Seven Jazz Dwarfs

On a Monday morning in mid-October, when the British Islands’ weather is always at its foggiest, I woke up with a severe sneezing attack. Suffering from asthma since childhood, I wasn’t surprised by the sudden relapse in my allergies. They are prevalent in the fall and caused mostly by the heavy mildew and the powder from the falling leaves. My asthma episodes are going away, after a week of medication and breathing exercises. I have gotten used to it by now and playing my clarinet every night for a few hours helps with my lung expansion.

“Achoo, achoo!” I kept on sneezing in my handkerchief, trying not to make too much noise. Early in the morning, when my allergy attacks are at their peak, I quietly climb out of bed leaving my sweet wife Irene to sleep longer.

After I was born, I always lived in Ealing Borough of East London, as one of four siblings of a loving Irish couple, hardworking and devoted Catholics. Even after I became a professional jazz musician and married the love of my life, Irene, I have chosen to stay in that suburb of London. I loved it and enjoyed socializing with my old friends and conservatorium buddies, those who still lived in the same neighborhood. Unlike other parts of the world, we were free from hurricane, earthquakes, snowstorms, floods of other catastrophic events. Even the Cold War’s international conflicts among the antagonizing nations have kept us at peace.

While I was struggling not to sneeze too loud, my Irene was fast asleep in bed. Since we’ve got married, a few years back, we have lived happily in our rented studio flat. The district is heavily populated by Irish nationals, Polish and Hindu immigrants. My sweet wife is by now used to my sneezing attacks, and she sleeps throughout my early-morning episodes of allergies. She must have built some ear-muffling ability into her hearing that blocks the sneezing noise. Last night she joined me in our jazz band, as the featured singer for our scheduled gig at the reputed nightclub, Jazz After Dark. Every time we perform together, we commute with the purple underground train line from Broadway station in East Ealing, to Tottenham, in the popular theater district of Soho.

For the past two years, I’ve been playing my clarinet with a versatile combo in that nightspot, an intimate and exclusive private nightclub. Renowned as one of the best jazz venues in London, it was also recognized for its resident artist, a famous painter, Sam Shaker. Open as an art gallery throughout the nightly performances, the venue is showcasing all his drawings and paintings of famous politicians, Hollywood stars and American jazz Giants. Every night, when I pass by those beautifully framed pieces of art, I bow toward my clarinet idols, Benny Godman, Jimmy Dorsey, Artie Shaw and especially my favorite New Orleans’ superstar Pete Fountain. The latter clarinet performer attracts me the most, not only because of his unique sound, but also because of his similar health issues namely, the chronic asthma attacks and sneezing fits.

Jazz After Dark has always been a regular destination for visiting Downbeat Magazine’s American Hall-of-Famers, performing on many London stages while on European tours. We have had many late-night surprises from Chet Baker, Stan Gets, or Gerry Mulligan who dropped by, after their stage appearances and public concerts. They visited us simply to engage into a late-night, jam session. However, there is a good reason as to why our nightclub had been chosen by those American jazz Giants, to show up and reveal their best improvisation talent. Our regular clientele was reputed as one of Europe’s most sophisticated crowd of jazz aficionados in the world, outside New York, Chicago and New Orleans.

As the regular night performance would extend into the wee hours of the morning, with mixed drinks flowing like a fountain of youth, the joint performance had a breathtaking reception from our audiences. Even though, we were equally praised by our devout customers, a feeling of professional jealousy came over me and my stage buddies that evening. As one of England’s jazz Dwarfs, we were well aware that the degree of additional enthusiasm for our joint performance was mostly due to the presence of the stars from across the Atlantic. However, one good thing came out of that unique mélange of American jazz Giants and European Dwarfs.

The famous jazz musicians’ logo and our firm desire to, practice, practice and practice some more on the glorious road to Carnegie Hall, was reinforced!

“Achoo, achoo!” I sneezed again and again, while getting my English breakfast ready. I could not stop that loud noise from spreading all over in our small flat. “Achoo, achoo!”

“Sneezy!” Irene shouted from the bed. “You’ve waken me up!”

“Sorry my dear, but it’s beyond my control!”

“I know, my darling! I knew from the day I’ve married you that your stage name of Sneezy the Clarinetist fits perfectly your body and soul. Keep on sneezing, so long as you don’t break a rib!”

“For the last few evenings I’ve had a very hard time playing the clarinet and trying not to sneeze at the same time,” I said.

“You know how to stop the reflex,” Irene said. “Drink some hot tea and go out for a morning walk. In the park across the road, you can sneeze as loud and as often and you wish. Socialize with your buddies and come back to me, after you’ve stopped sneezing …”

“All right, all right!” I said, grabbing a ham-and-egg sandwich and running down the stairway toward the street exit. “Que Será, Será…Whatever Will Be, Will Be!” I paraphrased the latest tune of our duet, which ends the nightly performance at Jazz After Dark.

Every evening, Irene joins me for the gig, as my traveling companion on the purple underground line to Soho. As we perform throughout the show, with our elaborate repertoire from the Great American Songbook, Irene also becomes my jazz critique. Whether it has to do with my improvisation technique, attempts to produce unique sounds or the harmonic blending with the rhythm section, she always has a new review to contribute to my future improvement. In the end, it is mostly constructive and causes no arguments between spouses. Even if some of her comments are very negative I do forgive her honesty, because I love her.

However, her major role onstage is to sing with our band and create an attracting duet with me at the end of the show. She has a beautiful, wide-range soprano voice, well trained in jazz style, scatting with skills and successfully imitating famous American female singers. Our audience adores her and every hourly session ends with a standing ovation. The nightclub owners appreciate her too. During her performances of special Broadway medleys, the barmen open up a drinking fountain of youth. Sweet martinis, exotic wines and delicious beers with exquisite appetizers make the venue very popular and its owners much richer.

Recently, with my bandleader’s approval we have practiced a special American Standard for the grand finale entitled, Que Sera, Sera…Whatever Will Be Will Be! In 1956 Doris Day performed the tune in the famous Alfred Hitchcock’s movie, The Man Who Knew Too Much. Besides winning an Oscar, being a big hit for decades and making the top of the charts, the tune had recently become a permanent part of Irene’s repertoire.

Every night she ended our show with that 50s top hit, imitating Doris Day’s voice with great precision. Without exception, our performance ended with a standing ovation. After I walked out of the apartment building, I made my way toward the nearby park across the road. Under the main gazebo, a few of my buddies from the high school at St. Benedict’s were already smoking and relaxing on benches. Out of work for months, they were chatting about the unfair world around them, puffing on expensive American cigarettes and sipping Irish whisky.

“Join us in, Sneezy!” Patrick called out. “It will help your allergies?”

“Not really!” I replied. “If I smoke and drink as early as you do, I’ll be in the hospital by midday,” I said. “How is your job search going?”

“Lousy and slowly, as usual,” Patrick replied. “The only little cash I can get is from helping my uncle at the corner store with his grocery delivery. But I make ends meet with my social-service check, which is barely enough to buy booze.”

“We are all in the same rocking boat,” Kevin, another jobless friend added. “How is your latest jazz gig doing, Sneezy?”

“Very, very well, my friends! Last night, my wife and I had a very big surprise toward the end of our performance. I have just left her sleeping in bed …”

“What’s the news?” Patrick asked. “Give us some excitement in this world of ours, filled with dullness and government dependency!”

“Our American Dream is about to become a reality!” I continued. “Today we’re starting to rehearse for a future appearance in New Orleans, at the famous Pete Fountain Jazz Club …”

“What’s the occasion?” Kevin asked, sipping from his whisky flask.

“An American showbiz agent, Mr. Jimmy Schwartz paid an unexpected visit at the nightclub during our last performance. He listened closely to our medley ending with the top hit Que Será, Será and promptly invited us to the Land of the Free.”

“We’ve always wanted to meet your American idol, Pete Fountain,” Patrick said.

“Well, well,” Kevin added, puffing from his cigarette. “It’s about time an American Giant and European Dwarf get together to spread the jazz gospel around the world. What has happened to your Manhattan ambition, Sneezy?”

“I am still practicing, practicing and practicing some more, on my final road to Carnegie Hall. But I am just as happy to start from the Mississippi Delta and sail upstream later,” I replied, making my way back to our small flat.

After I enrolled at the Royal Academy of Music of London in the reed instruments class, I was regularly browsing through catalogues and monthly publications at the college library. One day, I came across the famous Downbeat Magazine from Chicago. The periodical had instantly fascinated me with its detailed stories about the American jazz Giants. From their personal lives, to every concert in distant parts of the world, I’ve learned more about them than any music professor could ever teach me. Among the reed players, while reading Pete Fountain’s personal history I was struck by the similarity of his accidental attraction to the clarinet, as a lifetime instrument. As a young boy, Pete was battling respiratory disease due to weak lungs. Just like me, the condition caused long spells of asthma and frequent sneezing attacks. In Louisiana, with all the advanced medical science he did receive expensive medication, but in the end had proved to be ineffective. During a pharmacy visit in New Orleans, Pete’s father began a discussion with a neighborhood doctor who happened to visit the place for his needs. Anxiously, he started to talk with the physician about his son’s respiratory problems. Without delay, the obliging doctor agreed to see the boy the following day at his office in the French Quarters.

After a thorough examination and a chest X-ray, the doctor confirmed the weak lung condition and advised the father to try an unorthodox solution, a blowing instrument. As part of deep breathing exercises the father was advised to purchase Pete a musical instrument, anything that he could blow hard into. Back in the streets of New Orleans, father and son went straight to the nearest music store. There, with a good old salesman’s help, an old Dixieland musician himself, Pete had fallen in love with the clarinet. At first, he was unable to produce a single intelligible note or tune. But within two weeks of intense practice, things have changed for the better. Not only he could make loud, squeaky clarinet sounds, but he eventually played a few musical lines. With help from a private music teacher, in a few months he had greatly improved his skills and the health of his lungs.

The story about Pete Fountain’s selection of the clarinet as a medical device had inspired me so much that halfway into my freshman year, I changed directions. With the dean’s permission, I switched from the composition class to the reed section selecting the clarinet as my instrument of choice. Just as Pete Fountain, all my life I was struggling with asthma and sudden sneezing bouts. Taking the Acadian doctor’s advice to my jazz hero from New Orleans, I applied to the college council for a permanent transfer to the reed, instrumental faculty. One year later I found myself on the frontstage of a college’s first Dixieland band playing many tunes from the Great American Songbook. And my breathing had miraculously improved.

To make a faster progress in my desire to become a celebrity jazz Dwarf in London, I took additional private lessons. My father helped me a lot, buying me a brand-new turntable and many vinyl recordings of Benny Goodman, Pete Fountain, Jimmy Dorsey and Artie Shaw. Playing by ear and reading the sheet music, I soon broadened my ability to improvise in perfect harmony. However, I was still having fits of sneeze during those long practices. I had to stop, calm down and use a handkerchief to wipe my nose. A few minutes later, I resumed my deep breaths and blew harder and more precise than ever before. In no time my nickname was given by teachers and colleague alike, as Sneezy the Clarinetist. Since those days, it has followed me all the way into my jazz musical career and now at the famous Jazz After Dark club in Soho.

Finally, the time for our departure to the Land of the Free had arrived. Irene and I performed our last gig at the nightclub, amid applause and congratulations from the staff and regular members of the audience. We were ready and eager to depart for our three-month contract in New Orleans. As a good-bye gesture to our regular and faithful audience and band members we both sang the last two verses of Que Será, Será:

While crossing the Atlantic on a British Airline on our way to Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans, those lyrics kept resonating in our ears. We were not only excited, but humbled by the experience and success in the world of jazz. We have made a spousal pledge on the London’s tarmac to start a family, as soon as this international gig in over. Mr. Schwartz had arranged for our trip with two first-class tickets, hotel accommodation and a handsome salary. An American Dream comes true was in the making for me and my beautiful wife Irene. The long transatlantic flight landed smoothly and soon, we found ourselves outside the international arrival lounge.

“Are you Sneezy the Clarinetist?” a man dressed in a navy-blue uniform asked me, while I was pushing our suitcases in a cart.

“Yes, sir! Who are you?” I asked in confusion.

“I’m your limo driver. Please follow me and we will be on our away in a few minutes,” the chauffeur said, taking over the luggage cart.

“Are you with Mr. Schwartz from New York?” Irene asked.

“I work for him, ma’am! He’s a great employer. Your residential suite is ready at the Hilton New Orleans Riverside and we shall be there in one hour or less.”

“No rush,” I said. “We’ve thoroughly enjoyed our transatlantic journey and love your climate here in New Orleans.”

The trip toward the French Quarters was a touristic attraction within itself and dream comes true for two Londoners. Irene wanted to open the car window and breathe in some fresh tropical air, but the driver kept pressing the close button. I personally could not wait to take in a few deep breaths of the Gulf of Mexico’s tropical air and its saline aerosols. My lungs and my allergies supposed to improve instantly in the New Orleans climate, according to my doctors back in London. Likewise, I’ve heard through the musicians’ grapevine that Pete Fountain has been free of asthma for many decades. Among the reasons for his good health was his life in the subtropics of Louisiana and the advanced medical service available at Tulane Medical Center, one of the best in the world. But, our limousine had the most advanced air-conditioned system, which more than compensated for the tropical climate outside the vehicle.

“Welcome to America!” I’ve heard this loud voice coming from behind the glass at the front door of the hotel. As soon as the doorman swung it open, Pete Fountain himself came out to greet us. He looked tall and healthy, with his famous goatee and crisp moustache adorning a bold head and a big smiling face. After a few handshakes and kind words, we entered the hotel lobby and took a corner table to discuss the immediate issues, rehearsals in particular.

“You must not worry about our jet lag, Pete,” I said. “We can’t wait to start our nightly performance with your great band.”

“If you have an issue with the lack of sleep or fatigue, I do recommend our local bourbon,” Pete said. “A couple of shots with a piece of ice will beat any Irish single malt you are used to! One piece of advice from an old Frenchman, do not mix champagne and whiskey …”

“I very rarely drink, because of my allergies and recurrent asthma attacks,” I said.

“I know, I know,” Pete said. “We’re in the same medical chapter. I’ve heard through the grapevine that you too had chosen the clarinet to help your poor breathing capacity.”

“While you are sharing personal stories, I would like to change in the hotel room,” Irene said. “I will come down, as soon as I’ve unpacked the bare essentials.”

“The sheet music and lyrics for the nightly repertoire from me are already in your suite,” Pete added. “Our first rehearsal starts at eleven tomorrow, in the morning. After that, we shall play by ear and when ready, we shall make our audiences as happy as we can.”

Irene stood up from her seat, gave me a kiss and signaled to the concierge to follow her with the luggage toward the elevator.

“I’ve heard that your wife has a unique ability to imitate voices of famous jazz singers,” Pete said. “I’d love to hear her doing a Doris Day tune.”

“Not only imitates, but she can hit top notes and low ones like an operatic soprano.”

“I hope we’ll have enough material soon, to make a few live records in New Orleans.”

“How did you come to know Mr. Schwartz?” I asked.

“I have a long-lasting showbiz relationship with him. He is fair, honest, and inventive and has close connections with RCA Victor in Chicago. I’ve done many disks though his marketing efforts. I am very glad that he convinced you and your wife to join me in New Orleans.”

The lunchtime rehearsals with Pete Fountain’s orchestra were brief and effective. The anticipated public appearances started as scheduled. We have found a perfect spot for Irene solos and she closed every show with Que Será, Será, bringing the audiences to their feet. The club was a sold out every single night and the mixed drinks flowed like a flooding Mississippi River. The summer weather in New Orleans gave me a much-needed relief from the sneezing attacks and asthma. A few strolls along the riverfront and in the nearby French Quarters familiarized us with the city and its wonderful people. Pete Fountain was busy all day organizing appearances at the annual New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival, Mardi Gras Day parades and other recording sessions at the local RCA studio.

“Sneezy, my friend,” Pete said one day. “The hurricane season is fast approaching and my breathing problems started to give me a hard time in the early morning.”

“Funny that you should say that,” I said. “For the past few days, I’m waking up at seven with an attack of sneeze and cough.”

“Tomorrow at lunch I’ll take you to my pulmonary expert at Tulane University Hospital and we will both go through a quick checkup …”

“Will we be able to overcome the upcoming storm they are showing on the television?” I asked, fearful of the Katrina hurricane approaching from the southeast.

“We’ll be all right, my friend,” Pete answered. “This city has been through many more storms, bigger than Katrina!”

A couple of days went by, since my visit with the doctor and my breathing and sneezing attacks improved with the new medication. However, the weather forecasting did not follow the same good direction. Hurricane Katrina was pounding the Caribbean islands and was heading straight for the city of New Orleans. Parish after parish inside the targeted area of the State of Louisiana was preparing diligently for the disaster, reinforcing the levies and evacuating the elderly and sick people. Our show continued unabated, but the out-of-state visitors and casino gamblers had all but vanished within a couple of days.

“You should stay put,” Pete said. “The hotel is your best shelter. Should the local authorities make future changes, only then find a safer place to duck until the storm is over.”

“I’ve heard that the city mayor had already ordered general evacuation,” Irene said, looking at me with fear in her eyes.

“It’s up to you two,” Pete said. “If you chose not to leave the city of New Orleans, you may join the future evacuees inside the Superdome until is safe to return back to the hotel.”

“What are your immediate plans, Pete?” I asked.

“My family and I will leave tomorrow morning to Baton Rouge. There, the hurricane will only have a small impact, mostly rain or bayou overflowing.”

“We’ll stay in touch through the hotel manager,” I said. “Irene and I will pack a few things and take a taxi straight for the Superdome this afternoon,”

“If that place implodes, the whole world will come to an end,” Pete said.

Upon our arrival in the giant Superdome parking lot, many buses and emergency vehicles were already lined up. Thousands upon thousands of refugees were arriving every hour, because the governor had ordered mandatory evacuation of the central New Orleans and its adjacent suburbs. Going through a checkpoint manned by a few national guardsmen, we both felt like wartime evacuees. Our small luggage, Irene’s handbag and my clarinet case were thoroughly checked for drugs, illegal arms and alcohol.

Once cleared, we were guided by volunteers toward the third floor of the stadium seats and given a couple of inflatable mattresses and blankets. The first night sleeping on the hard floor among bleachers, was a very unpleasant experience. The constant noises of newly-arrived refugees kept us awaken most of the time. Irene and I felt completely lost and destitute. Families with small children estimated to be more than nine thousand by the next morning were roaming all over the place, looking for fresh water and food.

Soon, the place became very noisy, smelly and unsafe to live in. For the next couple of days, we held onto each other day and night. Each time we needed to go to bathroom, we went together, holding onto our bags and my clarinet case. On the third day, just a few hours before Katrina’s landfall, local thieves and gangsters were roaming around looking for easy victims. Incidents of violent fights between street gangs made the law-enforcement officials, patrolling the Superdome, intervene and arrest the troublemakers. But, where they were taking them to?

“I’m scared to death,” Irene whispered to me as we were lying down on our inflatables.

“We should be safe, my dear,” I said. “The place is filled with policemen, firemen and national guardsmen. Look down there on the sports arena; they have field hospitals with the latest equipment and the best doctors and nurses in the world.”

“I don’t plan to get sick,” Irene said. “I wish Katrina comes and goes sooner!”

When the hurricane made landfall on the east side of New Orleans, most of the levees breached and eighty percent of the city was flooded in one day. The many radios, people have brought with them inside the Superdome broadcast very bad news. Major hotels along the French Quarters had their windows shuttered by the powerful winds and flying debris, making the place extremely hazardous. Nursing home and hospitals, not fully evacuated in a timely fashion were completely under the water. Hundreds of dead bodies were floating all over New Orleans, from the east side to the west of the Mississippi River.

For the next two days, Irene and I have not sleep a wink, hardly ate anything and drank a few sips of water given to us by the volunteers. Fights between the gangs of black youth and long lines in front of the feeding tables made us scared to lift our heads or attempt to interact with the people. On the third day after Katrina’s landfall, later that evening, the flooding engulfed the Superdome and rising water entered the lower levels of the giant stadium.

At the peak of our distress, at around six in the evening, I’ve heard my name being called out over the loudspeakers.

“Sneezy the Clarinetist! Come to the check point number twenty …” Then again and again. “Sneezy, Sneezy, come down to number twenty …”

Without taking the eye of each other, Irene and I picked our small luggage and made our way downstairs toward the playfield. By then, no elevator or escalator worked and the electricity was on and off making all the services unreliable. Upon our arrival at checkpoint number twenty, a black policeman asked us for our passports. Reading through the pages, he returned them to us and signaled to follow him inside a makeshift cabin.

“Your showbiz partner, Pete Fountain is waiting for you in his shelter at Baton Rouge. I’ve been instructed by my superiors to help you get out of here safely and as soon as possible.”

“Thank God!” I said. “This Superdome has become an inferno in the last day.”

“Sorry about your predicament,” the cop said. “We are ordered by the mayor to assist and remove from here, more than one-hundred international tourists stranded like you in this place. But you are not among them, since you are in Louisiana on a temporary working visa. But your mentor, Pete Fountain knew better. He sent an urgent message to the police headquarters and wants you out of here immediately. He’s waiting for you in Baton Rouge.”

The westward trip by car, along I-10, a major highway across the USA was a great relief, physical and emotional. Irene and I sat in the back holding onto each other and praying. What a disaster we have just been through? But made it out in one piece, thanks to our new friend, an American jazz Giant named Pete Fountain. All this stressful time, we had never considered returning to the hotel to retrieve our personal assets. By then, the entire city was under several feet of water.

Our rescue was achieved first, by a private fishing boat owned by local volunteers. Belonging to the Cajon Navy, a friend of Pete Fountain had offered his services and sailed all the way to the Superdome. After a hair-raising ride among collapsed homes and bridges, floating bodies and dead animals, he delivered us on dry land a few hundred yards from highway I-10. There, another guardian angel, member of the same charitable organization took us in his car, out of New Orleans all the way to Baton Rouge.

“Welcome to America, again!” Pete Fountain greeted us at his lodge on dry land. “I’m very sorry that our reunion had to be interrupted by such a big disaster. But you are still in America and here everyone helps everyone else in need.”

“We’ve noticed it!” Irene said. “Despite a few thuggish acts inside the Superdome, we’ve had nothing but help and moral support.”

“And now I’ll spill the good news,” Pete Fountain said.

“Come on, buddy,” I said, “make my day!”

“New York, New York, do you know the tune?”

“Of course,” I replied. “But I don’t get the connection …”

“Take a seat in the lounge and let me serve you with coffee and pistachio cake, a Cajon recipe my wife is an expert in baking.”

Relaxing for the first time in nearly a week of torment, I sipped my coffee with great delight and devoured one piece of cake after another. Irene was cuddling next to me, ready for some good news for a change. My clarinet idol and jazz Giant took a seat in front of us and started to narrate the latest surprise from Manhattan in New York City. Fully aware of the natural disaster that struck New Orleans and disrupted our successful gig, the charitable Mr. Schwartz made us a new offer.

He had booked Carnegie Hall for two weeks, two concerts a day, one matinee and one evening show. Entitled Clarinet Dwarf and Giant, the venue would offer free advertising and marketing. Many sponsors already rushed in with additional money, and all the profits will be donated to the victims of hurricane Katrina.

“Only in America!” Irene said, filled with emotions.

“God bless America!” I added. “Is there a chance that we might have a life recording during the concert?”

“RCA Victor is already standing by to glorify the European Dwarf and the American Giant,” Pete Fountain said. “As for me, I’ll donate all the fees from the sales of all albums to my brethren in Louisiana. The hurricane has displaced hundreds of thousands of victims and every penny counts.”