi made a few official phone calls, and eventually the pianist was allowed to enter France, briefly. Years later, remembering this incident, there was one scene that made Dizzy laugh right out. The pianist would be waving his passport in front of the Italian and French frontier post officials saying, with an exasperated voice, that he happened to be “Imelda Marcos's favorite pianist!” To which both nations reacted with French and Italian shoulder-and-hand mimicry signifying “So what?”
Of course it continued to rain, though it was now a gentle drizzle.
As we drove through the Moyenne Corniche, I sighed that one day I would live on the French Riviera, in Nice. Dizzy reminded me that he and Kenny Clarke had bought a piece of land at Draguignon and intended to build two houses, back to back, with a large sliding door shared by their two living rooms, which could become one huge music room, right there on the Côte d'Azur…. He then generously offered that we should make it three houses close together. He promised he would take me there someday.
He did, the next summer when, on a sunny morning during the Grande Parade du Jazz in Nice, he got somebody to drive us by car all the way to Draguignon. There, in the midst of nowhere, we were in front of an abandoned piece of land in urgent need of radical weeding, clearing, and upkeeping. Half was his and the other half Klook's. Asked when they intended to start building, Dizzy shrugged: “Sooner or later.”
“I see. You're waiting for this land to turn into a nice thick jungle…. Won't take long now…”
“Then why don't YOU take care of it?! Klook said you've got a beautiful country pad in Italy. You could do the same here…”
“Yes, except that mine is two hundred years old and the upkeep of the house, the vineyard, and the garden are driving me bankrupt.”
“Then why not consider moving here?”
“I told you. If I move to the Riviera it will be in an apartment with a terrace overlooking the Mediterranean, in Nice. But thanks for the offer anyway.”
Back to May 1983. As we drove through the Promenade des Anglais, on the way to Cannes, Dizzy pointed to the nearby hills above the Hyatt Hotel (which later changed names three times and today is called the Radisson), saying he had some very nice French friends living “up there.” I replied: how odd, so did I, a charming couple with two children; and the husband was a jazz buff. Well, Diz replied archly, so were his friends! I continued, “…and their names are Bernard…” “…and Colette Taride?” he interrupted me. Of the hundreds of jazz fans living in Nice, we had separately struck a close friendship with the same family.
Through the years, the welcoming home of the Tarides would gather us all together to enjoy their hospitality. That today I finally have my refuge in the western hills of Nice, overlooking the Mediterranean, a few yards from their home, is thanks to Colette and Bernard. Needless to say, with so many happy memories, Dizzy's presence is still here among us.
The show at Cannes was yet another success and that night Dizzy, Francesco, and I went strolling in high spirits through the “zone piétonne” in drizzling Nice. Dizzy spied a poster announcing the Grande Parade du Jazz, and he addressed bystanders, pointing at himself and at the poster, explaining, in approximate French, that the figure with the protruding stomach and the trumpet was he. The usual request for autographs followed.
We finally reached the flat offered by RAI at Le Copacabana, on the Promenade. We were all very happy, satisfied and full of “…and remember when…?” regarding the past days, until we realized it was four in the morning.
Dizzy embraced the two of us together, looking from one to the other.
“I do love you guys, you know?”
“Yes, Giovanni, and ‘ooh means we love ooh too’…but shall we get some sleep?”
“OK-OK. And tomorrow…I promise you the sunshine!”
“Don't you dare?! It means it will keep on raining!”
“Know what? If it rains, I'll write a song for you.”
“Sure, like the special ‘Bella Italia 1983 Suite’ you did NOT compose for the Torino concert, right?”
A last chuckle.
The next morning it still rained, and he confirmed his promise. I would have his song to sing by the next meeting; meanwhile, I could write the lyrics and send them to him.
In the car I gave him a copy of my latest CD.
“Here, you've never heard me sing, have you? This is my very favorite; I recorded it in Milano last year with Tommy Flanagan, Ed Thigpen, and Jesper Lundgaard. When you find the time to listen to it, I'll be curious to have your opinion.”
He examined it, mumbling the title. “Hmm…Lilian Terry Meets Tommy Flanagan—A Dream Comes True. You're in good company here.”
“And how! You know why ‘a dream comes true’? Because the only thing I truly envied Ella for…were the many years he accompanied her. I told him so one evening at a dinner in Rome and also that I had vowed to myself never to cut another record again unless it was with him. Know what he said? ‘Ah, well now…and which date would you have in mind?’ as he fingered through his agenda. And he meant it!”
“Yeah, he's a great guy, great musician. You've got some serious stuff here…‘I Remember Clifford,’ ‘Lush Life,’ ‘'Round Midnight.’ Hmmm. Interesting.”
“Yes, but put it away before you lose it.”
“OK-OK.”
He snored in his corner the rest of the way to Milano airport. Barely time for his “outgoing cappuccino,” hugs, and ciaos; then, as he walked away, he turned, pointing his finger at us:
“Hey, you guys. I'll never forget these days, you know?”
“Neither shall we, von Karajan! Now rush or you'll miss your plane…”
He hurried away, shaking his head.
A few days later I mailed him my lyrics for a ballad, and when we spoke on the phone, I asked him if he had received, approved, and begun writing the song as he had promised. Yes, he had received it. Yes, beautiful lyrics; in fact, he had folded the paper and now carried it in his wallet, right over his heart…
“Well, thank you but don't carry it too long in there! Remember, you promised me the sunshine or else a song to sing. And it rained!”
“Yeah, I know, OK-OK. I'll work on it, I promise.”
ACT XII—ONCE AGAIN, NOW, EEMILIO!
Emilio Pozzi, the Torino RAI director, had so enjoyed the adventurous happenings with Dizzy that, just a few months later, he had felt the urge to renew the experience. Being on the panel of the famous “Maschera d'Argento” award, which took place every year in Campione d'Italia—in Swizerland—he had obtained that Dizzy be given the Award for a Life Career in Jazz Music. I was chosen officially to present it to him but above all to coordinate and ensure his presence in Campione. He would be flown in and out just for this occasion, with no musicians attached. Emilio would send Dizzy a formal invitation, while I would write to explain in minute detail what the invitation entailed.
Giovanni, my dear. You have received a cable informing you of the nomination to the Maschera d'Argento award with a formal letter detailing the festivities. If you accept the invitation, then you will receive a prepaid return ticket, Alitalia special class, New York–Milano–New York. You will leave on the evening of the 22nd of September, a Thursday, arriving in Milano on the morning of Friday the 23rd. I'll pick you up at the airport and we'll drive to Campione d'Italia, which is near Lugano. You'll be allowed your jetlag sleep till 8 P.M., when we'll be involved in various social happenings, a dinner, and a very fancy stage show at the municipal casino, Campione being a gambling resort.
Saturday the 24th in the morning we'll attend a big press meeting along with the various nominees from the fields of theater, sport, fashion, cinema, music, opera, and ballet, followed by a luncheon for the nominees, the members of the jury, and some chosen journalists. At 8 P.M. we have a gala dinner (tuxedo, please) in the Festival Hall of the casino in honor of the nominees. At 10 P.M. you'll get your Silver Mask award. Sunday the 25th we'll have a farewell luncheon, then I must leave for Bassano. Monday the 26th you'll be driven to Milano to catch your plane for New York, arriving in New York the same day with very nice memories. How about that for a well-deserved ego-trip? So please get your black book out and mark from the evening of September 22nd to Monday the 26th with “From Italy with Love.” Now please cable RIGHT NOW your acceptance in the following manner…
Upon learning of this invitation extended by his good friend “Eemilio,” Dizzy accepted immediately. I would pick him up at the Milano airport, and we would be driven to Campione in a limousine put at our disposal by the organization. Von Karajan service again.
At Malpensa Airport I began to worry when, more than an hour after having landed in the early morning, Dizzy was still nowhere to be seen. I finally asked a policeman if I could check inside customs to find out what had happened to my friend Gillespie.
“Ah, Dizzy?! He's OK, don't worry, he's just having a chat with us. There…see him?”
I peeked through the exit door and there he was indeed, seated on the table, with all his traveling paraphernalia spread around him, laughing and joking with a group of frontier guards complete with sniffing hounds. Everybody was having a great time while the limo driver was impatiently waiting outside, double parked.
I called, “Giovanni!” and he immediately looked up, surprised and then abashed as I pointed at my watch. With teasing laughs they helped him down from the table, handed him all the stuff he would hang around his neck on every trip, and with friendly “ciaos” they let him through the dividing door.
“Nice guys you know? Every time I fly into Milano there's always some guard I know from before. We were remembering when one of them had to rush me into town to a dentist, and it was a Sunday, can you imagine?”
I was looking at him: happy as a little boy and, hanging from his neck, a Leica camera, a portable CD player, a cassette player, and even a pair of binoculars! So I joined my palms and bowed Japanese style to him.
“Very happy you could finally emerge, Gillespo-san, you look like a Japanese tourist, with all those things hanging round your neck…. Unfortunately, at this point we have no time for your ‘incoming cappuccino,’ as the limo is impatiently waiting to go by the Milano railway station to pick up another distinguished guest.”
Disappointed about the cappuccino but not daring to protest, he followed me with his luggage trolley until the driver took over and ushered us into the limousine.
We were shamefully late at the station, but the distinguished guest was Fulvio Roiter, a photographer friend of mine of international renown and a buoyant, vigorous hand shaker. He accepted our apologies good-naturedly. He and Dizzy sat at the back while I traveled practically turned around on my front seat, as neither of them spoke the other's language properly and I translated as they got acquainted.
Suddenly I heard shouts, laughter, and excitement, and there they were, each one showing off his Leica to the other. Fulvio asked if Dizzy was an experienced photographer and Dizzy tried to act like a pro, handling his camera. Then he suddenly gave up and, with great humility, confessed he was an “under-beginner” and the Leica was a recent gift. Would Fulvio explain a few technical things? Lilian, would you…? And for the rest of the drive they chattered and giggled like a couple of schoolboys sharing similar toys.
We finally arrived in Campione at the beautiful Hotel Lago di Lugano, nestled in a tropical garden. We went up to our rooms and within minutes Dizzy was knocking hurriedly at my door.
“Hey, Lilian? My horn…you got it, right?”
“Diz, you never let anyone carry your horn. And I didn't see your trumpet case at the customs.”
“No, I'm carrying it in a special leather cover, sort of like a handbag, easier to carry around…”
“Did you put it in one of your suitcases?”
“Nope, I was showing the new leather cover to some of the guys…”
“You mean at the airport customs?”
“Yeah…but I was sure I had it when we left…sure you don't have it here?”
I reached for the phone and asked if our driver was still there. He went looking carefully in the limousine. Sorry, no.
At that moment our host Emilio Pozzi called my room to welcome us. Informed of Dizzy's plight, “Eemilio” first laughed and then controlled himself saying he would call customs at Milano airport and call us back. A very subdued Dizzy sat in my room, motionless as he stared at his shoes, shaking his head, till Pozzi called back. Yes! Milano customs held the precious trumpet and our driver had been dispatched immediately to recuperate it. No problem. Have a good rest. See you that evening at the reception. Enjoy your stay.
From that moment Dizzy became buoyant, impatient to go, see, and do whatever the place offered. Never mind the jetlag! The car would be back only after two hours, so how about a cappuccino? Fulvio Roiter joined us at the bar; he wished to take some shots—would Dizzy like to bring his Leica? And I of course was invited along as interpreter. They must have shot every bush, monument, piazza…totally enthusiastic about each other's company…while Dizzy kept ordering me to stand there, sit here and, Lil, ask Fulvio how this thing here works…
Eventually we had “shot” our way to the Festival Hall. At a side entrance was the large RAI TV studio bus where the technical director and his crew hailed me. They were delighted to meet Dizzy and Fulvio in person, and when they saw the enthusiasm and pride with which Dizzy was telling them of the great pictures he was going to take back home, the director said, “Look here, we have a photo facility on the bus. If Dizzy likes, he can give me the film right now and we can let you have the copies by tonight.”
I translated while Fulvio nodded his approval. Dizzy was touched and utterly eager to hand them his film, and there followed an unforgettable lightning scene:
There were anguished yells of “No! Stop! Wait!” from everybody while Dizzy flipped open his camera and then realized he had just exposed the film. Once again there was that familiar moment of disbelief, with six of us gasping, and when we breathed again, we all joined in consoling Dizzy who for once was truly speechless. Fulvio patted him on the shoulder and promised to give him some more coaching, maybe tomorrow morning in the hotel's luscious garden? The technical director gave him a roll of special film as a consolation gift, and I led him back to the hotel, reminding him that his trumpet was probably waiting for him. He shook his head:
“I've really done it this time…”
“So what else is new…? Now, how about a cappuccino?”
Yes, his trumpet was there! While he unwrapped it to show it to the hotel concierge, I glanced at the list of personalities who were receiving the “Maschera d'Argento” the next evening. Very impressive: a ballerina from La Scala, a young concert pianist of renown, and various other guests; then, suddenly, a name emerged before my enthusiastic eyes. For film music I read Michel Legrand! Ah, I had admired his art and sung his songs for a lifetime, and now, finally, I would meet him in person! I told this to Dizzy as he joined me to read the awardees list.
“You don't know Michel? We just came back from a jazz cruise together, in the North Sea. I didn't know he was coming here. Bet he'll be surprised to see me! What's his room number? Let's go say hullo.”
We walked up the stairs, and as we approached the door Dizzy drew out his horn, saying, “Wait a minute, let's surprise him!” and blew the first eight bars of “Night in Tunisia.”
The surprise worked both ways.
From inside the room there was a yell of joyful recognition and WHAM! the door was flung open. Michel Legrand stood there, stark naked and dripping wet.
Once again there was a holding of amazed breaths by all concerned, till Dizzy let out a chuckle then soberly made the introductions:
“Michel, this is Lilian Terry; she's a jazz singer and a fan of yours. Lilian? I have the pleasure to present to you all of Michel Legrand!”
This was said with a wave of his hand comprising Michel from wet head to bare feet.
“How do you do?” I murmured most formally, looking directly in his eyes, as we shook hands.
Michel had recovered his cool by then. Very formally he invited us in, turning on his heels to lead us into the room. And with that final view I had really and totally met Michel Legrand.
In de evenin’…when de sun goes down…
According to the detailed invitation, the award festivities were to last two days. The first evening offered a gala dinner, complete with floor show and sexy dancing girls. Needless to say, my three companions—Michel Legrand having joined Dizzy and Fulvio—were rather interested. In fact, they were already in the hotel lobby, all dressed up, when the limousine arrived with Swiss punctuality.
So began the excellent dinner, interspersed with welcoming speeches from the various organizers and authorities. The speeches over, we were invited to enjoy the food and the cabaret show. And enjoy we did, for the show was full of beautiful blonde dancers, scantily clad and with bursting curves. But what fascinated me most were the athletic male dancers who grabbed the girls and swung them around, flinging them at each other like Frisbees. My three escorts sat there, enjoying every move, while I anticipated with great interest the moment when one of the ladies might be flung into our soup.
At one point Michel asked me point blank: “So you sing?”
Before I could answer, Dizzy intervened. “She's one hell of a good singer. You should hear her record with Tommy Flanagan.” Then he nudged me. “Even if our New Jersey radio station bugs me ’cause it won't stop playing it from top to bottom every day.”
I smiled, pleased. “I know, and I can't believe it. The other day Abbey Lincoln called me from New York to tease me with her complaint on the same line.”
“Well, with those musicians and that repertoire you couldn't miss.”
“Why, thank you Giovanni, you've never told me all this! I am really flattered. However, I bet you're just being nice. You'd never consider recording with me…?” I teased him.
He passed his hand across his brow in a mock mopping gesture.
“Phew! I thought you'd never ask me!”
I turned to Michel.
“Now you are a witness to this. You heard him.”
“Oh yes, I'd say he practically asked for it…”
Dizzy had already extracted his little black book and was going through the days and months, mumbling.
“Now let's see…. Humm, next year is pretty much taken up…. Let's see 1985. Here, I have about four days off in May, from the 13th. I'll be on my European tour with Wim Wigt. I'll tell him I want those days free and you can call him to make the necessary arrangements. Let's see now; I'll be coming down from Bern, so I'll just take the train to Milano…. What's wrong?”
I was staring at him.
“You amaze me! You're not only serious about this record, but suddenly you are taking matters in hand as efficiently as…Simone Ginibre with her Nice festival! Where is the absentminded ‘oops-I've-done-it-again’ character I've been looking after for all these years?”
With a sphinx-like smile he noted in the little black book, then asked: “So from May 13th to the 16th, 1985, I'm all yours. OK? You can't back out now. I am writing it down.”
To his amusement, I was speechless.
At 3 A.M. the official party broke up, and on the way out of the building Michel, Dizzy, and I spied an empty bar with a grand piano. Inevitably and simultaneously Michel headed for the piano while Dizzy opened his trumpet's leather bag—which at this point never left his sight. Michel made room for me on the piano bench, and I asked him if he would sing “What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life.”
So the three of us had our private jam session, and finally, as a closing tune, came “My Funny Valentine,” a ballad Dizzy would often play for me during the concerts I organized for his group. Having once told him teasingly that my favorite version was the one by Miles Davis of the “Kind of Blue” period, he had raised his brows and had begun an intro totally à la Miles, muted, squeezed sound and all. Of course after a few bars he had slid back to his own sound, and yet there remained a certain wistfulness that made his version very endearing. I guess our trio rendition of the ballad that night was rather introspective, for when the last note echoed away, there was a collective sigh.
We strolled back to the hotel, meeting Fulvio along the way, and parted with a late breakfast date, when Fulvio would take some special pictures of Dizzy in the hotel park. He asked: “By the way, Dizzy, can you wear something fancy, something African?”
“Oh yes…” Dizzy replied with a big smile, “…it was given to me last month in Ghana…”
“Perfect. Buonanotte.”
While having breakfast the next morning, waiting for Fulvio, I reminded Dizzy that a car was coming to drive me back to Bassano the next day, while he would be accompanied to Milano airport by another driver on the following day. He seemed disappointed.
“…and you'd leave me here by myself?”
“Of course not; tomorrow you have the farewell luncheon with your friends Eemilio and Fulvio and Michel and…”
“But what's the rush?”
“Well, tomorrow night in Bassano a very special event will take place.”
I kept silent to tease his curiosity, till he said, “Well?”
“Well, after two years of cajoling and begging the mayor of Bassano, I have finally obtained the premises for a jazz school. It will be the first one of its kind in the whole Veneto region and one of four in all of Italy. I am terribly happy, and tomorrow evening we'll inaugurate the school with the authorities, radios, TV, newspapers, and all.”
He had been listening intently, then shook his head.
“Now that's some project, and you never said a word about it. What will you call it?”
“We have agreed on ‘The Popular School of Music,’ as opposed to the classic music conservatories in the Veneto, where they don't even teach guitar, considering it a ‘pop’ instrument. The young people kept coming to see me after each of the jazz concerts I organized—especially when we had great guitarists like Jim Hall—and they kept asking me to help them study their instrument properly. So I asked the mayor, ‘What if Bassano was to become the seat of an important jazz school nationwide?’ Being young and ambitious, he considered it. I brought him about 150 student petitions, and in the end he said OK, but on condition that I take the entire responsibility as founder and director. You know our motto: ‘Why not?’ So I took a deep breath and plunged, and tomorrow night we inaugurate the Popular School of Music of Bassano del Grappa. Insha'Allah, may God help us and look kindly upon us.”
Dizzy had been listening with a thoughtful expression on his face.
“OK. I've only one question. How about calling it ‘The Dizzy Gillespie Popular School of Music’? It would be the only school in the world to carry my name legally. How's about that? And I come with you tomorrow for the inauguration?”
I stared at him, moved to the verge of tears, so he concluded hastily:
“At least this way I get to see this…town of yours, and I don't have to stay here all on my own!”
Laughing nervously, I embraced him and then hit him on the arm.
“Oh, you! You've been a constant source of surprise on this trip. And I thought I knew you by now. OK, let me call Bassano so as to organize your visit. They won't believe it. I still don't believe it myself!”
He called after me: “Just make sure I get some of that ‘Baccalà’ fish you told me about!”
Needless to say, in Bassano they were amazed and delighted, and immediately went about to inform the local radios and newspapers. Then they reserved the best suite at the Hotel Belvedere (which through the years was to become his home away from home) and contacted the best restaurant to provide his “Baccalà alla Vicentina.” Of course, the normal car that would have picked me up was replaced by a large limousine.
In the meantime, Dizzy had been grabbed and hustled by an eager and energetic Fulvio carrying all sorts of photographic appendages around his neck, to Dizzy's great envy.
Wearing a pale apricot-and-brown African costume, Dizzy merged with the tropical garden where he posed for a series of shots while Fulvio laughed his pleasure for such an inventive model with so many amusing stances and expressions.
I joined them and went discreetly behind Dizzy to murmur the good news about Bassano, and he gave a huge, satisfied smile, which scene was instantly recorded by a wildly clicking Fulvio.
“Si, si, cosi’! Very good Lilian, flirt with him…make him smile that way…”
Once again I was involved in some of the poses. My favorite is the one where we lay on the grass under a huge flowering hydrangea bush. Dizzy's arm is pointed to the skies as—yet another surprise—he quotes appropriate words from The Rubàiyàt of Omar Khayyàm.
A year later producer Giovanni Bonandrini chose those two special pictures as the front and back cover of our Soul Note record.
It was evening time in Campione d'Italia, time to dress up for the event, the awards. The occasion was important, and Dizzy had brought along a very elegant Italian silk tuxedo. In the hotel foyer we joined Michel and Fulvio and once again the limousine dropped us off, this time at the festivities hall of the gambling casino.
“Eemilio” was there to give us a warm welcome. Winking, he inquired after Dizzy's trumpet; Dizzy thanked him again for his patience in solving yet another problem. Pozzi then pointed to a hall where Fulvio's photographs were already obtaining wide attention and our two “photographers” trotted off so Dizzy could study them under Fulvio's guidance. Our host then informed Michel that a tape with some of his Oscar-winning film scores was being aired and appreciated at that very moment, and that a grand piano stood on stage just in case, later…
In other words, it was a very pleasant reunion of artists, sportsmen, the inevitable politicians-cum-journalists, and high-fashion designers mingling easily in the various halls, introducing themselves with mutual admiration, drink in hand, until it was time to be seated for dinner; the four of us plus the young classic pianist Michele Campanella and a lovely ballerina from La Scala were invited to share a table.
When came the time for the awards, each recipient was called on stage where “Eemilio” announced the reason for the choice of each nominee, then a personality related to each field would come forward to hand the prize. It was customary that, when the nominee was an artist, he would offer an artistic “thank you.” Needless to say, when I gave Dizzy his award…there was his trumpet, resting on the piano, and to everybody's pleasure Michel and Dizzy played together.
ACT XIII—“ON THE ROAD”
During the long ride to Bassano del Grappa the next morning, Dizzy listened to the history of this special town, with its very ancient castle and its historical wooden bridge built by the famous architect Andrea Palladio. Destroyed by the Austrian Army during World War I, it had been faithfully rebuilt in wood, according to the original Palladio plans, to be re-destroyed by the German Army during World War II. Rebuilt a second time, today it graced the town straddling the Brenta River. Incidentally, through the years that followed, Dizzy would always find the time, during his visits, to stroll across the bridge. He would stand on the lookout and gaze at the mountains with a peaceful smile on his face.
Dizzy had been listening carefully: “You know, I feel I'm going to like this ‘Bazzano.’”
I asked him if he would accept becoming the honorary president of our school and—perhaps during the inauguration that evening—he could hold a speech about the importance of music, as a faithful companion, et cetera. He nodded his consent and immediately fell asleep.
Suddenly, he woke up and reached inside his pocket excitedly: “Hey, wait a minute, you've gotta see this!”
He proudly presented a hearing aid, declaring he had never worn one before. Congratulating him, I asked why he wasn't wearing it in his ear.
“Aaah, it's good enough that I carry it with me…,” he shrugged, and slipped it back into his pocket.
“It's not much use to your hearing if you keep it in your pocket, is it? You know, mother wears one too, and I often fix it for her. Would you like me to try? It's quite easy.”
Grumbling, he fished again in his jacket and handed me the “thing.”
There ensued a tragic-comic struggle between my efforts to find the correct volume and his negative attitude full of suspicion and resentment toward the small instrument till I finally gave up and handed back the hearing aid.
“OK, you win. Here, I'll just keep on sitting on the side of your good ear to be sure you hear me.”
“Oh, I hear you all right, and I also listen to you…most of the time.”
The car ride lasted just over three hours while he snored off and on. Each time he snapped awake, he would have some surprising question.
“Say, can you sing in Egyptian?” he asked me suddenly.
I offered an Arab love song to the best of my abilities, begging forgiveness to the great Om Khalsoum. He listened, nodding in pleasure, then asked me what it was all about.
“It's called ‘Balash te busni fil anaya—Don't kiss me on the eyelids’ because that's the kiss of goodbye.”
“So you really are Egyptian after all?”
“Not Egyptian, as my parents were European, but I was the fourth generation born there…”
“Say…and did you guys do that special fasting…Ramadan?”
“No, only Muslims choose to do that, but how do you know about Ramadan?”
He gave me a mock supercilious look announcing, “I'll have you know that I did Ramadan myself, in Syria, many years ago!”
“Now you are putting me on!”
He nodded emphatically: “Yes, we did! We had this afternoon concert in Damascus, see? And they told us that at sundown the public could finally break the day's fast according to the rule of Ramadan. In fact, they had fixed up a huge banquet in the hall just behind the stage. So I decided to honor their religious custom, and all of us in the band played and waited on an empty stomach till I was signaled that it was exactly sundown, when I held up my arm and the guys came down with a loud, long chord. I told the public, ‘Food! Let's go eat!’ And just about everybody rushed to the feast. I remember they were very impressed that we had done the Ramadan with them when we didn't really have to.”
“Then you're more Middle Eastern than I am!” I kidded him.
“Tell you something…” he hesitated, pulling at his lower lip, eyeing me sideways while I expected some incredible comment.
“How about you and I go to Egypt together…to Cairo? You could be my translator.”
“Translator? Why? Are you going to hold a speech?” I was amused.
“That's right. You take me to that important religious school…”
“Al Azhar?! It's the most important Madrassa in the Arab world. But they wouldn't let us in; you, perhaps, but certainly not a European woman. But I thought you were Bahá’í?”
“That's exactly why. I want to go and talk with them and ask them to stop persecuting the Bahá’í faithful as they've been doing for years now, in Iran and all over the Muslim world.”
Once again, he had me breathless.
“Sure! And why not try it from Mecca, during the yearly Hajj?”
“Yeah! Tell me about this Hajj…some sort of pilgrimage you've got to do every year, right?”
“Not every year but at least once in your lifetime. The Hajj is called ‘the fifth pillar of Islam.’”
“Remind me about these pillars?” He was fully awake now and interested.
“Well, the first pillar is the ‘shahada,’ or the renewal of one's faith in Islam as being monotheistic and recognizing Muhammad's mission as envoy of God.”
“Ah yes, wait…it's the one that mentions God's divinity…I remember that from when we traveled to Syria. And what's the second pillar?”
“It's the ‘salat.’ The rite of adoration of the only God, to be expressed five times a day.”
“That's when they go to the mosque to pray together?”
“They can also pray privately, although it's preferable that they do so collectively.”
“And they've got to pray at special times of the day, don't they?”
“Not really. The Koran says ‘between the decline of the sun and the darkening of night,’ while the psalms are recited at dawn.”
“And every time, they have to wash up to purify themselves before prayer, right?”
“I say…! You're quite an expert; did you learn all that when you did the Ramadan?”
“Yeah, I was very interested in the Ramadan, which is another one of the ‘pillars,’ right?
“The religious name of Ramadan is ‘al-siyam,’ and it takes place during the ninth month of the lunar year; it corresponds with the Jewish Feast of Expiation. Today it lasts thirty days during which, in the daytime, you cannot eat, or drink, or smoke…”
“Yeah, I know…and you can't have sex either!”
I cleared my throat.
“Right. Until the sun goes down when you can do…whatever you like, until dawn.”
“Wow! Sounds like a loooong party…during thirty days!”
“Then the fourth pillar is the ‘zakat,’ the obligation of giving alms, and the Koran calls it a ‘purifying withdrawal of money,’ for God will not save a community where there lives even one man who goes hungry.”
“Some sort of tax?”
“It's according to what you earn and what you've saved. Special officers are involved in gathering the money and distributing it to the needy.”
“And now the fifth pillar! The Hajj!” he was extremely interested.
“It's the holy pilgrimage. In the old days they would organize long caravans from all over the Muslim world to cross the desert plain of Arafat and arrive at Mecca, in Saudi Arabia.”
“That's that very special place…”
“Mecca is the most sacred place in Islam, together with Medina, and this pilgrimage, at least once in your lifetime, is a duty whereby you submit your life to the judgement of Allah, hoping to obtain the ‘inner renewal.’ It's practically the oldest rule.”
“…from the time of Adam and Eve, I bet?” He joked.
“You're not far wrong…. You see, for the Muslims, when Adam and Eve were chased from Paradise, they ended up in this deserted region, where today you have Mecca, where Adam built the House of God known as the Kaaba, which is now the very heart of the holy city.”
“…and then Muhammad came along and started the whole religious thing?”
“No. According to ancient history it was Abraham who started the cult at the Kaaba.”
“But isn't Abraham in the Christian and Jewish traditions?”
“Actually, studying the origin of these three religions, one discovers that the Judeo-Christian-Islamic religions are intertwined. When Abraham was called upon to sacrifice his son to God…”
“…Isaac, right?”
“Wrong, Ismael. For the Muslim world, contrary to the Judeo-Christian belief, the son that Abraham had been called upon to sacrifice to God was Ismael, born of his faithful servant Agar. Then God accepted that a lamb be sacrificed instead.”
“Ahah! Which they sacrifice during Ramadan…. They eat lots of lamb…”
“Actually, the sacrifice of the lamb is evoked during nine stages in the ritual of the Hajj.”
“When they go round and round that big black place?”
“Actually, the last stage takes place in the city of Medina, in the desert, a city founded by the Prophet shortly after he had been visited by the Archangel Gabriel, who announced that he had been chosen as the Messenger of God…”
“You mean the one who played trumpet?”
I looked at him in surprise, so he went on:
“Yeah…I mean Gabriel…who blew his horn…”
I kept a straight face.
“You're right. However, after the Prophet's death, this religious ritual at Medina is one of the strong moments for most Muslims.”
“And are women allowed there too?”
“Yes, in fact it's the only time and place where men and women can mingle together. The men are all dressed in white, the women all in black.”
“How do you know all this? You're a Catholic, ain't you? Did you go there too?”
I laughed at him: “Sure, every year! No, seriously, I'm just very interested in the history of all religions. By the way, I'd be interested in reading something on the Bahá’í faith, too.”
“OK-OK. I'll have them send you something, either from the States or from Italy. But about Mecca…maybe we could go there next year so I could talk to them about the problems of the Bahá’í…?”
“Why not? You could stand on the Arafat Mountain and preach to them! And get stoned to death by a few thousand infuriated faithful?”
For a second his eyes had lit up at the first part of my suggestion. He thought better of it and then shook his head.
“Nah, but I think the Cairo plan could work…”
I did not know whether to laugh or shake him.
“Giovanni, my dear. You are speaking of Al Azhar, a religious fortress open only to the high-level Muslim scholars and very close to the Egyptian Fundamentalists. They would never receive you.”
“But we could try…. What if you were to talk to them, explain…?”
“Dizzy, you're not listening to me! First of all, I wouldn't be allowed to reach the front door. Next, if they did let you through the front door, I don't know if and how you would be ejected out, once you declared your intentions. So let's forget the whole project and avoid having our heads chopped off, va bene? I don't see how you can even consider it. It's pure madness.”
“Humph!” he snorted his disappointment and displeasure, then he shrugged his shoulders and muttered: “Bah, I bet you've never even been to Cairo, after all…”
And he mumbled himself to sleep in his corner.
ACT XIV—A SCHOOL IS BORN
We arrived at the handsome ancient building housing the Municipality of Bassano, where the leading officials were waiting for us in the mayor's imposing office. Dizzy was welcomed cordially, and we were offered a glass of excellent prosecco wine to toast the occasion. Then the future musical director of our school, Roberto Beggio, entered the room and saw Dizzy. He froze at the door, looking at his idol, who gave him a benign smile, and such was the emotion that poor Roberto burst into tears. Dizzy got up and went over to him as he stood by the door, and drew him inside to sit beside him. The Bassano administrators were nonplussed by so much emotion.
Dizzy was then invited to take possession of his suite at the Belvedere Hotel, and we were off for his baccalà luncheon.
In the afternoon he came home with me, met my mother, and within minutes had her laughing and promising to prepare “real minestrone” for him on his next visit. Shortly after, Roberto and the other young teachers of our future school filed in shyly to meet him. He greeted them with his wide smile, shaking hands while repeating each name correctly; he must have noticed their very shiny eyes from the emotion of meeting him.
They sat around him at the long kitchen table, gazing at him, listening carefully while the ones who spoke English plied him with questions.
Before long it was time to drive back to Bassano for the inauguration, which was to take place in a public school theater. The parking lot was filled with cars from faraway towns. I realized that the news and the word-of-mouth had reached quite a number of Gillespie fans, and this was confirmed when we entered the theater through the back door.
As soon as they spied his presence there was an “Ola” tidal wave of warm emotion expressed by calls of his name and enthusiastic applause. The impact of this loving welcome seemed to immobilize Dizzy for a second. Then he stepped forward along the aisle toward the bandstand, shaking proffered hands along the way and saying, “Ciao! Comee staee?”
Once Dizzy settled on the bandstand, the mayor greeted him officially, again, and made his speech announcing the new music school that would bear such a famous and unique name. He thanked Dizzy and hoped that this would be only the first of such visits. Other authorities came up to the microphone, and finally it was time for Dizzy to speak, while I stood beside him to translate.
He spoke of the importance of music in his life as a problem kid who was often getting into trouble. He spoke of the difficulty for most young people to have proper access to a musical education unless confined to conservatories and classic music institutes; he congratulated the mayor and the municipality for such a brilliant and useful decision. He encouraged the students to go on studying even if, at times, things would seem too difficult to cope with. He invited the teachers to share all their knowledge with patience, intelligence, and brotherly generosity. Finally, he put a hand on my shoulder and murmured:
“Now you translate every word I'm going to say!”
“What have I done until now?” I murmured back.
He continued talking to the public:
“However! The most important person in this new venture is Lilian here. If I am here tonight, it's because of her. If I give willingly my name to this school, it's because I trust her judgement. And here is one last thing. And this I say to all the students as well as the teachers: Do whatever Lilian tells you to do. You may not understand why…I often wonder about her decisions myself…but don't worry, do like me. Trust her. You may not know what the point is, but she does.”
I finished translating hurriedly, with a certain roughness growing in my voice. Applause followed as he gave me an affectionate pat on the shoulder and then turned to the musicians.
“OK-OK now. So…Roberto, where's my trumpet? Let's go, guys!”
With an emotional confusion the teachers organized themselves, and the inauguration concert was soon going full swing.
Early the next morning the car arrived at the Belvedere Hotel to drive him to the Milano Malpensa airport. Saying goodbye at the hotel entrance, I told him I had no words…he interrupted me to say that he was coming back to Bassano for sure. To begin with, during May 1985 when he would be in Milano for our recording session, unless I had changed my mind? Maybe we could play a concert here in Bassano? And he would see how the school was coming on.
We checked if he had his trumpet safely in his luggage. He said to be sure to ask Fulvio Roiter to let him have a copy of the pictures taken at the hotel at Campione and to thank again “Eemilio” for a great weekend.
The driver pointed at his watch, opening the car door. Ooops—yes!
“Ciao Lil. I'll be sure to have them send you reading material about the Bahá’í.”
“…And next time we meet you'll question me to see if I've done my homework…”
“I won't kiss your eyelids!” as he smacked my cheek. “I'll call you from New York.”
“Yes, but please not at three in the morning! And give my love to Lorraine.”
As the car drove away, he was waving back with a large smile.
Some days later I dropped him a few lines to thank him.
Giovanni, what a profound impression you have left on every single person who has met you here! Our music teachers say it's an experience that will influence all their lives. I watched you seated at the table, in our kitchen, and it looked like Leonardo da Vinci's Last Supper, for I really counted twelve musicians around you! I only hope you felt the warmth and the love that can express our “thank you” better than words. I do believe that the reason you are still with us—when so many great musicians of your generation have gone—is because you give so much at all levels, that the Lord keeps you here as “therapy” against the many evils of our society. You certainly worked wonders here with us. But enough or you'll become a conceited fat-head…. My very best to Lorraine, keep some for you.”
Citizen of “Bazzano”
It should be added that from that day in September 1983 to the spring of 1991 he made sure that on all his European tours he would find the time to spend at least one day in Bassano, in a flash surprise visit to the school, flirting with the female students (“This school reeks with beautiful girls!”) and encouraging everyone. Invariably the teachers would organize a musical welcome in our school auditorium, so as to show him the level reached by our students, and Dizzy enjoyed it all, often joining in.
On one such occasion, when all the students were seated in the hall and with the teachers asking him various technical questions, someone asked him what would be his basic advice to any student of any instrument. He puffed seriously on his Cuban cigar then said slowly, while I translated: “First of all, let me give you the basic concepts from the Bahá’í religion, which I follow…live a healthy life, in body and soul. No adultery, no alcohol, no violence, no smoking…” he looked at the huge cigar in his hand, mimicking amazement as the audience laughed out loud, delighted.
He went on: “Ah, well…human weakness…. But seriously, a healthy life is essential to your musical activity. Next and very important…everybody should learn to play the piano, no matter which instrument you decide to play. And learn it to perfection, with lots of practice, just as you practice your other instrument. Then listen a lot. Listen to the best musicians, learn their style, and then develop a style of your own. But I repeat, take it from the piano, so as to build in your mind the foundation of any instrumentation and improvisation.”
The next day we made copies of this little lesson, which was then distributed religiously to all the students.
Every time he visited us I would try to surprise his taste buds, like the time the chef prepared a special “risotto alla fragola,” that is, a “strawberry risotto.” He stared at the pink concoction, amazed. Hesitating, he picked up a small forkful, tasted it delicately…and dived in.
Another time, during an official dinner with the Bassano authorities, who enjoyed watching his enthusiastic appetite, the owner of the restaurant invited Dizzy to visit his famous cellar.
“Ah, Lil, you know I don't drink wine…”
“You needn't drink it; just make the man happy by admiring his famous collection of unique wines. It's worth it.”
Curiosity got the better of him, and we visited a wine collector's delight with special “millesimes” and rare bottles. At one point the owner winked and motioned to follow him around a corner, where stood a large, old-fashioned safe. He opened the door and extracted a bottle, where I read, to my delight, “PICCOLIT.” The man explained that this was an extremely precious wine, perhaps the most expensive, as it came from tiny grapes in rare bunches on the vine and only in the region of the Friuli, near the Yugoslav border. The vintners had considered stopping production, as it entailed a lot of work for a very small amount of wine, but the motion had been fortunately vetoed, and here was one bottle that the owner was opening religiously…and getting out three goblets…and pouring most carefully the nectar before our eyes…
I said to Dizzy: “Ah, what a pity that you won't be able to drink this miracle of nature…but don't worry, I'll drink yours too…”
“Oh, yeah…?”
He got hold of his glass most delicately and imitated the owner's actions. First, take a look at the golden liquid through the glass, then a first delicate sniff…ummm. A gentle swirl of the liquid in the glass and a second, stronger sniff…wow. With closed eyes, he took just a small mouthful and let it invade his palate before swallowing it. His eyes sprang open and he smiled at me.
“Boy! I promise from now on I'll never refuse a glass of wine from you!”
He proceeded to empty his glass, small sip by small sip to the last drop. On came a second glass. I was very discreet and promised never to mention the word Bahá’í when he was enjoying “God's gift to man.”
ACT XV—THE CHILDREN
Once upon a time there lived a Pied Piper
Who would play over land and sea;
His music enchanted all children who heard him
And one of those children was me.
Dizzy enjoyed criticizing this convoluted limerick I had invented for him on the spur of the moment. We often argued about English grammar, kidding each other on the kind of education to be had at The English School in Heliopolis-Cairo, Egypt, as opposed to Cheraw, South Ca'linah! “You and me, or you and I?” or else his favorite showoff: “Give me just any word, Lil, in any language, and I'll spell it for you correctly down to the last letter, bet you a cappuccino?”
And most of the time he would win his cappuccino.
Of course, he was a natural clown, and a fascinating one, especially for the children he would meet in the street. He would squat to their level or sit on the ledge of a fountain in a piazza, gathering around him an array of all ages, often holding some amused grandpa by the hand. In the chatter and laughter of his mini audience he would call for their attention and, with his mimic, would ask them to put their finger vertically across their lips, as he was doing. OK? Now everybody blows against his own finger puffing out the cheeks like him.
“No possibile? Si, si, si! Come, come now, cosi’…try again, blow like this…cosi’…ah, there you go, see? Si!”
The children. Dizzy and Lorraine had none of their own, but he was father to all ages: from the music students seeking harmonic enlightenment to the babies who nestled peacefully in his arms. In his later years they had touched his heart in yet another way, so one day in 1985, as we sat outside a sunny café in Bassano del Grappa, drinking his favorite cappuccino, he suddenly sat up and nudged my arm: “Hey Lilian? Listen! I got something for you…I mean all those kids I see at my doctor's, even little kids, would you believe it? They've got it too, but it's much worse at their age and you've got to do something for the ones here in Italy. I'll help you, but you lay out the plan, I trust you.”
While he sipped noisily on his hot cup, content to have parked his problem on me, I closed my eyes and searched rapidly for clues: His doctor? The only ailment I knew of was his diabetes. What did I know about diabetic children and the Italian medical involvement in their cure? For that matter, what did I know about diabetes itself, except that you had to watch your sugar intake and do something about your insulin? I had firm orders from Lorraine to watch out for Dizzy's sweet tooth, which often provoked mini-arguments and an underground battle mantled in courtesy.
“Oh, Liliah-nah, don't give up dessert just because I can't have it. Isn't that your favorite cake? The Sachersomething?”
“The Sachertorte, and I'm not fooled. The moment the waiter would set it on my plate you'd be digging into it…. But it's OK; I don't mind giving it up—it will show you how much I care…”
“But I know how much you care! You don't have to prove it by giving up something you love so much…humm…look at that chocolate crust…”
“Dizzy! Just the other day you were saying that I too would probably end up sitting next to you in your doctor's waiting room…”
“Humph! OK-OK…!”
This brought me back to his request that something be done for Italian juvenile diabetes.
“OK Diz, I'm willing to try but you must tell me more about it.”
Still blissfully engrossed in his cup, he raised his eyebrows in surprise: “Huh?” So I turned soul sister: “Ah means like-a, ma-an, you'se got dis chile problem, right? So lay it on me, you know…Like…gimme some light, dig?”
My approximate Southern drawl startled him; he opened his mouth and threw back his head in the familiar laugh.
“Aaa…Hah! I know what! Remember that time in…was it Brescia? That was great, what you got for me. You could have it on a national scale for all diabetic kids, right?”
“Giovanni…. Just what did I get for you in Brescia that should be done on a national scale?”
“Don't you remember? You had that friend of yours at the restaurant make this special sugarless ice cream for me…hummm, it was so good…don't you remember?”
“Oh, but I do now, and you decided the ice cream was all for you and gobbled my portion as well and cleaned up the serving dish.”
He cackled his satisfaction: “Yeh, yeh…. Well, don't you know any big ice cream factory that could, maybe, buy the formula from your friend and put it on the market for the kids? I mean, you know everybody…?”
“I don't, but I know you…OK, I'll inquire and let you know as soon as I have something etched out…”
“Etched or sketched? Do you know the exact difference between those words?”
He asked with that gleam in his eyes and we were off again. What could a Mediterranean girl brought up on the banks of the Nile know about the English language? Always more than an urchin from Cheraw! Oh yeah?
Together Again
Some months later we were together again for a concert near Venice. As usual, I picked him up at Venice airport in my sturdy Peugeot, and, as usual, he commented on my sharing the same peculiar taste for broken-down cars with the TV sleuth “Columbo.” At the suggestion that he ride with his musicians in the larger car, he emphatically declared that my “Roman way of driving” was too stimulating, and he wouldn't miss it for a Rolls. At that moment I caught sight, in my side rearview mirror, of a bright red miracle looming behind us.
“Ah, Giovanni…you can keep your Rolls…Here comes THE perfect BEAUTY…”
And the red Ferrari came abreast, purring, whining, then roaring past as I sighed audibly.
Followed a deep silence; then he nudged me. “Bet you'd love to drive one of them cars, huh?”
“Did I tell you that my ex-husband is what they call a ‘gentleman racer’? He raced, but not professionally. With his pal Giannino Marzotto they won twice the famous road race called “Mille Miglia” with a Ferrari. Actually, I met the great Enzo Ferrari in person, a charming man, and when Marco and I got married he lent us his Ferrari Barchetta to use during our honeymoon.”
“So you did get to drive a Ferrari?”
I sighed heavily, shaking my head.
“Nope, Marco would not let me drive it, alas…”
“Wise man,” Dizzy commented.
“And what car do you drive in the States?”
“A beautiful limo…with driver…who comes to pick me up whenever I phone him…”
“Ah, that's why you criticize my driving…you're unable to drive yourself! Yet most jazz musicians I know own some kind of sports car…”
“Yeah. Like Miles. He's a Ferrari addict like you. He goes directly to the factory to pick it up. He's got at least three of them at home…”
“Ah, lucky guy!”
“Yep, but I never accepted to ride with him; though now, after riding around with you…”
I retorted that my speed did not seem to bother him if he could sprawl out and snore his head off the moment we left the curb!
This time, however, he was interested in the “working holiday” that had been organized for him. The producers of the concert at San Donà di Piave, a fishing town along the Venetian coast, had asked how they could show their appreciation for the visit of the “grande Gillespie.” Learning that Dizzy doted on fish, one of the producers declared he would go to the harbor at dawn, as the boats came in, to pick the very best that the Adriatic Sea could offer. Maria, the wife who was an expert cook, would produce a menu fit for the Guide Michelin. Did Gillespie like baccalà? And the famous “granseole,” Adriatic crabs?
So there we were in the car with Dizzy all ears, eyes, and smiles as he listened to the gourmet delight that awaited him.
“Ooooh…that sounds nice…. You know, Lorraine says she can always tell when I'm coming to Italy for your concerts…”
“I know. The other day on the phone she told me you were on your morning tour of Englewood spreading the news. She also told me that the moment you get back home you show all your friends, at your barber's, your Italian newspaper clippings.”
“Yeah, that's right. And I read ’em out to them.”
“But you don't read Italian…!”
He laughed and nudged me.
“I know, but I sound like I do. And my barber…he's Italian, so he knows I'm putting them on, but when they ask him he tells them, surprised: ‘Don't you understand what he's reading?’ ‘No, do you?’ And, poker faced, he says: ‘Sure! It's Italian. Dizzy reads perfect Italian.’”
His big laugh again.
“Well, at least your barber can translate the articles for you.”
“Why, you know what that ‘mutha’ does when I hand them to him? He reads them silently with grunts and smiles and ahahs, and when I ask him what they say, he puts away the clippings and shrugs: ‘Aah…same old stuff, great concert, great artist, and the usual blah, blah, so what else is new?’…And that's all he'll tell me!”
Dizzy often mentioned his friend the Italian barber, and one day we went shopping in Rome for an original Borsalino hat to give him. Maybe one day I'll meet him and we'll speak of our friend. Of how much he loved Italy, and how much Italy loved him.
Back to San Donà, where the other members of the quintet had also been invited to this special luncheon. Soon we were all sitting in a private garden with a tasty “aperitivo e stuzzichini,” an aperitif with choice morsels, while a bevy of nice ladies, young and old, were bustling about. Dizzy and his musicians were enjoying the occasion. Toasts were raised to Dizzy's health, and he rose to express his heartfelt thanks for being admitted into such a lovely home with such gracious hosts.
Finally, all were urged to enter the dining room—“E’ pronto!”
Sitting at a huge square table, literally covered with various trays of hors d'oeuvres, Dizzy seemed mellowed by the patriarchal atmosphere: husbands, wives, grandparents, well-behaved children…all sitting around the most delicious food.
He squeezed my arm and shook his head. “This is unbelievable; Lorraine should see this.”
“Next time you must bring her over with you; she's been promising to come for ages…. I've even spoken to a friend for an audience with the Pope.”
“I know, and she's always telling her friends at church that she's coming over to meet the Pope. But then something urgent turns up—or breaks down in the house—and she has to stay home.”
Suddenly, Dizzy's bass player, John Lee, sprang to his feet from the opposite side of the table. He held out his glass and, almost gruffly, said he spoke on behalf of all the musicians. They wished to express their appreciation for this special hospitality and to declare that they never enjoyed their gigs so much, or met such nice people, as they did with me. “So…well, thank you.” And, just as suddenly, he sat down.
There was a pause of pleased surprise as I translated for our hosts while Dizzy smiled, approving, then clinked his glass to mine. Everybody beamed as the many entrées came in: spaghetti alle vongole veraci; farfalle ai gamberetti e piselli; risotto alla marinara…
Dizzy stuck the large napkin around his neck, as expectant as a little boy, with round, happy eyes.
We often organized his concert tours with one or two days off for him to discover a different Italy and genuine Italian hospitality. This time a surprise awaited him, so he was warned to ask no questions but be ready by nine the next morning and to bring a cardigan, as we were going to the mountains. He had raised his eyebrows, sizing me up shrewdly, and then nodded OK.
At a quarter to nine the next morning he was sitting at a hearty breakfast in his usual jovial spirits. He hailed me loudly across the dining room: “Buon-gee-ornow Liliah-nah. Comee stahee?”
“Buongiorno Giovanni Gillespo. Did you sleep well? Are you ready for a very special day?”
While sipping loudly on his cappuccino, he nodded and waited for me to continue.
“OK. So. A limo is coming to pick us up, and we'll drive out to the mountains.”
He pointed out of the window: “You mean them peaks way out there? They look fa-aar away to me! We'll get back in time? OK-OK, if you say so, I know we will. So, where are we going?”
“To a small mountain village called Busche.”
“Busche…Busche…you spell it b-u-s-k…no, no, wait a minute, the Italian way is b-u-s-c-h-e, right?”
“Don't know how you do it, but you have an extraordinary ear for spelling. Anyway, guess where we are going and what for?”
His one-track mind prompted: “Food?”
“What is it you like very much, apart from sweets, pasta, and fish?”
He mused very soberly on the question: “Hummm…Cheese?”
I nodded just as soberly. “Right. We are going to visit one of northern Italy's largest milk and cheese factories. You will hold a press meeting. You will be met by the president and the director general of this factory and they will give you a present I know you will appreciate, and…”
Pause for drama…
“…The subject will be Italian juvenile diabetes.”
A bear hug and a cappuccino kiss on my cheek:
“Aowww! I knew you'd think of something! What is it, tell me?”
The limo arrived in time to save me from disclosing the surprise.
As was to be expected, Dizzy was soon snoring noisily to one side, and one wondered if all this sleepiness at ten in the morning could not be a strong signal regarding his health.
Upon arrival Dizzy emerged from the car rested and buoyant to charm and entertain the authorities who were waiting at the factory entrance. He was given a formal welcome and was ushered into a conference room, where various journalists greeted him.
Dizzy was obviously in his favorite element: limelight, interviewers, compliments, photographers, pretty secretaries giggling at the cheeky way he would ogle them. Then the official presentation of the gift: a small, hand-wrought silver periscopic trumpet on a neck chain, made by a well-known artist who happened to be a Gillespie fan. Dizzy was truly touched by the beauty of the object. He gave me one of his mellow smiles and hung it around his neck, next to the Bahá’í stone from Mount Carmel.
The president and the director general were talking officially now, and Dizzy leaned his good ear toward me so I could translate. His face broke gradually into one of his largest smiles on learning that, having just bought an ice cream factory, the men had decided to study the scientific possibility of producing a special line of ice cream, fruit yogurts, and desserts for diabetic children to be distributed throughout Italy. All this had been brought about thanks to the personal concern of Maestro Gillespie, a diabetic himself, who was sensible to the plight of children whose illness prevented them from sharing the small joys afforded to their healthier companions. If feasible, then the line would be named “Dizzy.”
It was a very happy day as Dizzy visited the factory, drank different types of milk, tried a dozen cheeses, poked his nose into the various proceedings, and finally emerged with the gift of a huge wheel of mountain cheese in its travelling cardboard box, which he held on to jealously with both arms. He then snored like a dragon during the two-hour drive back to San Donà.
The concert was a huge success (“So what else is new?” his barber would have said). The jazz musicians who taught at our music school in Bassano had come to greet him, and he entertained everybody with his good humor. The next day, driving him to the Venice airport, I promised to keep him informed regarding the ice cream factory. One last “outgoing cappuccino” at the airport café, then a hug of affection, and with a final crack we parted, laughing and waving farewell.
Unfortunately, a few months later the director of the dairy informed me that he was truly sorry but their experiments for glucose-less ice cream, to be produced on a large scale, had been scientifically and financially negative, so they were giving up.
Informed of the outcome, Dizzy heaved a big sigh and then consoled me: “Well, you sure gave it a good try, Lil; I appreciate it, honest.”
ACT XVI—“OO-SHOO-BE-DOO-BE”
It was May 1985 and, Dizzy having confirmed his presence in the recording studio in Milano, a series of engagements were quickly organized. The main event was the recording session, from midday on Monday the 13th to midday of Wednesday the 15th. The trio that Dizzy had approved of comprised Kenny Drew, Ed Thigpen, and Swiss bassist Isla Eckinger. They would join us directly in Milano.
On the first evening the quartet would also appear at an important TV show in Milano. On the second evening we would appear at the Bobadilla, a plush jazz club in Dalmine, outside Milano. On the third evening we would play a concert in Bassano as part of the concert season we organized each year. Finally, on the last day, after his favorite “minestrone” lunch with my mother, he would pass by his music school in a flash visit on his way to Milano airport. Having arranged with Wim Wigt all the details regarding Dizzy's travel, all was finally set.
For this very special occasion our friends from Nice, Colette and Bernard Taride, had driven to Milano to join us. While we waited for Dizzy's arrival—someone had been dispatched to the railway station to look out for him—we went through a list of songs in order to make the final choice and then decided to go on with the sound check.
Kenny began playing “I'm in the Mood for Love,” which was not on the list but we all joined in. Not bad, then Kenny asked me if I knew James Moody's version. I asked the technician to play back the song we had just recorded, and I sang Moody's “Mood for Love” over it. The technician had recorded also this double version, so we listened, approved, and decided to add it to the list just as it was. After all, Moody was very close to Dizzy's heart….
Finally, Maestro Gillespo arrived from the station, sneezing and grumbling that Bern had been humid and the train cold. While he greeted and hugged everybody, I got out my homeopathic first-aid kit and instructed him to take the medication. He looked dubiously at me.
“Ah, you're on this stuff too? Just like Faddis: in fact, his wife is a homeopath and they are always telling me I should take this…”
“So there you are. Now this is miraculous—it's Oscillococcinum. Just open up your mouth like a good boy and let me pour the granules—come on, it won't kill you. I want you alive and well for the next few days…”
He obeyed, muttering about waiting till he told Jon about this. Eventually, his first cappuccino of the day arrived, and very soon the recording session was under way.
We had not really rehearsed any of the songs but simply distributed the various solos.
Of course the first song was my lucky charm, which was to give the title to the album: “Oo-shoo-be-doo-be. Oo-Oo!”
I was supposed to sing the song from the first chorus, as in the original recording. So we began with his famous trumpet intro, and just as I opened my mouth to sing, I heard his nasal/gravelly voice singing “One day while strolling…” and there he was, eyes closed, singing blissfully my part.
I waited and joined him on the “Ooo-shoo-be-doo-be,” at which point he turned to look at me, surprised and then abashed, but I shook my head and motioned for him not to stop. We smiled and kept singing together. As I did not wish to alter the order of the choruses, I waited for Ed Thigpen's drum solo to join him with my singing.
Take one was approved, and we moved on to the rest of the repertoire.
“Con Alma” was first sung with the original lyrics and, upon Dizzy's suggestion, with a religious feeling. Then I surprised him in my second solo by singing the lyrics by my sister-of-the-soul Abbey Lincoln, dedicated to a “man of music, lover of beauty….” He was pleased.
For “Body and Soul” I teased him, asking for a Miles Davis kind-of-blue feeling; he complied, and everybody joined in the mood he had set. At the very end, unrehearsed, Kenny and I went into the changes of the coda, nodding at each other while, in the very last chords, I omitted singing the line “body and soul” altogether but left a questioning “myself to you…?” hanging there.
When came the time for “Night in Tunisia,” I asked Dizzy to make it very “Arabian Nights,” for I had a surprise for him. They went into a long oriental intro where he brought out his marranzano, shook his famous “Nndo stick” made up of clinking Coke caps, and then finally I started singing. I sang in Arabic, with lyrics written together with my Egyptian friend Leila Moustapha. He kept blowing but his eyebrows were raised to the ceiling in amazement. Everybody had fun with that tune, and I spoke words of ardent love in Egyptian during his solo, while he replied with the muted horn.
Allow me a digression: Practically a year after the CD had been issued also in the United States, I received a phone call.
“Pronto?”
“Prontow Liliah-nah! I've got to apologize to you…”
“You bet; it's three in the morning…again!”
“It is? Humph. Well anyway…I had to call you right this minute to apologize because, listen to this: I'm in this taxi, driving home from Manhattan, and the radio plays our “Night in Tunisia.” The driver starts getting all excited, and he tells me it's the first time he hears jazz sung in Arabic. So I ask him if he can really understand the words, and he tells me, “Of course! It's in Egyptian, like me!” So the moment I got home I had to grab the phone to apologize.”
“What for?”
“Well, you see…I never believed the lyrics were in real Arabic. I thought you were putting me on, in Milano, just blah-blahing.”
“Well, grazie mille! So you wake me at dawn to tell me you thought I was a phony?”
“OK-OK. I'm sorry, but I did want to tell you. Now you go back to your beauty sleep…”
“I know, ‘because I sure need it.’…” I listened to his cackle. “However, I'm glad you told me all this. Ciao, Giovanni, good night.”
Back to the recording studio; came the moment for Dizzy to produce the song he had promised when it had rained so much in Torino and in Nice.
“Dizzy, where's my song? I know you got my lyrics…”
“Oh yes…I have them right here in my wallet, over my heart.”
“But where's the music?! You promised! Remember?”
“Well…how about we work out a low-down blues instead? You work out the lyrics while I have this cappuccino…”
And that's how “The Sunshine Blues” was improvised by all.
The first line began: “You promised me the sunshine…and all I got from you was rain…”
On that last morning, during a break, I treated Dizzy to his cappuccino in the nearby café that had won his preference during those days. On the way back we strolled, window shopping, to the special menswear boutique where Dizzy kept ogling some Irish cotton cable-knit sweaters. Which one was nicer, the red one or the pale leaf green? The green was more elegant for a man, apart from the fact that red…considering his stomach…Oh, yeah?! Anyway, he shook his head and strolled off to the recording studio next door. I entered the shop and got three identical sweaters, two green ones for Dizzy and Francesco and a red one for me (which I still wear to this day).
In the studio we recorded and listened to the last song. OK, that's it; wrap it up. Off to the hotel to shower and change for lunch.
And what's this on his bed?
The note on the sweater read:
“From Cairo Lil to Diz the Wiz. Wear this in good health. Shukran.”
“Hey, Leeleeahn…” he called out. “Honest now…you shouldn'a have…and what's ‘shookrun’?”
“It's Egyptian to say ‘Thank you.’”
He wore it instantly.
All the tunes had been recorded lazily during the three days, with lots of cappuccino breaks, some excellent lunches and dinners, and when also Bernard and Colette Taride joined in the final judgment, adding their positive vote, we finally decided to leave it at that.
The following day we headed for Bassano. During the concert sound check Roberto and the teachers of our school joined us, and then we all strolled down to Dizzy's favorite promenade spot, the old Wooden Bridge from whence he would look at the Grappa Mountains with that special smile on his face.
The next day at my house he met a new addition to my household, a Giant Schnauzer puppy I had named Bebop. Dizzy smiled with raised eyebrows and I explained:
“…'cause he's a unique black phenomenon. Just like Bebop, no?”
“Yeah!” he grinned as he fondled the dog's ear.
Time to return to Bassano, where a limo was waiting to drive him to the Milano airport. We first went by the school, and he approved the attractive school sign by the front door, which he read aloud: “Scuola Popolare di Musica ‘Dizzy Gillespie.’”
As we parted I asked the driver to take him over the old Wooden Bridge for a brief pause.
“Ciao, Giovanni! We have one last pleasant moment for you…”
“What is it?”
“Be patient. Ciaaao….” I waved him off.
Eventually, he did remember his promise, and one day I received some publications on the Bahá’í faith, some in English and some in Italian. I applied myself dutifully, waiting for the time he would decide to give me my “exams.”
ACT XVII—ODDS AND ENDS
Looking back at the many years of friendship, so many memories reach out to us, like flash anecdotes, that they must be mentioned just as they come to mind and as a single section.
A Family Man
One aspect about Dizzy Gillespie, perhaps lesser known, was his enjoyment of family life. When Francesco and Lisa were married in September 1985, they went to live in New Jersey, where my granddaughter Alice was born in April 1987. One day an enthusiastic letter told me of their visit at Dizzy's home in Englewood, enclosing snapshots of fatherly Dizzy with two-month-old Alice as he held her in his arms carefully while she smiled up at him. This grandfatherly attitude continued through the years. In 1988 Francesco, having moved to Los Angeles, wrote about Dizzy as “babysitter.” Invited to join Dizzy for lunch, Francesco had explained that he was taking care of Alice for the day. No problem: Francesco was to drive by the back door of the hotel, and Dizzy would sneak out incognito—and Alice was welcome to go along with them. They had gone to Korea Town on Olympic Boulevard to Dizzy's favorite restaurant where, once seated with Alice perched in the baby seat between them, Francesco had realized he had forgotten her “in case” diapers. Dizzy had simply sent him off to the nearest drugstore while he would look after Alice, not to worry! An anxious Francesco had returned to the restaurant to a scene where Dizzy and Alice were making faces at each other, chuckling and having a great time.
Honolulu in 1991. Dizzy, arriving on a Hawaiian tour had brought four-year-old Alice a gift necklace. Picked up at the Prince Hotel, he had been driven around to enjoy Oahu's beauty spots in Lisa's car. Faithful to his motoring habits, he had slumbered off while sitting in the back seat next to Alice; both snoring away, leaning against each other like two drunks. However, in the picture they sent me, Alice is sitting on his knees, in the living room, both of them well awake and grinning.
Commencement Day
During mother's eightieth birthday and “farewell trip” through the United States, we arrived in Los Angeles for Francesco's commencement day as he was graduating from USC. Cherry on the cake, Dizzy was briefly in Los Angeles for a club engagement.
We were invited to join him at his hotel suite, where he paid special attention to mother, as usual. He invited us to the jazz club that same evening, and of course Francesco and I went like a shot. We took a cab and said, “Marla's Memory Lane, please?”
The cabbie turned around to look at us, amazed:
“You mean that club in South Central? That's in the Watts neighborhood, you know that?”
Our nod, his shrug, and off we went.
We soon realized why the driver had hesitated. It was a very black jazz club in a very black neighborhood, and Francesco and I stood out like two sore white thumbs. Dizzy must have informed the doorman to expect us, for he very grumpily let us through and led us to a tiny table right by the toilets. We sat perched uncomfortably and tried to smile at the frowning stares while Francesco, ever optimistic, assured me that the atmosphere would improve once Dizzy arrived and they saw our relationship with him. To use one of Dizzy's expressions, I said “Humph!”
The music was excellent, and we soon forgot the scene, the human perfume wafting from the nearby toilet, and the “friendly” service. At the end of the first set Dizzy sat with us and seemed amused by the negative effect we had on his public, but eventually he suggested we return downtown before the second set and provided us with a drive back to USC.
“Well, Giovanni, apart from the pleasure of your music and your impressive conga drumming, I must thank you for another experience…. You see, tonight I really understood what racial discrimination feels like, and rightly so.”
Intimacy
One day in his hotel room in Brescia, while shaving in the bathroom, he called out to me.
“Hey, Leeleeyahn…. Notice my hair?”
I walked to the open door of the bathroom.
“What about it?”
“You DON'T notice any difference?”
At his disappointment I gave him a scrutinizing look and realized that in fact he had stopped coloring his hair. Acting puzzled, to tease him, I shook my head.
“Nope. The only difference I see in you…” (pause)…“is that you have turned into a very distinguished-looking gentleman with a becoming iron-grey head.”
“Hah!” He was satisfied.
“…And a notable paunch…”
“Huh?” less satisfied.
At that moment the room-service waiter knocked and brought in a cappuccino that he set on the small table by the bathroom door, against which I was leaning.
The man looked at Dizzy shaving in his underwear, gave me a long sly look as I stood there, then with a little smirk left the room.
“Ah, well, Giovanni…. That's it, there goes my reputation. In two minutes everyone will know that Gillespie has a female in his bathroom where he stands in a state of undress. They will all think I am your mistress or something.”
He kept shaving, a little smile creeping up, and then shrugged: “Well, everybody thinks so anyway. The guys in the band, our friends…I don't mind…”
“They do? Your friends think…”
“Anyway…the whole ‘mistress’ scene…it gives us a certain glamor, don't you think?”
“Sure, why not? At least we have the glamor of an affair without the physical effort!”
There followed the fraction of a frown, taken aback, and then his laughter.
This is the answer to anyone who might have wondered about us, at one time or another, during our long years of friendship. Was there intimacy? Yes—of an affectionate nature but never physical. We had the glamor without the effort. He loved that phrase.
Happy Birthday Concert Party
Dizzy's seventieth birthday was on October 21, 1987, but all along that year there were celebrations all over the world, wherever he went.
While visiting Francesco in New York, we received an invitation to attend a special “birthday concert” at Carnegie Hall, where the JVC Jazz Festival of New York presented:
Tuesday Evening, June 23, 1987, at 8:00
Wynton Marsalis salutes Dizzy Gillespie
On his Seventieth Birthday
The Dizzy Gillespie Big Band
There followed the long and detailed list of the musicians involved. This Big Band was formed also by his faithful and historic sidemen, some of whom later became members of his United Nations Orchestra, his last dream come true.
At the theater we were conducted to the side entrance and ushered into an elevator and up into a drawing room with a grand piano, a birthday cake perched upon it. The place was crowded with VIPs, champagne flutes in hand, and everybody vied for his attention. He was sitting at the piano, chewing his Cuban cigar, a new cowboy hat perched rakishly, playing with one hand and chatting with everybody. Francesco approached him shyly to say hello. Dizzy greeted him, and soon they were discussing music, with Dizzy explaining to him, on the piano, “the importance of the diminished fifth in the Bebop evolution, conceptually, harmonically, and stylistically!”
On that occasion he introduced us to Walter Gil Fuller and asked him to take care of us when the organizers engulfed him and carried him away.
Some days later Fuller invited us to his favorite Sushi place in Fort Lee, New Jersey, and while chatting about jazz music and its place in European culture, we mentioned our admiration for his unique arrangements of Dizzy's music, especially the ones to be heard on the Verve collection and, of course, above all “Manteca.” To our surprise he seemed irritated and finally explained that he had done “much more than just arrange those tunes” and gave us to understand that some of them had been his compositions to begin with. I soothed him by mentioning that in his autobiography, Dizzy had declared repeatedly how essential Fuller had been in putting together the famous big band in 1946 and what a great organizer and original arranger he was…
This brought back memories and anecdotes of that historic orchestra with the various famous soloists, and at that point, enthusiastically, Francesco mentioned the name of Charlie Parker. Fuller frowned again, and then explained. It had so happened that at one time Bird had come back to New York from California to rejoin the band. Dizzy had been watching over him like a warden, as the last thing they needed was for the new band to get all the bad press that Parker seemed to draw upon himself, implying that all beboppers were junkies. But soon it was starting all over again, so that Bird would reach the stage in such a state that he couldn't even blow his notes. And he would be nodding on the bandstand, and all the younger musicians who were looking up to him were beginning to imitate his habit. In the end Dizzy and Fuller were forced to take a drastic decision. They took him off the bandstand as a player and simply paid him for all the wonderful tunes he would compose for them.
I later thanked Dizzy for having introduced us to Gil Fuller, for he was a charming man and we remained in contact with him and his beautiful wife for a number of years.
Exams
So one day, during a long chauffeur-driven ride, instead of falling asleep in his corner he puffed on his “Cuban,” and with a clever little smile Dizzy asked me point-blank:
“So…and where is the seat of the Bahá’í?!”
I gathered my wits…so this was it…the test. OK, Giovanni…I'll show you!
“The central seat of the Bahá’í is in Haifa, Israel, at the Mausoleum of the Founders, but actually the religion was founded in the nineteenth century in Iran. It tried to gather together the sense of all past religions, yet it was mainly inspired by Iranian Islamic practice, like with the fast and the forbidden alcohol.”
After a first surprise he nodded approvingly at me, preparing his next question.
“Tell me about the original founder…?”
“In 1844 the faith was founded by the Iranian Mirza Ali Mohammed, born in 1820, a Shiite and therefore convinced of the return of the Imam, the messenger of God. He declared he was the ‘Bab,’ the ‘door’ through which one would reach God. He died in 1850 in Tabriz, executed on the orders of the shah.”
I grinned, for he was surprised by my command of dates and facts. He attacked again:
“Who succeeded him and what is he famous for?”
“Easy! Mizra Hussein Ali, born 1817, buried in London in 1892. He called himself the Bahá'u'lláh, which means ‘Splendor of God,’ and he broke with the Islamic influence, deciding that the Bahá’í be a modern and nonviolent religion dedicated to the reconciliation of all creeds around some strong common principles, based on God.”
“That's very good! Of course, I've already told you about the various stages of humanity, the family, the tribe, and finally the family of Man. And about the main principle that God is unique, as is the human family, and that all religions have a common foundation and must find common grounds with science and reason. And that men and women must have the same rights…”
“Yes! That's what pleased me most, the fact that even then women had the same right to education and to accede to social power, just like the men. The early Bahá’ís were really fervent emancipators of women, rejecting polygamy and unfaithfulness in marriage and…Ahem…they forbid alcohol and smoke.”
I cleared my throat noisily while looking pointedly at his cigar and remembering the Piccolit wine experience. But he ignored the open innuendo and picked up, unmoved:
“Yes, that's from the side of Islam, just as we have the nineteen days of fast, and we pray three times daily, morning, noon, and evening. But we have no clergy, no religious ceremonial. We have the local community or the local spiritual assembly and then the national one…”
I added my two cents, showing off:
“…And when the spiritual assembly meets, you recite the prayers of the Bab, of Bahá'u'lláh, and then you take care of all the different questions, including material ones, regarding the life of the community. By the way, do you say your prayers too? Can you recite one? The first that comes to mind…?”
He nodded with a smile and recited: “Blessed be the place and the house, and the city and the heart, and the mountain and the refuge, and the cavern and the valley, and the land and the sea, and the island and the prairie wherever a sign of God is made and where His praise is lifted high.”
“Yes! And it was written by Bahá'u'lláh!”
“I see you've received all the publications I asked for you…”
“Yes, including the book by Shoghi Effendi, The Promised Day Is Come, and a beautiful folder with all those lovely pictures of the Mausoleum and the Gardens on Mount Carmel. I must say it gives a feeling of beauty and peace just looking at them.”
“That's what the Bahá’í religion is all about, beauty and peace.”
“Yes…however, I was impressed by some of the sentences by Bahá'u'lláh, written in the early twentieth century, where he speaks…about the destruction of the world and its people through a terrifying upheaval and dreadful tribulations that will shower upon all men. Because God will punish us for the evil we have done with our own hands. And the leaders of the world will call aloud for help, but because of their foolishness they will receive no answer…. It's practically the Apocalypse, no?”
“Yes; however, Bahá'u'lláh also says that in the end, all over the earth her most noble fruits will grow, and the tallest trees and the most beautiful flowers and the most exquisite gifts from heaven. And every creature will lay down its heavy load and grace will pervade all things, visible and invisible.”
“That's all very well, but what about the oppression and violence we see today around us in all forms?”
“He says that these oppressions prepare the advent of Supreme Justice, which will be the advent of the Greater Peace, which will inaugurate the Supreme World Civilization, which will be forever united in His name.”
“But, my dear Giovanni, from the way the world is going now, this Great Peace is not for tomorrow. If and when it does happen, we won't be around to enjoy it.”
“That's not important. But the day will come.”
“As you see, I have really done my homework…”
He nodded his approval, patting my hand, and I knew I had passed my exams.
ACT XVIII—WOODY ’N YOU
I was preparing a radio program dedicated to the famous recording ban during the Second World War, and the ensuing special Armed Forces production of V-discs. That series of records had just been reissued worldwide, and RAI had dispatched me to the United States to interview as many personalities of that era as were still available, to illustrate the actual facts that had taken place during those years. In New York I spoke with, among others, George Simon and good friend George Avakian. Then I moved to California for a pleasant, if loud-pitched, meeting with Red Norvo and then was welcomed by Woody Herman in his beautiful Hollywood home.
Next, I was off to Washington, where I visited the Library of Congress and finally had lunch with Willis Conover of the Voice of America.
To catch the shuttle back to New York I left Willis hurriedly and stepped toward a cab that was just parking by the curb. Dizzy emerged and we stared at each other, surprised.
“Hey Lil, I thought you were in New York with Abbey?”
“…and Lorraine told me you were playing in LA?”
“The gig was postponed and this venue came next. You're staying on, ain't you? Let me show you the place, it's right around the corner in this alley…”
I decided to catch the next shuttle, to humor him, and soon we were entering the club. We sat at a table where he was immediately served what looked like an excellent soul food plate, which I declined, having just lunched with Conover. I then explained about my “…recherche du Jazz perdu…” with an amusing anecdote that concerned him.
During the interview with Woody Herman we had obviously spoken about his Herds, with special mention of the Four Brothers. At that point Woody had given a little laugh and touched my hand, saying:
“Here's a story you will appreciate, it's about Dizzy during the years of The Street, you know…in New York in the early forties. I had noticed that some of my soloists were playing some weird solos that didn't really fit with the band arrangements. So, when they spoke about this ‘bebop’ music, I told them to go ahead and get some special tune written specifically for the Herd. So we got something called ‘Swing Shift,’ and later one called ‘Down Under,” composed and arranged by someone called Gillespie. These tunes had a very special arrangement that really floored us, and I said to myself: ‘This music is the beginning of an era!’ To be honest, the guys had to work very hard to play those arrangements, and they would sneak away to listen to this bebop music—like everyone had begun to call it—every chance they got. So finally, must have been in 1942 or ’43, they took me to this club on Fifty-Second Street to meet the composer and arranger of our tunes. I sat at the bar and listened to a cat playing a horn, and I did not like his style at all. Then up he comes to introduce himself, says he's glad the band liked his tunes, and we talk for a while. I ask him for some more stuff, but he tells me that his real work is with his trumpet, which takes a lot of his time. So I tell him, honestly and sincerely, that I did not really think he had a future as a trumpet player but should concentrate on writing and arranging his great music instead. This was Dizzy Gillespie I was talking to! You realize?! Fortunately, he paid no attention to my advice!”
Dizzy had been listening with a little smile as I related our conversation, nodding and puffing on his Cubano as I continued:
“He was amused and tickled to tell this story as one of his favorite memories about those war years…Gillespie or the Beginning of an Era! He also added something about you, Parker, and Monk and your other musicians, and how today the newcomers don't really realize that what they're hearing and playing now is something historic, something that revolutionized jazz from what it had been in the swing era. He was truly complimentary about you, said you were…ah yes, a giant!”
“Yeah, but it was really thanks to my association with Bird. He really gave me a huge inspiration, far above anything musical that I have ever done since.”
“Would you mind telling me a little more about your relationship with Charlie Parker? Everybody has a different opinion, especially about the problems he caused you and your band through the years. Apart from the musical magic you two created together, he remains a mystery to many of us. What sort of human being was he? One only hears about his addiction. You probably knew him more deeply than any of those other cats who hung around him for the worst reason. Do you mind talking about him?”
“Well, for instance, he was much better read than I was. Used to read all the time and about all subjects, and we'd have these long talks and discussions about politics, religion, philosophy…. I remember his discovery of this French writer, Baudelaire; talked about him all the time. I learned a lot about life and the social order from Bird…”
“Which would you say was the highest moment in the music you created together, or was there a special one?”
“Oh yes. The highest height was at the Three Deuces with Bird, Max Roach, Bud Powell, and Curley Russell, who was later replaced by Ray Brown.”
“Ah, yes…those special, creative years…and was Bird already…using, then?”
“I believe he started fooling around with drugs when he was fourteen, but he was very careful about it at the beginning. In fact, Bird and I were very close in a certain way but we didn't mix when he would hang around with those other guys. He was always very discreet about his habit, never using or smoking in front of me.”
“But then something happened in California, didn't it? When he ended up in Camarillo Hospital and you were forced to leave him there to return to New York for your engagements?”
“That's right,” he sighed.
“But still there remained this special bond of respect between the two of you. In your book, Al Haig said that you were perhaps the only one to understand the inner workings of Bird's mind. And Max Roach mentioned how you tried in every way to get him to take better care of himself, and that once he answered that “his notoriety was to show young people not to use dope and throw their life away like he was doing”—I mean, how do you help someone who gives you an answer like that?”
“Yet I never let him down, even if I couldn't take him back into my band anymore, at least not to play regularly. The last time I saw him was just before he died, in 1955. He came to where I was playing, and he looked terrible. We were talking when he suddenly said, “Diz, why don't you save me?” I asked him: “How?” “I don't know, just save me, man.” I felt helpless and sad because I knew I couldn't save him from himself. But we remained closest friends until his death…”
“He passed away in Nica's home, didn't he?”
“She called me to say Yardbird had just died in her apartment. It broke me up, we were so very close. With all the problems he had caused everybody, and we all knew his life hung by a thread by his own making…still, I had this strong feeling toward him, so that the sudden loss just shocked me. I was at home when Nica called, so I told Lorraine what had happened and then went down to the basement to be on my own.”
The look in his eyes made me search for a happy memory of their relationship.
“By the way, Diz, what was this story about you two guys kissing each other on stage at Carnegie Hall?”
The memory brought a smile back:
“Yeah…must have been in 1947 and we were finally playing Carnegie Hall. Our relationship was just perfect then. We were enjoying playing together and impressed the audience. Suddenly, after we close one of the numbers, Bird walks off in silence. Then he comes back and he holds this beautiful, expensive, long-stemmed red rose that he hands to me in silence. Then he kisses me noisily on the lips and leaves the stage!”
While he smiled at the memory, I stood up and gave him a brief hug.
“OK, Giovanni. I have no long-stemmed red rose to give you, but a kiss always! Here! I must really rush now. See you in New York! Ciao-ciao!”
ACT XIX—MONSIEUR DIZI’ JILLEPSI’
There were the annual meetings at the Grande Parade du Jazz at Nice, every July. Dizzy would often join us for a special meal at the excellent table of Bernard and Colette Taride, after which he would burp his satisfaction and go off to the festival, ahead of us.
At other times he would meet me directly on the festival grounds and drag me for an afternoon meal at the Soul Food restaurant. I would tease him, remembering with a dreamy sigh the excellent soul food lunch offered me by Max Roach at the Boondocks in New York, and he would react with his invitation to take me to Cheraw and enjoy a real soul food meal prepared by his favorite aunt.
“She's a great cook, the greatest…! The Boondocks…bah!”
There was one amusing aspect of his personality that seemed to emerge whenever he was on the festival grounds, often seated with a group of his older musician friends. His voice and his accent, as well as his English phrasing, would gradually become rougher and more Southern, as if he were back in his youth in South Ca'linah. I told him so once, how he spoke much more hurriedly on those occasions, almost stuttering at some points, and that he sounded as if he had “a hot potato” in his mouth.
He gave me a long, supercilious look, but I knew he was amused. Then he raised his brows and spoke with the most incredible posh-English accent:
“Oh, I say! Really now, is that so? Hmm…rather peculiar; what?!” Then he added, “Hah! Gotcha!”
And the times when we would meet directly in the festival grounds at Cimiez and exchange a “bisou” French style on both cheeks, speaking volubly in French, “Mon cher Maestro Dizi’ Jilepsi’!”…“Ah, Madame Lili’!”
I would invariably sniff his cheek and try to guess his aftershave lotion. On one occasion I complimented him on a particularly refined and classic scent but he would not tell me the name of it. The next day he found me, backstage, and handed me a small package.
“Here, keep this preciously ’cause it's made especially for me by my friend the perfumer. This way you can close your eyes, sniff, and think of me.”
Today I have it on my table, as I write, and I read the label on the cologne bottle: “Dizzy 930,” made by Parfums Premiers—Compagnie de Argeville.
How he loved those festival days in the Arènes de Cimiez, in the brotherly atmosphere of all those famous jazzmen gathered together by George Wein and Simone Ginibre! Dizzy's laughing voice would be heard miles away, and he was a constant magnet for the crowds who migrated from one of the three stages to the next one, and then the last one, in search of his performances. Those magic days and nights, those great historical performers who enjoyed being there, together, to play their own program and then join their friends on some other stage. They would produce jam sessions of such quality and uniqueness that made one think: “When one day all this will come to an end, there will be thousands of people who will look back at all these magic, incredible years and feel a melancholy for the loss, but also very lucky for having lived them.”
And Dizzy will remain one of the leading figures of those memories, as everyone will recall the unique poster publicizing the Grande Parade du Jazz for all those many years: a caricature of Dizzy in a knee-length bathing suit, from whence protruded his rounded stomach, playing a trumpet to the sun.
For any nostalgic who will take a stroll on the grounds of Cimiez today, he will read the names of famous jazz artists on the various Allées crossing the vast area. Barney Willem, Ellington, Armstrong, a bust of Hampton…
Then strolling along the Allée Miles Davis—toward the garden steps leading to the Saint Francis Church and Cemetery where Henri Matisse is buried—he will find on the righthand side, at the corner of that road, an angle with the two signs, nudging each other: Allée Dizzy Gillespie—Allée Miles Davis. He will notice that they passed away within two years of each other.
Sorting out my memories of “Dizzy and the Riviera,” I believe the last time we met there was in July 1990. This time he was to play at the Antibes–Juan-les-Pins Jazz Festival, leading his great “dream come true,” the United Nations Orchestra with musicians chosen from among the best from North and South America: along with James Moody were Mario Riviera, Paquito de Rivera, Claudio Roditi, Arturo Sandoval, Slide Hampton, Steve Turre, Danilo Perez, John Lee, Ed Cherry, Airto Moreira, Giovanni Hidalgo, and Ignacio Berroa.
Presently we were sitting in his hotel room, having just spoken on the phone with Lorraine, and I congratulated him: “So now you have succeeded in your Bahá’í project; you have united the various nations in a brotherhood of music. You must be satisfied, no?”
“Yeah, they're great guys, but that's just one step in the right direction. I just hope they will carry on after I've gone…”
“After you've gone…and left me crying…,” I sang sobbingly to him to break the melancholy mood that seemed about to creep on him. He smiled and asked when I was going to cook the same pasta I had prepared for him in New York, when he had joined us for lunch at Abbey Lincoln's place on the day of Count Basie's funeral. It had been a concoction that had won his enthusiastic approval.
I had been Abbey's guest at the time. Calling Dizzy on the phone, we had made a date for the next day at the Abyssinian Church in Harlem and, after the funeral, he had come to Abbey's home for his special pasta.
At lunch we had spoken of various things, remembered some friends who had gone ahead, and it had been a very relaxed, thoughtful afternoon with a Dizzy mellowed by the day's occasion. However, just before leaving, he had grabbed the phone, dialed a number and exclaimed, “Hey…Longo! Here's a real Italian for you; let's see if you really speak it!” and handed me the phone, telling me to speak Italian. Of course, I was familiar with the name of Mike Longo, the pianist who had stood by Dizzy in the critical 1960s and had taken care of him during his alcoholic sprees, including the time Dizzy had ended up in hospital as a DOA case in 1973.
I picked up the phone, and Mike Longo proved to be a very pleasant person indeed. Dizzy had meanwhile sneaked away from the apartment, chuckling.
So now we were back in Nice with Dizzy's pasta request. Very well; with Robert and Lydia Amoyel as well as Bernard and Colette Taride it was agreed, on the spot, to organize a special dinner in Antibes, at the Amoyel home, where each one of the ladies involved would offer a special dish to satisfy Dizzy's gourmet weakness. How about the next evening, early, before the performance? Yes! Bernard would pick him up at the hotel and drive him to the Amoyel home.
By now the intimate dinner had become a reunion of a large number of Dizzy's French friends and admirers: men, women, and children. Simone Ginibre had also been kidnapped from Nice to join us. Dizzy enjoyed the food and the affection bestowed upon him, so much so that in the end, his assistant-manager had to drag him away in time for the concert. Standing in front of his United Nations Orchestra that night, he looked truly satisfied with life.
“Signor Giovanni Gillespo”
Later that same summer we met in Verona. The summer jazz festival held at the impressive Arena amphitheater—which hosted also an exceptional opera season—on that particular evening offered a program that jazz fans would remember all their lives. On that magic evening they would enjoy three groups: the one with Miles Davis; then Dizzy Gillespie with his United Nations Orchestra; and the Max Roach percussion group plus the Maxine Roach strings.
When I joined Dizzy in Verona, he had first dragged me on a guided tour of that beautiful city. Upon finally entering the Arena from the artists’ entrance, he had stepped out onto the stage to stand, motionless, gazing at the ancient golden stones in the afternoon sun. Shaking his head, he had returned to his dressing room and commented with Max on the beauty of the scene. I had told them to wait till nightfall, during the concert, when thousands of people crowding all the space available would light up the candles furnished by the organization.
Dizzy was a happy, mellow man that day, and when Miles Davis arrived as well, passing by Dizzy's dressing room with just a glance and a nod, Dizzy was gracious enough to join Davis in his room and chat with him.
As the concert unfolded, one couldn't help considering that here were two famous artists: Max Roach and Miles Davis, who truly owed a huge debt of gratitude to Dizzy, who had welcomed them as young kids in his newly created jazz world, teaching Miles his instrumental secrets and nurturing Max out of a dangerous addiction when he was just sixteen. It also warmed one's heart to watch Dizzy directing his “dream come true” orchestra.
ACT XX—DIZZY'S DAY
Thinking back along those many years, it gives us a warm feeling of satisfaction to remember the two special events we had been able to offer him.
Of course, one of them had been the unforgettable adventure of his one-and-only European concert with the full symphonic orchestra of RAI Torino. The other was “Dizzy's Day” in September 1987, when we organized—with the City of Bassano's blessing—a huge “concert-party” for Dizzy's seventieth birthday. It was decreed that on that occasion he would be given official Honorary Citizenship by the Administration of Bassano del Grappa, and we were also announcing a new section, for blind students, in our music school. This decision had come about when we were approached by two young men during one of the concerts we produced for the City of Bassano. They were blind and had asked if we could teach them jazz in braille.
We discovered that in Italy there were hardly any institutes for the blind who taught music at all, let alone jazz. Dizzy was touched by the request and as usual expressed his total faith in my abilities to “go ahead and do something about it”…so I began by investigating what was being done in the United States, and this time he took an active part in our project. He handed me a letter dutifully signed by him, to be sent to a list of people who could help us in obtaining some musical material in braille typescript.
I have the original letter underhand, and here is his message:
Dear Interested Philanthropist. (This heading is in his handwriting.)
The “Dizzy Gillespie” Popular School of Music was founded in September 1983, in Bassano del Grappa, Italy, mainly as a means of bringing today's youth closer to music and off the streets. In September 1987 the School enlarged its scope to include non-seeing students. Many problems arise on this project and a major one is the scarce jazz material available in Braille print. It would seem that this is a general lack throughout the world.
We intend to organize a “Bank” of such jazz material, and, once transcribed from normal print into Braille, it will be put at the disposal of any blind student or musical institute in need of it.
If you feel that such an endeavor has merit, please participate by making available any of your music, methods, exercises, etc., with a written authorization to transcribe it into Braille print and to make free use of it.
I shall personally be very happy to see you join us in our effort, and ask you to contact our Director and Co-founder, Lilian Terry, at the address printed above, who will follow up in detail.
Thank you. Sincerely, Dizzy Gillespie (hand signed).
John B. Gillespie, Founder and Honorary President.
It was decided that on the occasion of Dizzy's Day we would inform the press and all institutes concerned.
Obviously, the organization of the event began a year ahead. I will not go into the harrowing details that such a huge task entailed. I'll just mention that the “happening” took place in the Bassano Velodrome, which seated five thousand people, and that about eighty jazz musicians had been invited. The press, radio, and TV media were attracted from various parts of Europe, and a large, handsome, and colorful poster was soon to become a collector's piece.
Here is the last letter of recommendations sent to Dizzy, just before his departure for Italy.
28 August 1987,
My dear Giovanni Cappuccino. Thirteen days to D-Day and I am a sleepless, foodless robot wondering how on earth I got myself involved in this huge project. It's your fault because you backed us on the Bassano jazz school and so we want to thank you publicly with all the honors and affection you deserve.
Now the latest news: I have gone back to working directly for the Municipality with a new office in the Town Hall and two girls to assist me; plus some students from our school as “gofers.” Incidentally, you should see the huge posters that our graphic artist Franco Barbon has drawn up. I'll send you some copies at home for your collection.
Now here is the program and please take note:
Leave NY by ALITALIA on Wednesday 09/09. Please be at Kennedy airport by 5.30pm, at the ticket office of Alitalia where a charming lady, Clara Chernin, will take good care of you. Departure is at 7.30pm.
Arrive at MILANO Malpensa in the morning. Yes, you'll have time for your “incoming cappuccino” then you will be driven to Bassano to the Hotel Belvedere, to your usual suite.
Rest until 5 pm when I shall pick you up to go to the Town Hall. There you shall witness the official Meeting of the Council (40 aldermen) who will vote on your Honorary Citizenship. Then the Mayor will confer upon you the official Citizenship, probably with some gold key, and everybody will kiss you. Then we'll go to dinner and possibly a party at the Sporting Club to celebrate the affair.
Incidentally, you will travel with Max Roach and Sandra Jackson while Milt will fly in the next morning from Los Angeles, just for that concert night and then fly back again…Also Randy Brecker will fly in and out on the 11th just to play with you. Johnny Griffin and Madame will come from France, Tete Montoliou from Barcelona and Eric Peters from Switzerland, and that's your band. There will also be another 70 musicians who will play in your honor.
On the morning of the 11th you will be interviewed and televiewed. At the Town Hall the Mayor of Bassano will give you your honorary citizenship. At lunchtime you will elope with me to go home where mother will fix you some gourmet surprises, the farmwoman will pick your fresh figs and we shall have a bucolic luncheon with lots of goodies cooked by different guests who want to honor you through your taste buds. One of them is thinking up some fig desserts for “diabetic trumpet players” for you to enjoy at this lunch.
Of course also Max and Bags and the other musicians of your group will be there. Some VIPs from Bassano will also be there and, while you relax in your favorite garden easy chair, everybody will tell you how great you are and what you mean to them. Another ego-trip, in other words.
At 5pm we'll go over to the Velodrome for a sound check and brief rehearsal with your group then you are off to rest until 9pm.
The concert starts at 6pm with all the young jazz musicians who are coming from various parts of Italy to join in the party. However, you will be brought back to the Velodrome around 9pm when the festivities will get into high gear until well after midnight.
I seem to remember your weakness for a certain pistachio cake? Well, who knows what surprises we have up our sleeve? An “after midnight” gourmet dinner in a lovely home will close the whole works and the next morning you will be driven to Venice airport to fly to Paris and be met by Wim Wigt.
Ah, my dear Giovanni! For the first time in my life I am organizing a maxi event with 70 musicians, over six hours of music non-stop with people flying in from everywhere at different times, hotels, car rides, radio and TV, and sponsors who back out…Mother looks at me and shakes her head in silence…At night I wake with a start at 4am and kick myself for having brought all this upon myself. Then I think of our school, and I am grateful that you let me use your charismatic name to bring it all about. So I go back to sleep saying to myself that it's OK, it will all work out beautifully. I am so tired, physically and mentally, but I must send this to you before the Monday morning rush.
I'll phone you in a week's time. Regards to Lorraine, is the house all fixed up by now? How is her health? Are you quite sure she won't change her mind and come after all? Love to both of you.”
For once, to my great wonder, there were no unusual problems to solve. Everybody arrived from everywhere at the right time, everybody was happy to be part of the festivities. Everybody did his best for a smooth and successful unwinding of the concert. Everybody succeeded in doing so.
But the first important step took place in the morning at the town hall. Dressed in his Armani suit, Dizzy entered the hall very soberly and joined the mayor and leading aldermen on the dais. He listened attentively to my translation of the motivation for this occasion, and the mayor handed him the Keys to the City, pronouncing John Birks Gillespie an Honorary Citizen of Bassano del Grappa. Next, he was asked to sign the Special Illustrious Guest Book. He did so, very soberly, and then realized that the signature just before his own was that of the Queen Mother of England on a previous visit. That did it. His irrepressible sense of humor sent him rushing to seat himself in the mayor's seat with a look of royal importance. The solemn atmosphere dissolved in smiles and amused shaking of heads.
The rest of the day—at lunch at our house and later in town for the sound check—was a concentrated series of sober discussions that would dissolve in a burst of general laughter. His highest peak was when, while waiting for his cappuccino in his favorite bar, he smiled at all the bystanders who ogled him and then burst out singing “O Sole Mio!”
We were finally able to send him off for a nap at his hotel.
At 9:30 P.M., when the concert had been underway since 6:00 P.M., Dizzy's limousine arrived behind the huge circular bandstand covered by a large circus tent, set in the very center of the Velodrome. They led him almost secretly to his caravan “for his privacy,” unaware of his huge curiosity. He was soon sneaking around, embracing old friends—and pretty assistants—and finally he arrived at the corner edge of the bandstand, where, leaning lazily against it, he looked around at the multitude gathered for him. In the tropical heat of the night he saw a crowd made of young and old, with restless children running about while the older fans were happy to witness a live concert by the idol of their youth. The atmosphere was of friendly expectation, and Dizzy took it all in.
He was holding his periscopic trumpet by his side, and in no time somebody recognized him; soon, there was a huge roar calling him: “Ciao Dizzy!” “Hey Dizzy!” “Dizzy!”
Before we could guess what was on his mind, he had walked straight out toward the public, waving his trumpet and grinning as he crossed the field. When he climbed the flight of steps to the low barrier that separated the public from the field and started shaking hands, there was a large downward wave of movement from the very far upper end of the seats as well as the wings, all reaching out to him. Finally, the police and firemen had to rush to him and practically lift him off his feet to escort him safely backstage, where I scolded him.
“You realize that a crowd of five thousand fans was about to break down the safety barrier in order to get to you? And that the musicians on stage had to stop their performance?”
“Gee guys, I'm sorry…”—then an impish smile: “I only wanted to say ciao to the guys who had noticed me…I didn't think that the whole crowd would…”
“Lorraine would say you just don't think. But it's OK, I'm glad you were able to feel this huge wave of love…”
“Yeah, incredible…I'm sorry I couldn't shake everybody's hand…”
“Yes, and after five thousand handshakes, then play with your feet?”
“Gee, look at that! It's beautiful…”
He was looking at the huge scoreboard high above the field where the technicians had designed a periscopic trumpet with stars and flowers flashing out and changing into “Dizzy's Day.” This was followed by “Happy birthday Dizzy,” “Felice compleanno Maestro,” and “Auguri Dizzy,” interspersed with electronic fireworks. Like a small boy, he watched the whole exhibition with joyful wonder, turning to shake his head at me from time to time.
The various groups invited to “play their good wishes” were giving their best to an appreciative audience when came another most unexpected moment during the evening that really took everybody by surprise—the public, the sound technicians, and myself.
During a pause—while one group was leaving the stage and the following one was starting to set up—our irrepressible Dizzy had managed to sneak onstage, quietly. He had sat himself at the piano and started playing “’Round Midnight.”
One of the technicians passing by had turned on the piano microphones, and when we looked to see who was playing…there he was! He had motioned to the same man to set up a voice microphone, and suddenly we had the most unexpected performance of Dizzy as pianist and blues singer! He sang-shouted his joy at being there, and as a finale he fiddled around with the keys, hummed, and closed his performance right there.
He rose and bowed from the waist very formally, like a classic concert pianist, and walked off in dignity amid the roar of the crowd.
And finally, at long last, our stars were climbing onstage: from Spain, pianist Tete Montoliu, from Switzerland Eric Peter on bass, and then the young American trumpet player Randy Brecker. And now! Here were the historic names: on saxophone Johnny Griffin, the MJQ vibraphonist Milt Jackson, and the giant of percussion Max Roach. And, finally, the long-awaited guest star Dizzy Gillespie! After many years, Dizzy was surrounded by his—now famous—ex-students, who had willingly come to Italy just for two days in order to wish him a musical “happy birthday.”
What followed was a series of musical fireworks, acclaimed with a true ovation by the enthusiastic public. But the occasion that floored Dizzy was when—having been led off to his secluded caravan car to meet the press—we quickly set on the grounds, almost in front of the stage and with the assistance of five strong stage hands, a truly enormous seven-tiered pistachio cake that rose well over three meters above. The revolving base tier was about two meters in diameter, while the top one was at least fifty centimeters and carried a very large, candied, golden periscopic trumpet held by a chocolate hand. Seventy gold candles shone around the seven tiers, and a tall folding ladder was opened for him to climb gradually to the top so he could blow out all the candles, with three stagehands standing by to assist him in his climb while the cake was turned around on its pivot, within his reach.
When all was set, we informed the public that we were going to surprise Dizzy, and would they please keep very quiet until he came forward and saw the cake. Then all would sing “Happy Birthday” to him.
I went backstage to call him and, walking and talking arm in arm, we turned the corner and he stopped short, one leg lifted forward, gasping and looking way up to the top of the lit up cake.
“Here's your pistachio goodie, Giovanni Gillespo.”
As I leaned over to kiss his cheek, there began the huge wave of five thousand voices singing together: “Happy birthday to you…,” in English and Italian, followed by all kinds of good wishes shouted in various languages. He closed his eyes tightly, shook his head, and heaved a sigh; then he turned to the cake.
He started blowing the candles one by one, gradually climbing onto the ladder, steadily assisted, while every tier was spun around on its special base. By the time he reached the seventh cake on top, he was clowning a heart attack, blowing his cheeks in the Gillespie fashion, and rolling his eyes. He finally grabbed the chocolate hand and golden periscopic trumpet and came gingerly down the ladder. A large silver knife appeared, and he gave two cuts on the bottom cake. Applause! The staff moved the cake to the side and started cutting small parts for as many people as possible in the public. Just before moving away, Dizzy put out his hand and grabbed a lump from the cake and stuffed it in his mouth. He shook his head: “Oh, my God, I can't believe it's so good!”
“Happy birthday, von Karajan…”
“Yeah…now I have two gifts from you that I won't forget, long as I live.”
“We'll have another “Dizzy's Day” to celebrate your seventy-fifth. In October ’92.”
“Yeah…that would be nice.”
“But only on condition that you bring Lorraine with you.”
“Well, I'll try to convince her. She might!”
But, of course, by October 1992 he was not “in good enough shape” to accept our invitation.
CODA
John Birks Gillespie passed away in New Jersey on January 6, 1993. Fatefully, it was Lorraine Gillespie's birthday.
Just two days earlier, she had informed us that Dizzy was again in hospital but should be coming home soon. She had given us his direct phone number that we might call him and cheer him up, as he had sounded depressed when she had last spoken to him.
I called the hospital, gave my name to the nurse, and then was speaking to him. He had a small, weary voice that touched my heart as we exchanged the usual Italian greetings. I told him I was calling from Francesco's home in Hawaii and that we all sent our love, including a collection of well-wishing messages from the students of our music school. They hoped to see him soon, during one of his surprise visits while on tour in Europe, and were preparing a special concert in his honor. He sounded pleased, but his voice was weakening by the minute.
“Giovanni, my dear, I'll let you rest now. We just wanted to give you all our love. We'll call again tomorrow or the next day, OK?”
Almost a whisper: “Yeah, ciao bella…”
Two mornings later Seth Markow, a Honolulu radio reporter, called to say that Dizzy had just passed away. Would we care to go to the radio station to commemorate him?
Sorry, not then nor for a long while would we be able to open the memories of a friendship as unusual as it had been special for our family.
Today we do so, trusting it might be of interest to the general reader to discover a most stimulating and unusual hero of the Afro-American cultural inheritance for which the United States of America are admired and appreciated the world over.
You have been offered a special look at particular moments concerning Dizzy Gillespie's later years, and we hope we have informed and amused you, whether you were familiar with his personality or not.
We realize that, having collected our happiest memories of those years, this narrative might seem written with a constant smile, for such was Dizzy's attitude toward life and probably the way he would wish to be remembered: with a smile.
However, he was not a “Santa Claus” kind of man. At given times his laughter could be ironical, though never sarcastic, and he was not constantly well disposed. His life's experience as a black man and a jazz musician—even after fame had blessed him—had been ruthless enough to give him a good dose of tempered distrust toward some of his fellowmen. Also, his energetic curiosity, his love of clowning, and his keen sense of human nature's ridicule had led him to behaviors not always in the best of taste. But his love of life and devotion to his music had raised him well above his shortcomings.
He had reflected one day that God must have decided that his role in the world was not to be just a musician. The fact that most of his contemporaries had departed long ago, while he was still around, made him consider that his role on earth had to go beyond his music. So he applied himself to being a humanitarian, reaching out in many ways—many unknown to the general public—especially toward the young people.
What is certain is the fact that he has never really left us. To quote Jon Hendricks, in Benny Golson's moving ballad “I Remember Clifford,” we might say: “…for those who heard, they repeat him yet. So those who hear won't forget…”
At least as long as some trumpet player, anywhere on this planet, will raise his horn to the skies to play “A Night in Tunisia.”
Way up above, be assured that Dizzy will be there, listening with a pleased smile and explaining the bebop chords to Archangel Gabriel, or probably—while slip-slapping his hands—he'll be illustrating one of Chano Pozo's special rhythm inventions. He might even be teaching Gabe to play his periscopic trumpet. They might be “chasing” and “exchanging fours” right now.
Why not?
But, of course, there is one truly perfect picture that comes to mind. Dizzy is finally reunited with Bird, the being he called “the other side of my heartbeat,” and, as long ago, the heavens become alive with their music.
* Many years later he would be sitting with my mother in the kitchen of our country house in the Venetian hills, eating with relish—at four in the afternoon—from a large serving bowl of freshly made minestrone while simultaneously gobbling down the contents of a basket of fresh figs. Mother would be laughing while explaining to him what the mixture of hot minestrone and fresh figs. could do to his insides.
“No problem, mama!” he would exclaim, slapping his tummy. “These are made of rubber!”
** Twenty years later we would be singing the song together in Milano, while recording an album called “Lilian Terry Has a Very Special Guest: DIZZY GILLESPIE,” subtitled “Oo, shoo-be-doo-be, Oo, Oo.”
Pistoia, Italy, 1981—Laughing at the rain.
Courtesy of Carlo Ruberti
Turin, 1983—Poster for Dizzy's symphonic concert in Italy.
Campione d'Italia, in Switzerland, 1983. This photo becomes the cover photo of our LP together. Dizzy (in African dress) and Lilian Terry.
Courtesy of Fulvio Roiter.
September 1987—He is most officially named Honorary Citizen of Bazzano at the Municipality.
His lunch birthday party at our home.
The poster of the huge concert to celebrate “Dizzy's Day” (September 1987).
Crosses the field to go up to shake hands with the yelling public.
Cutting the cake, assisted by strong hands.
Hawaii 1991—Last visit with Francesco and
little Alice.