Wednesday 12th, 10.31 p.m.
Louis stood alone outside the stage door, waiting to be let into the concert hall. There was snow in the air, falling to earth, in the black puddles at his feet, sailing across the reflections of the lights up above.
The door opened to reveal a fresh-faced young white kid in a cardigan. Recognition flashed across the kid’s face, then a smile.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, sir,’ said the kid. ‘This way, please.’
He held up a hand and Louis smiled and followed him through the entrance, down a long, cement corridor lined with pipes. They turned a corner and the kid opened a door onto a function room packed with people and buzzing with backstage chaos. There were tables of canapés laid out, trays of champagne flutes, red and white wine.
‘Your dressing room’s just over there,’ said the kid, pointing to a door on the far side of the room.
As they made their way towards it, people stopped Louis to say hello: friends, well-wishers, journalists, musicians. They slipped on through the crowd and came face-to-face with two men standing next to each other, wine glasses in their hands, who paused their conversation on seeing Louis. The first was ‘Big’ Sid Catlett, who’d be playing the drums that night, the second was a younger man in horn-rimmed glasses and a goatee beard; Dizzie Gillespie – one of Louis’ most vocal critics, who’d called Louis out for pandering to whites, for playing the Tom, for being everything the younger musicians were reacting against. Although they’d met earlier in the year and had made up with each other, there was still a frostiness between them, a distance.
‘Louis,’ said Catlett.
‘Sid,’ said Louis, stopping even though he didn’t want to, even as he was wondering what Gillespie was doing there.
‘Diz said he wanted to come along,’ Catlett said, gesturing to the man standing next to him. ‘So I comped him.’
Louis nodded. Gillespie nodded. Catlett had played with Gillespie on a number of bebop recordings, was one of the few older drummers who could easily transition between the old styles and the new. Louis noted Gillespie had gone to Catlett, rather than Louis, for the free tickets.
‘Cool,’ said Louis. ‘How’s tricks, Diz?’
‘Yeah, good,’ Gillespie shrugged. ‘Looking forward to hearing you play.’
‘Well, that’s grand,’ Louis said. ‘I’ll catch up with you after the show.’
‘Sure thing,’ said Gillespie. ‘Break a leg.’
Louis nodded, turned to the kid, wanting to get away from the awkward, icy exchange as quickly as possible. As he and the kid moved on through the crowd, thoughts of his luckless streak filled Louis’ mind, all the signs telling him his time in the sun was up. What better sign could he have been sent than crossing paths with the ambassador of the young guard so close to going on stage?
Eventually, they got to the dressing room, and Louis slipped inside, closed the door. It was a long room, with sofas against one wall, and mirrors and dressing tables opposite them. There was a clothes rail at the far end, and Louis saw his suit hanging up, freshly cleaned and pressed, still wrapped up in the laundry’s cellophane. Glaser’s meticulous planning. His manager would be at the concert that night, box seats. It was unusual for him to show up to gigs, but then it was an unusual gig.
On one of the dressing tables Louis saw a card with his name on it. He walked over, put his trumpet case down, sat. He noticed a sheet of paper left next to the card. The set list for the night. Louis picked it up and scanned it quickly.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
The door opened and Ernie Anderson appeared. The young promoter glowed with boyish excitement, animated by that same jitteriness he’d displayed in Glaser’s office the previous week. Louis wondered if it was on account of him, or if he was always like this.
‘How is everything, Mr Armstrong?’ he asked.
‘Everything’s great,’ said Louis. ‘Thanks for arranging all the music. All the fine people. It’s really something.’
Anderson beamed. ‘You’re happy with the playlist, how it’s all going to go?’
‘Sure, pops. Sure.’
‘Good. I thought you’d like to know, it’s standing room only now. There’s just one thing.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Sidney Bechet’s called in sick. Said he can’t make it.’ Anderson’s brightness dimmed a touch on giving Louis the news.
Bechet. He’d been asked to sit in with the band, join in on a few numbers. Louis wondered if it was fate again, or just the usual ego tricks from his old colleague. The man had been pulling the same stunts back in New Orleans twenty-five years ago.
‘That’s cool,’ said Louis. ‘We’ll manage without him.’
‘I think we will,’ said Anderson.
He grinned and left the room, taking with him his nervous energy, making the place seem suddenly empty, lonely. Louis had planned to put on his suit then go straight back out into the reception room, mingle, joke, but as he sat there alone, with his coat still on, staring at his reflection in the halo of lightbulbs that ringed the mirror, he hesitated.
Bechet had cancelled last minute, Gillespie had told him to break a leg. The nervousness Louis had experienced on the ride over returned. He hadn’t been nervous before a gig in years. Because for years he’d known he was the best musician on the stage, that no one in the audience was expecting much. The last show he’d played before this was in a tumble-down old hall in Altoona, Pennsylvania, where the hotel owner had warned them not to walk the streets at night. But here he was about to perform with some of the greatest musicians on the planet, in front of one of the most discerning crowds there was. Top billing in the last-chance saloon. Right in the middle of a spell of ill-fate that made him feel like he was about to fight history single-handed.
He paused. Maybe that was the trick. To fight it. To ignore the black cats, the spilled salt, the pennies found tail up, all the other signs that said you didn’t control your own fate, and try and forge your own future regardless.
The door opened and two people stepped in. Jack Teagarden and Bobby Hackett, the band’s trombonist and its second trumpet player. They were laughing at something and were brought up abruptly when they saw Louis.
‘Oh, shit, Louis,’ said Teagarden. ‘Didn’t know you were in here.’
‘That’s cool,’ said Louis.
The two men grinned, recommenced chatting. On their heels came the rest of the band – Cary, Catlett, Haggart, Hucko. They came in buzzing with noise, warmed the place up with their chatter and laughs, and Louis felt relieved to have people around him. Fellow musicians. He thought back to his Chicago days, to his old buddies from New Orleans, to his mentors, long gone now.
He rose and walked over to the clothes rail, grabbed his suit, brought it back to the dressing table. He took the cellophane wrapper off and its dull, synthetic smell wafted through the air. He dressed, checked himself in the mirror.
Behind him the others were putting their suits on, chatting, sharing cigarettes whose smoke was forming a fug under the room’s low ceiling. Louis opened his trumpet case, assembled the instrument, checked it, ran through his exercises. His fingers slipped on the valves. Sweat. He looked around the people collected in the dressing room – no one else was sweating, and there was a rumble coming from the air conditioners over the door. He grabbed one of his handkerchiefs, wiped down his fingers and the trumpet valves. He ran through his exercises once more.
The stage manager came in and gave them a five-minute call, and no time seemed to pass at all before he was back again telling them they were on.
Everyone rose, grabbed their instruments, checked their shirts and ties in the mirrors.
Louis rose last of all.
‘You all good, Louis?’ asked Teagarden.
‘Yeah,’ said Louis. ‘All set.’
And his voice didn’t even sound convincing to himself.
They filed out. The crowd in the function room outside had already thinned. They walked down the corridor to the wings. Waited.
Fred Robinson was onstage, compering. He tossed off a few jokes in the patter that had made him one of the most popular jazz DJs on the radio, he got a few laughs. Then he introduced the band to a wall of applause. They stepped out onto the stage. Robinson passed them on his way to the wings, smiled at Louis.
It was a quarter past eleven. The house was full. The people looked excited. It felt like a homecoming in a way, even though Louis had never gone anywhere. Had people just forgotten? Like old King Oliver with his vegetable stand back in Georgia, Bunk Johnson and his sugar wagon? Was perpetual re-invention the only way to stay constant?
Everything went silent.
In the glare of the stage lights, specks of dust floated, shined.
The first track on the playlist was ‘Cornet Chop Suey’, a song full of knotty, clarinet-like figures Louis had written back in the twenties to show off his virtuosity. He looked at Catlett, who had settled himself behind the drums. At Teagarden, at Hackett, at the others. All of them waiting for him. He felt the silence swirling about the stage. For the first time in his life, Louis had everything on the line.
Fight it, he thought.
And raised his trumpet to his lips.