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SATCHMO

My Life in New Orleans

Iffy 4tje

by LOUIS ARMSTRONG

Prentice-Hall, Inc. New York

Copyright 1954 by
Louis ARMSTRONG

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
this book, or any portions thereof, in any form, ex
cept for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 54-9628
Printed in the United States of America

First printing October, 1954

Second printing November, 1954

SATCHMO

My Life in New Orleans

1960

JAN 7 1955*

WHEN i WAS BORN in 1900 my father, Willie Arm
strong, and my mother, May Ann or Mayann as she
was called were living on a little street called James
Alley. Only one block long, James Alley is located in
the crowded section of New Orleans known as Back
0* Town. It is one of the four great sections into which
the city is divided. The others are Uptown, Downtown
and Front o' Town, and each of these quarters has its
own little traits.

James Alley not Jane Alley as some people call
it lies in the very heart of what is called The Battle
field because the toughest characters in town used to
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SATCHMO

live there, and would shoot and fight so much. In that
one block between Gravier and Perdido Streets more
people were crowded than you ever saw in your life.
There were churchpeople, gamblers, hustlers, cheap
pimps, thieves, prostitutes and lots of children. There
were bars, honky-tonks and saloons, and lots of women
walking the streets for tricks to take to their "pads," as
they called their rooms.

Mayann told me that the night I was born there
was a great big shooting scrape in the Alley and the two
guys killed each other. It was the Fourth of July, a big
holiday in New Orleans, when almost anything can
happen. Pretty near everybody celebrates with pistols,
shot guns, or any other weapon that's handy.

When I was born my mother and father lived with
my grandmother, Mrs. Josephine Armstrong (bless her
heart!), but they did not stay with her long. They used
to quarrel something awful, and finally the blow came.
My mother moved away, leaving me with grandma.
My father went in another direction to live with an
other woman. My mother went to a place at Liberty
and Perdido Streets in a neighborhood filled with cheap
prostitutes who did not make as much money for their
time as the whores in Storyville, the famous red-light
district. Whether my mother did any hustling, I can
not say. If she did, she certainly kept it out of my sight.
One thing is certain: everybody from the churchfolks
to the lowest roughneck treated her with the greatest
respect. She was glad to say hello to everybody and she

[8]

My Life in New Orleans

always held her head up. She never envied anybody.
I guess I must have inherited this trait from Mayann.

When I was a year old my father went to work in
a turpentine factory out by James Alley, where he
stayed till he died in 1933. He stayed there so long he
almost became a part of the place, and he could hire and
fire the colored guys who worked under him. From the
time my parents separated I did not see my father again
until I had grown to a pretty good size, and I did not see
Mayann for a long time either.

Grandmother sent me to school and she took in
washing and ironing. When I helped her deliver the
clothes to the white folks she would give me a nickel.
Gee, I thought I was rich! Days I did not have to go
to school grandmother took me with her when she had
to do washing and housework for one of the white folks.
While she was working I used to play games with the
little white boys out in the yard. Hide-and-go-seek was
one of the games we used to play, and every time we
played I was It. And every time I would hide those
clever little white kids always found me. That sure
would get my goat. Even when I was at home or in
kindergarten getting my lessons I kept wishing grand
ma would hurry up and go back to her washing job so I
could find a place to hide where they could not find me.

One real hot summer day those little white kids
and myself were having the time of our lives playing
hide-and-go-seek. And of course I was It. I kept won
dering and figuring where, oh where was I going to

[9]

SATCHMO

hide. Finally I looked at grandma who was leaning
over a wash tub working like mad. The placket in the
back of her Mother Hubbard skirt was flopping wide
open. That gave me the idea. I made a mad dash over
to her and got up under her dress before the kids could
find out where I had gone. For a long time I heard
those kids running around and saying "where did he
go?" Just as they were about to give up the search I
stuck my head out of grandma's placket and went
"P-f-f-f-f-f! "

"Oh, there you are. We've found you," they
shouted.

"No siree," I said. "You wouldn't of found me if
I had not stuck my head out."

> Ever since I was a baby I have had great love for
my grandmother. She spent the best of her days raising
me, and teaching me right from wrong. Whenever I
did something she thought I ought to get a whipping
for, she sent me out to get a switch from the big old
Chinaball tree in her yard.

"You have been a bad boy," she would say. "I am
going to give you a good licking."

With tears in my eyes I would go to the tree and
return with the smallest switch I could find. Generally
she would laugh and let me off. However, when she
was really angry she would give me a whipping for
everything wrong I had done for weeks. Mayann must
have adopted this system, for when I lived with her later

[10]

My Life in New Orleans

on she would swing on me just the same way grand
mother did.

I remember my great-grandmother real well too.
She lived to be more than ninety. From her I must have
inherited my energy. Now at fifty-four I feel like a
young man just out of school and eager to go out in
the world to really live my life with my horn.

In those days, of course, I did not know a horn
from a comb. I was going to church regularly for both
grandma and my great-grandmother were Christian
women, and between them they kept me in school,
church and Sunday school. In church and Sunday
school I did a whole lot of singing. That, I guess, is how
I acquired my singing tactics.

I took part in everything that happened at school.
Both the children and the teachers liked me, but I never
wanted to be a teacher's pet. However, even when I
was very young I was conscientious about everything I
did. At church my heart went into every hymn I sang.
I am still a great believer and I go to church whenever
I get the chance.

After two years my father quit the woman he was
living with, and went back to Mayann. The result was
my sister Beatrice, who was later nicknamed "Mama
Lucy." I was still with my grandmother when she was
born, and I did not see her until I was five years old.

One summer there was a terrible drought. It had
not rained for months, and there was not a drop of
water to be found. In those days big cisterns were kept

[11]

SATCHMO

in the yards to catch rain water. When the cisterns
were filled with water it was easy to get all the water
that was needed. But this time the cisterns were empty,
and everybody on James Alley was frantic as the dick
ens. The House of Detention stables on the corner of
James Alley and Gravier Street saved the day. There
was water at the stable, and the drivers let us bring
empty beer barrels and fill them up.

In front of the stables was the House of Detention
itself, occupying a whole square block. There prisoners
were sent with "thirty days to six months." The prison
ers were used to clean the public markets all over the
city, and they were taken to and from their work in
large wagons. Those who worked in the markets had
their sentences reduced from thirty days to nineteen.
In those days New Orleans had fine big horses to pull
the patrol wagons and the Black Maria. I used to look
at those horses and wish I could ride on one some day.
And finally I did. Gee, was I thrilled!

One day when I was getting water along with the
rest of the neighbors on James Alley an elderly lady
who was a friend of Mayann's came to my grand
mother's to tell her that Mayann was very sick and that
she and my dad had broken up again. My mother did
not know where dad was or if he was coming back. She
had been left alone with her baby my sister Beatrice
(or Mama Lucy) with no one to take care of her.
The woman asked grandmother if she would let me go
to Mayann and help out. Being the grand person she

[12]

My Life in New Orleans

was, grandma consented right away to let me go to my
mother's bedside. With tears in her eyes she started to
put my little clothes on me.

"I really hate to let you out of my sight," she said.
"I am so used to having you now/'

"I am sorry to leave you, too, granny," I answered
with a lump in my throat. "But I will come back soon,
I hope. I love you so much, grandma. You have been
so kind and so nice to me, taught me everything I know:
how to take care of myself, how to wash myself and
brush my teeth, put my clothes away, mind the older
folks."

She patted me on the back, wiped her eyes and then
wiped mine. Then she kind of nudged me very gently
toward the door to say good-bye. She did not know
when I would be back. I didn't either. But my mother
was sick, and she felt I should go to her side.

The woman took me by the hand and slowly led
me away. When we were in the street I suddenly broke
into tears. As long as we were in James Alley I could
see Grandma Josephine waving good-bye to me. We
turned the corner to catch the Tulane Avenue trolley,
just in front of the House of Detention. I stood there
sniffling, when all of a sudden the woman turned me
round to see the huge building.

"Listen here, Louis," she said. "If you don't stop
crying at once I will put you in that prison. That's
where they keep bad men and women. You don't want
to go there, do you?"

[13]

SATCHMO

"Oh, no, lady."

Seeing how big this place was I said to myself:
"Maybe I had better stop crying. After all I don't know
this woman and she is liable to do what she said. You
never know."

I stopped crying at once. The trolley came and
we got on.

It was my first experience with Jim Crow. I was
just five, and I had never ridden on a street car before.
Since I was the first to get on, I walked right up to the
front of the car without noticing the signs on the backs
of the seats on both sides, which read: FOR COLORED
PASSENGERS ONLY. Thinking the woman was fol
lowing me, I sat down in one of the front seats. How
ever, she did not join me, and when I turned to see
what had happened, there was no lady. Looking all
the way to the back of the car, I saw her waving to me
frantically. >

"Come here, boy," she cried. "Sit where you be
long."

I thought she was kidding me so I stayed where
I was, sort of acting cute. What did I care where she
sat? Shucks, that woman came up to me and jerked me
out of the seat. Quick as a flash she dragged me to the
back of the car and pushed me into one of the rear seats.
Then I saw the signs on the backs of the seats saying:
FOR COLORED PASSENGERS ONLY.

"What do those signs say?" I asked.

[14]

My Life in New Orleans

"Don't ask so many questionsl Shut your mouth,
you little fool."

There is something funny about those signs on
the street cars in New Orleans. We colored folks used
to get real kicks out of them when we got on a car at
the picnic grounds or at Canal Street on a Sunday eve
ning when we outnumbered the white folks. Auto
matically we took the whole car over, sitting as far up
front as we wanted to. It felt good to sit up there once
in a while. We felt a little more important than usual.
I can't explain why exactly, but maybe it was because
we weren't supposed to be up there.

When the car stopped at the corner of Tulane and
Liberty Streets the woman said:

"All right, Louis. This is where we get off."

As we got off the car I looked straight down Liberty
Street. Crowds of people were moving up and down as
far as my eyes could see. It reminded me of James
Alley, I thought, and if it weren't for grandma I would
not miss the Alley much. However, I kept these
thoughts to myself as we walked the two blocks to the
house where Mayann was living. In a single room in
a back courtyard she had to cook, wash, iron and take
care of my baby sister. My first impression was so vivid
that I remember it as if it was yesterday. I did not
know what to think. All I knew was that I was with
mama and that I loved her as much as grandma. My
poor mother lay there before my eyes, very, very sick . . .

[15]

SATCHMO

Oh God, a very funny feeling came over me and I felt
like I wanted to cry again.

"So you did come to see your mother?" she said.

"Yes, mama."

"I was afraid grandma wouldn't let you. After all
I realize I have not done what I should by you. But,
son, mama will make it up. If it weren't for that no-
good father of yours things would have gone better. I
try to do the best I can. I am all by myself with my
baby. You are still young, son, and have a long ways
to go. Always remember when you're sick nobody ain't
going to give you nothing. So try to stay healthy. Even
without money your health is the best thing. I want
you to promise me you will take a physic at least once
a week as long as you live. Will you promise?"

"Yes, mother," I said.

"Good! Then hand me those pills in the top
dresser drawer. They are in the box that says Coal
Roller Pills. They're little bitty black pills."

The pills looked like Carter's Little Liver Pills,
only they were about three times as black. After I had
swallowed the three my mother handed me, the woman
who had brought me said she had to leave.

"Now that your kid is here I've got to go home and
cook my old man's supper."

When she had gone I asked mama if there was
anything I could do for her.

"Yes," she said. "Look under the carpet and get
that fifty cents. Go down to Zattermann's, on Rampart

[16]

My Life in New Orleans

Street, and get me a slice of meat, a pound of red beans
and a pound of rice. Stop at Stable's Bakery and buy
two loaves of bread for a nickel. And hurry back, son."

It was the first time I had been out in the city with
out my grandma's guidance, and I was proud that my
mother trusted me to go as far as Rampart Street. I
was determined to do exactly as she said.

When I came out of the back court to the front of
the house I saw a half a dozen ragged, snot-nosed kids
standing on the sidewalk. I said hello to them very
pleasantly.

After all I had come from James Alley which was
a very tough spot and I had seen some pretty rough fel
lows. However, the boys in the Alley had been taught
how to behave in a nice way and to respect other people.
Everyone said good morning and good evening, asked
their blessings before meals and said their prayers.
Naturally I figured all the kids everywhere had the same
training.

When they saw how clean and nicely dressed I was
they crowded around me.

"Hey, you. Are you a mama's boy?" one of them
asked.

"A mama's boy? What does that mean?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's what you are. A mama's boy."

"I don't understand. What do you mean?"

A big bully called One Eye Bud came pretty close
up on me and looked over my white Lord Fauntleroy
suit with its Buster Brown collar.

[17]

SATCHMO

"So you don't understand, huh? Well, that's just
too bad/'

Then he scooped up a big handful of mud and
threw it on the white suit I loved so much. I only had
two. The other little ashy-legged, dirty-faced boys
laughed while I stood there splattered with mud and
rather puzzled what to do about it. I was young, but I
saw the odds were against me; if I started a fight I knew
I would be licked.

"What's the matter, mama's boy, don't you like
it?" One Eye Bud asked me.

"No, I don't like it."

Then before I knew what I was doing, and before
any of them could get ready, I jumped at him and
smashed the little snot square in the mouth. I was
scared and I hit as hard as I possibly could. I had his
mouth and nose bleeding plenty. Those kids were so
surprised by what I had done that they tore out as fast
as they could go with One Eye Bud in the lead. I was
too dumbfounded to run after them and besides I
didn't want to.

I was afraid Mayann would hear the commotion
and hurt herself struggling out of bed. Luckily she
did not, and I went off to do my errands.

When I came back mother's room was filled with
visitors: a crowd of cousins I had never seen. Isaac
Miles, Aaron Miles, Jerry Miles, Willie Miles, Louisa
Miles, Sarah Ann Miles, Flora Miles (who was a baby)

[18]

My Life in New Orleans

and Uncle Ike Miles were all waiting to see their new
cousin, as they put it.

"Louis/* my mother said, "I want you to meet
some more of your family."

Gee, I thought, all of these people are my cousins?

Uncle Ike Miles was the father of all those kids.
His wife had died and left them on his hands to sup
port, and he did a good job. To take care of them he
worked on the levees unloading boats. He did not make
much money and his work was not regular, but most
of the time he managed to keep the kids eating and put
clean shirts on their backs. He lived in one room with
all those children, and somehow or other he managed
to pack them all in. He put as many in the bed as it
would hold, and the rest slept on the floor. God bless
Uncle Ike. If it weren't for him I do not know what
Mama Lucy and I would have done because when May-
ann got the urge to go out on the town we might not
see her for days and days. When this happened she
always dumped us into Uncle Ike's lap.

In his room I would sleep between Aaron and Isaac
while Mama Lucy slept between Flora and Louisa.
Because the kids were so lazy they would not wash their
dishes we ate out of some tin pans Uncle Ike bought.
They used to break china plates so they would not have
to clean them.

Uncle Ike certainly had his hands full with those
kids. They were about as worthless as any kids I have
ever seen, but we grew up together just the same.

[19]

SATCHMO

As I have said my mother always kept me and
Mama Lucy physic minded.

"A slight physic once or twice a week," she used to
say, "will throw off many symptoms and germs that con
gregate from nowheres in your stomach. We can't af
ford no doctor for fifty cents or a dollar."

With that money she could cook pots of red beans
and rice, and with that regime we did not have any sick
ness at all. Of course a child who grew up in my part
of New Orleans went barefooted practically all the
time. We were bound to pick up a nail, a splinter or
a piece of glass sometimes. But we were young, healthy
and tough as old hell so a little thing like lockjaw did
not stay with us a long time.

Mother and some of her neighbors would go to
the railroad tracks and fill baskets with pepper grass.
She would boil this until it got really gummy and rub
it on the wound. Then within two or three hours we
kids would get out of bed and be playing around the
streets as though nothing had happened.

As the old saying goes, "the Lord takes care of
fools," and just think of the dangers we kids were in
at all times. In our neighborhood there were always a
number .of houses being torn down or built and they
were full of such rubbish as tin cans, nails, boards,
broken bottles and window panes. We used to play in
these houses, and one of the games we played was War,
because we had seen so much of it in the movies. Of
course we did not know anything about it, but we de-

[20]

My Life in New Orleans

cided to appoint officers of different ranks anyway. One
Eye Bud made himself General of the Army. Then he
made me Sergeant-at-Arms. When I asked him what I
had to do he told me that whenever a man was wounded
I had to go out on the battlefield and lead him off.

One day when I was taking a wounded comrade off
the field a piece of slate fell off a roof and landed on my
head. It knocked me out cold and shocked me so bad
I got lockjaw. When I was taken home Mama Lucy and
Mayann worked frantically boiling up herbs and roots
which they applied to my head. Then they gave me a
glass of Pluto Water, put me to bed and sweated me out
good all night long. The next morning I was on my
way to school just as though nothing had happened.

121]

efaftt&t 2

AFTER A WEEK OR TWO mother recovered and went
to work for some rich white folks on Canal Street, back
by the City Park cemeteries. I was happy to see her
well again, and I began to notice what was going on
around me, especially in the honky-tonks in the neigh
borhood because they were so different from those in
James Alley, which only had a piano. On Liberty,
Perdido, Franklin and Poydras there were honky-tonks
at every corner and in each one of them musical instru
ments of all kinds were played. At the corner of the
street where I lived was the famous Funky Butt Hall,
[22]

My Life in New Orleans

where I first heard Buddy Bolden play. He was blow
ing up a storm.

That neighborhood certainly had a lot to offer.
Of course, we kids were not allowed to go into the
Funky Butt, but we could hear the orchestra from the
sidewalk. In those days it was the routine when there
was a ball for the band to play for at least a half hour
in the front of the honky-tonk before going back into
the hall to play for the dancers. This was done in all
parts of the city to draw people into the hall, and it
usually worked,

Old Buddy Bolden blew so hard that I used to
wonder if I would ever have enough lung power to
fill one of those cornets. All in all Buddy Bolden was
a great musician, but I think he blew too hard. I will
even go so far as to say that he did not blow correctly.
In any case he finally went crazy. You can figure that
out for yourself.

You really heard music when Bunk Johnson
played the cornet with the Eagle Band. I was young,
but I could tell the difference. These were the men in
his orchestra:

Bunk Johnson cornet.

Frankie Ducson trombone.

Bob Lyons bass fiddle.

Henry Zeno drums.

Bill Humphrey clarinet.

Danny Lewis bass violin.
You heard real music when you heard these guys.

[23]

SATCHMO

Of course Buddy Bolden had the biggest reputation,
but even as a small kid I believed in finesse, even in
music.

The king of all the musicians was Joe Oliver, the
finest trumpeter who ever played in New Orleans. He
had only one competitor. That was Bunk and he
rivaled Oliver in tone only. No one had the fire and
the endurance Joe had. No one in jazz has created as
much music as he has. Almost everything important
in music today came from him. That is why they called
him "King," and he deserved the title. Musicians from
all over the world used to come to hear Joe Oliver when
he was playing at the Lincoln Gardens in Chicago, and
he never failed to thrill them.

I was just a little punk kid when I first saw him,
but his first words to me were nicer than everything
that I've heard from any of the bigwigs of music.

Of course at the age of five I was not playing the
trumpet, but there was something about the instru
ment that caught my ears. When I was in church and
when I was "second lining" that is, following the
brass bands in parades I started to listen carefully to
the different instruments, noticing the things they
played and how they played them. That is how I
learned to distinguish the differences between Buddy
Bolden, King Oliver and Bunk Johnson. Of the three
Bunk Johnson had the most beautiful tone, the best
imagination and the softest sense of phrasing.

Today people think that Bunk taught me to play

[24]

My Life in New Orleans

the trumpet because our tones are somewhat similar.
That, however, is all that we have in common, To me
Joe Oliver's tone is just as good as Bunk's. And he had
such range and such wonderful creations in his soull
He created some of the most famous phrases you hear
today, and trends to work from. As I said before,
Bolden was a little too rough, and he did not move me
at all.

Next to Oliver and Bunk were Buddy Petit, a
Creole youngster, and Joe Johnson. Both played the
cornet, and unluckily both died young. The world
should have heard them.

^Mayann enrolled me at the Fisk School, at the
corner of Franklin and Perdido Streets. I was an active
youngster and anxious to do the right thing, and I
did not stay in the kindergarten long but was soon in
the second grade. I could read the newspaper to the
older folk in my neighborhood who helped mama to
raise me. As I grew older I began to sell newspapers
so as to help mother to make both ends meet. By run
ning with the older boys I soon began to get hep to the
tip. When we were not selling papers we shot dice for
pennies or played a little coon can or blackjack. I got
to be a pretty slick player and I could hold my own
with the other kids. Some nights I would come home
with my pockets loaded with pennies, nickels, dimes
and even quarters. Mother, sister and I would have
enough money to go shopping. Now and then I even
bought mother a new dress, and occasionally I got my-

[25]

SATCHMO

self a pair of short pants in one of the shops on Ram
part Street. Of course I could not get a pair of shoes,
but as we went barefoot that did not matter. Instead
of a shirt I wore a blue cotton jumper, a kind of sport
jacket worn over suspenders.

Before I lucked up on store trousers I used to wear
my "stepfathers' " trousers, rolling them up from the
bottom so that they looked like plus fours or knickers.

Mayann had enough "stepfathers" to furnish me
with plenty of trousers. All I had to do was turn my
back and a new "pappy" would appear. Some of them
were fine guys, but others were low lives, particularly
one named Albert. Slim was not much better, but the
worst of all was Albert. One day Albert and my mother
were sitting on the bank of the old basin canal near
Galves Street quarreling about something while I was
playing near by. Suddenly he called her a "black bitch"
and knocked her into the water with a blow in her face.
Then he walked off without even looking back. My
God, was I frantic! While Mayann was screaming in the
water, with her face all bloody, I began to holler for
help at the top of my voice. People ran up and pulled
her out, but what a moment that was! I have never
forgiven that man, and if I ever see him again I will kill
him. However, I have been in New Orleans many
times since that day, and I have never run into him.
Old timers tell me he is dead.

The nicest of my stepfathers I can remember at
least six was Gabe. He was not as highly educated or

[26]

My Life in New Orleans

as smart as the others, but he had good common sense.
That was what counted for me in those days. I liked
stepfather Gabe a lot. As for stepfather Slim, he was
not a bad guy, but he drank too much. One day he
would be nice, and the next he would beat Mayann up.
Never when I was there, however. I never forgot tfe
experience with stepfather Albert, and I would neve*-
let anyone lay a hand on my mother without doing
my best to help her.

When Mayann took up with Slim I was getting
to be a big boy. Everyday there were fights, fights be
tween whores, toughs, and even children. Some house
in the district was always being torn down, and plenty
of bricks were handy. Whenever two guys got into a
quarrel they would run to the nearest rubbish pile and
start throwing bricks at each other. Seeing these fights
going on all the time, we kids adopted the same method.

One morning at ten o'clock Slim and Mayann had
started to fight at Gravier and Franklin Streets. While
they were fighting they went down Franklin until they
reached Kid Brown's honky-tonk. The porter was
sweeping the place out and the door was open. Slim
and Mayann stumbled, still fighting, into the bar,
around the piano and on the dance floor in the rear.
While this was going on a friend of mine named
Cocaine Buddy rushed up to me as I was leaving school
during recess.

"Hurry up, Dipper (that was my nickname
short for Dippermouth, from the piece called Dipper*

[271

SATCHMO

mouth Blues)" he said, "some guy is beating your
mother up."

I dropped my books and tore off to the battle.
When I got to Kid Brown's they were still at it fighting
their way out into the street again.

"Leave my mother alone. Leave my mother
alone," I shouted.

Since he did not stop an idea popped into my
mind: get some bricks. It did not take me a minute,
and when I started throwing the bricks at him I did
not waste a one. As a pitcher Satchel Paige had nothing
on me.

"Run like hell! Slim will jump you," everybody
cried.

There was no danger. One of the bricks caught
Slim in the side and he doubled up. He was not going
to run after me or anyone else. His pain got worse and
he had to be taken to the Charity Hospital near by. I
have never seen Slim again. He was a pretty good blues
player, but aside from that we did not have much in
common. And I did not particularly like his style.

As I grew up around Liberty and Perdido I ob
served everything and everybody. I loved all those
people and they loved me. The good ones and the bad
ones all thought that Little Louis (as they called me)
was O.K. I stayed in my place, I respected everybody
and I was never rude or sassy. Mayann and grand
mother taught me that. Of course my father did not

[28]

My Life in New Orleans

have time to teach me anything; he was too busy chas
ing chippies.

My real dad was a sharp man, tall and handsome
and well built. He made the chicks swoon when he
marched by as the grand marshal in the Odd Fellows
parade. I was very proud to see him in his uniform and
his high hat with the beautiful streamer hanging down
by his side. Yes, he was a fine figure of a man, my dad.
Or at least that is the way he seemed to me as a kid
when he strutted by like a peacock at the head of the
Odd Fellows parade.

When Mayann was living with stepfather Tom he
was working at the DeSoto Hotel on Barrone and Per-
dido Streets. When he came home he brought with
him a lot of "broken arms" which were the left overs
from the tables he served. From them Mayann would
fix a delicious lunch for me which I took to school when
her work kept her away from home all day long. When
I undid these wonders in the schoolyard, all the kids
would gather around me like hungry wolves. It did not
take them long to discover what I had: the best steaks,
chops, chicken, eggs, a little of everything that was
good.

One day while I was eating my lunch the crowd
of kids gathered around me suddenly backed away and
scattered in all directions. Wondering what was going
on, I raised my eyes and saw One Eye Bud and his gang,
the same gang I had the fight with on the day mama
sent me to the grocery on Rampart Street. I did not

[29]

SATCHMO

show any signs of being afraid and waited for them to
come up close to me. I expected there would be
trouble, but instead one of them spoke to me politely.

"Hello, Dipper."

"Hello, boys. How are you?" I answered as though
I was not nervous. "Have a piece of my sandwich?"

They turned into my lunch as though they had
not eaten for ages. That did not worry me. Bad as
they were I was glad to see them enjoy themselves.
Afterwards we became good friends and they never
bothered me again. Not only that, but they saw to it
that no one else bothered me either. They were tough
kids, all right. And to think that they thought I was
tough still tickles me pink right to this day.

Old Mrs. Martin was the caretaker of the Fisk
School, and along with her husband she did a good job.
They were loved by everybody in the neighborhood.
Their family was a large one, and two of the boys turned
out to be good and real popular musicians. Henry
Martin was the drummer in the famous Kid Dry's band
which Mrs. Cole engaged for her lawn parties. She ran
them two or three times a week, and it was almost im
possible to get in if Kid Ory's orchestra was playing.
Kootchy Martin was a fine pianist, and the father
played the violin beautifully. I do not remember the
father very well because he left New Orleans when I
was very young. He was involved in the terrible race
riot in East Saint Louis and has never been heard from
since.

[30]

My Life in New Orleans

My friend was Walter Martin. I got to know him
very well because we used to work together in the good
old honky-tonk days. Walter was a fine guy, and he had
one of the nicest dispositions that's ever been in any
human being.

-*Mrs. Martin had three beautiful daughters with
light skins of the Creole type: Orleania, Alice and Wil-
helmina. The two oldest married. I was in love with
Wilhelmina, but the poor child died before I got up
the nerve to tell her. She was so kind and sweet that
she had loads of admirers. I had an inferiority complex
and felt that I was not good enough for her. I would
give anything to be able to see her again. When she
smiled at me the whole world would light up. Old Mrs.
Martin is still living, as spry as ever at eighty, God
bless her. She always had some kind of consolation for
the underdog who would rap at her door and she could
always find a bite to eat for him somewhere.

Across the street from where we lived was Elder
Cozy's church. He was the most popular preacher in
the neighborhood and he attracted people from other
parts of the city as well. I can still remember the night
mama took me to his church. Elder Cozy started to get
warmed up and then he hit his stride. It was not long
before he had the whole church rocking. Mama got so
happy and so excited that she knocked me off the bench
as she shouted and swayed back and forth. She was a
stout woman and she became so excited that it took
six of the strongest brothers to grab hold of her and

[31]

SATCHMO

pacify her. I was just a kid and I did not dig at that
time. I laughed myself silly, and when mama and I
reached home she gave me hell.

"You little fool," she said. "What did you mean
by laughing when you saw me being converted?*'

After that mama really got religion. I saw her
baptized in the Mississippi where she was ducked in the
water so many times that I thought she was going to
be drowned. The baptism worked: Mayann kept her
religion.

When I sold papers I got them from a fine white
boy named Charles, who was about four years older
than I. He thought a lot of me, and he used to give me
advice about life and how to take care of myself. I told
him about the little quartet in which I sang and about
how much money we made when we passed the hat.
He was worried because I was going down to the red-
light district at my age and singing for pimps and
whores. I explained that there was more money to be
made there, and that the people were crazy about our
singing. This reassured him. I continued to sell papers
for Charles until I was arrested on a New Year's Day
for carrying an old pistol which one of my stepfathers
had hidden in the house during the celebration.

NEW ORLEANS CELEBRATES the period from Christ
mas through the New Year jubilantly, with torch light
processions and firing off Roman candles. In those days
we used to shoot off guns and pistols or anything loud
so as to make as much noise as possible. Guns, of
course, were not allowed officially, and we had to keep
an eye on the police to see that we were not pulled in
for toting one. That is precisely what happened to me,
and as a matter of fact that is what taught me how to
play the trumpet.

I had found that .38 pistol in the bottom of May-
ann's old cedar trunk. Naturally she did not know that
[53]

SATCHMO

I had taken it with me that night when I went out to
sing.

First I must explain how our quartet used to do its
hustling so as to attract an audience. We began by
walking down Rampart Street between Perdido and
Gravier. The lead singer and the tenor walked together
in front followed by the baritone and the bass. Singing
at random we wandered through the streets until some
one called to us to sing a few songs. Afterwards we
would pass our hats and at the end of the night we
would diwy up. Most of the time we would draw down
a nice little taste. Then I would make a bee line for
home and dump my share into mama's lap.

Little Mack, our lead singer, later became one of
the best drummers in New Orleans. Big Nose Sidney
was the bass. Redhead Happy Bolton was the baritone.
Happy was also a drummer and the greatest showman
of them all, as all the old-timers will tell you. As for
me, I was the tenor. I used to put my hand behind my
ear, and move my mouth from side to side, and some
beautiful tones would appear. Being young, I had a
high voice and it stayed that way until I got out of the
orphanage into which I was about to be thrown.

As usual we were walking down Rampart Street,
just singing and minding our own business, when all
of a sudden a guy on the opposite side of the street
pulled out a little old six-shooter pistol and fired it off.
Dy-Dy-Dy-Dy-Dy-Dy.

"Go get him, Dipper/' my gang said.

[34]

My Life in New Orleans

Without hesitating I pulled out my stepfather's
revolver from my bosom and raised my arm into the air
and let her go. Mine was a better gun than the kid's
and the six shots made more noise. The kid was fright
ened and cut out and was out of sight like a jack rabbit.
We all laughed about it and started down the street
again, singing as we walked along.

Further down on Rampart Street I reloaded my
gun and started to shoot again up into the air, to the
great thrill of my companions. I had just finished firing
my last blank cartridge when a couple of strong arms
came from behind me. It was cold enough that night,
but I broke out into a sweat that was even colder. My
companions cut out and left me, and I turned around
to see a tall white detective who had been watching me
fire my gun. Oh boy! I started crying and making all
kinds of excuses.

"Please, mister, don't arrest me. . . I won't do it
no more. . . Please. . . Let me go back to mama. . . I
won't do it no more."

It was no use. The man did not let me go. I was
taken to the Juvenile Court, and then locked up in a
cell where, sick and disheartened, I slept on a hard bed
until the next morning.

I was frightened when I woke. What were they
going to do to me? Where were they going to send me?
I had no idea what a Waifs' Home was. How long
would I have to stay there? How serious was it to fire
off a pistol in the street? Oh, I had a million minds,

[35]

SATCHMO

and I could not pacify any of them. I was scared, more
scared than I was the day Jack Johnson knocked out
Jim Jeffries. That day I was going to get my supply of
papers from Charlie, who employed a good many
colored boys like myself. On Canal Street I saw a crowd
of colored boys running like mad toward me.

I asked one of them what had happened.

"You better get started, black boy," he said breath
lessly as he started to pull me along. "Jack Johnson
has just knocked out Jim Jeffries. The white boys are
sore about it and they're going to take it out on us."

He did not have to do any urging. I lit out and
passed the other boys in a flash. I was a fast runner, and
when the other boys reached our neighborhood I was
at home looking calmly out of the window. The next
day the excitement had blown over.

But to return to the cell in which they had kept
me all night for celebrating with my stepfather's old
.38 revolver, the door was opened about ten o'clock
by a man carrying a bunch of keys.

"Louis Armstrong?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"This way. You are going out to the Colored
Waifs' Home for Boys."

When I went out in the yard a wagon like the
Black Maria at the House of Detention was waiting
with two fine horses to pull it. A door with a little bitty
grilled window was slammed behind me and away I

[36]

My Life in New Orleans

went, along with several other youngsters who had been
arrested for doing the same thing I had done.

The Waifs' Home was an old building which had
apparently formerly been used for another purpose.
It was located in the country opposite a great big dairy
farm where hundreds of cows, bulls, calves and a few
horses were standing. Some were eating, and some
prancing around like they wanted to tell somebody,
anybody, how good they felt. The average square
would automatically say those animals were all loco,
to be running like that, but for me they wanted to ex
press themselves as being very happy, gay, and con
tented.

When I got out of the wagon with the other boys
the first thing I noticed was several large trees standing
before the building. A very lovely odor was swinging
across my nostrils.

"What flowers are those that smell so good?" I
asked.

"Honeysuckles," was the answer.

I fell in love with them, and I'm ready to get a
whiff of them any time.

The inmates were having their lunch. We walked
down a long corridor leading to the mess hall where a
long line of boys was seated eating white beans with
out rice out of tin plates. They gave me the rooky
greeting saying, "Welcome, newcomer. Welcome to
your new home." I was too depressed to answer. When
I sat down at the end of the table I saw a plate full of

[37]

SATCHMO

beans being passed in my direction. In times that I
didn't have a care in the world I would have annihilated
those beans. But this time I only pushed them away.
I did the same thing for several days. The keepers, Mr.
and Mrs. Jones and Mr. Alexander and Mr. Peter
Davis, saw me refuse these meals, but they did not say
anything about it. On the fourth day I was so hungry
I was first at the table. Mr. Jones and his colleagues
gave me a big laugh. I replied with a sheepish grin.
I did not share their sense of humor; it did not blend
with mine.

The keepers were all colored. Mr. Jones, a young
man who had recently served in the cavalry, drilled us
every morning in the court in front of the Waifs'
Home, and we were taught the manual of arms with
wooden guns.

Mr. Alexander taught the boys how to do carpen
try, how to garden and how to build camp fires. Mr.
Peter Davis taught music and gave vocational training.
Each boy had the right to choose the vocation which
interested him.

Quite naturally I would make a bee line to Mr.
Davis and his music. Music has been in my blood from
the day I was born. Unluckily at first I did not get on
very well with Mr. Davis because he did not like the
neighborhood I came from. He thought that only the
toughest kids came from Liberty and Perdido Streets.
They were full of honky-tonks, toughs and fancy wo
men. Furthermore, the Fisk School had a bad reputa-

[38]

My Life in New Orleans

tion. Mr. Davis thought that since I had been raised
in such bad company I must also be worthless. From
the start he gave me a very hard way to go, and I kept
my distance. One day I broke an unimportant rule,
and he gave me fifteen hard lashes on the hand. After
that I was really scared of him for a long time.

Our life was regulated by bugle calls. A kid blew
a bugle for us to get up, to go to bed and to come to
meals. The last call was the favorite with us all.
Whether they were cutting trees a mile away or build
ing a fire under the great kettle in the yard to scald our
dirty clothes, the boys would hot foot it back to the
Home when they heard the mess call. I envied the
bugler because he had more chances to use his instru
ment than anyone else.

When the orchestra practiced with Mr. Davis, who
was a good teacher, I listened very carefully, but I did
not dare go near the band though I wanted to in the
worst way. I was afraid Mr. Davis would bawl me out
or give me a few more lashes. He made me feel he
hated the ground I walked on, so I would sit in a corner
and listen, enjoying myself immensely.

The little brass band was very good, and Mr.
Davis made the boys play a little of every kind of music.
I had never tried to play the cornet, but while listening
to the band every day I remembered Joe Oliver, Bolden
and Bunk Johnson. And I had an awful urge to learn
the cornet. But Mr. Davis hated me. Furthermore I
did not know how long they were going to keep me at

[39]

SATCHMO

the Home. The judge had condemned me for an in
definite period which meant that I would have to stay
there until he set me free or until some important white
person vouched for me and for my mother and father.
That was my only chance of getting out of the Waifs'
Home fast. So I had plenty of time to listen to the band
and wish I could learn to play the cornet.

Finally, through Mr. Jones, I got a chance to sing
in the school. My first teacher was Miss Spriggins.
Then I was sent to Mrs. Vigne, who taught the higher
grades.

As the days rolled by, Mr. Davis commenced to
lighten up on his hatred of me. Occasionally I would
catch his eye meeting with mine. I would turn away,
but he would catch them again and give me a slight
smile of approval which would make me feel good in
side. From then on whenever Mr. Davis spoke to me
or smiled I was happy. Gee, what a feeling that com
ing from him! I was beginning to adapt myself to the
place, and since I had to stay there for a long time I
thought I might as well adjust myself. I did.

Six months went by. We were having supper of
black molasses and a big hunk of bread which after all
that time seemed just as good as a home cooked chicken
dinner. Just as we were about to get up from the table
Mr. Davis slowly came over and stopped by me.

"Louis Armstrong," he said, "how would you like
to join our brass band?' ' v

I was so speechless and so surprised I just could

[40]

My Life in New Orleans

not answer him right away. To make sure that I had
understood him he repeated his question,

"Louis Armstrong, I asked if you would like to
join our brass band."

"I certainly would, Mr. Davis. I certainly would/'
I stammered.

He patted me on the back and said:

"Wash up and come to rehearsal,"

While I was washing I could not think of anything
but of my good luck in finally getting a chance to play
the cornet. I got soap in my eyes but didn't pay any
attention to it. I thought of what the gang would say
when they saw me pass through the neighborhood
blowing a cornet, I already pictured myself playing
with all the power and endurance of a Bunk, Joe or
Bolden. When I was washed I rushed to the rehearsal.

"Here I am, Mr. Davis."

To my surprise he handed me a tambourine, the
little thing you tap with your fingers like a miniature
drum. So that was the end of my beautiful dream!
But I did not say a word. Taking the tambourine, I
started to whip it in rhythm with the band. Mr. Davis
was so impressed he immediately changed me to the
drums. He must have sensed that I had the beat he was
looking for.

They were playing At the Animals' Ball, a tune
that was very popular in those days and which had a
break right in the channel. When the break came I
made it a real good one and a fly one at that. All the

[41]

SATCHMO

boys yelled "Hooray for Louis Armstrong." Mr. Davis
nodded with approval which was all I needed. His
approval was all important for any boy who wanted a
musical career.

"You are very good, Louis," he said. "But I need
an alto player. How about trying your luck?"

"Anything you like, Mr. Davis/ 1 I answered with
all the confidence in the world.

He handed me an alto. I had been singing for a
number of years and my instinct told me that an alto
takes a part in a band same as a baritone or tenor in a
quartet. I played my part on the alto very well.

As soon as the rehearsal was over, the bugle blew
for bed. All the boys fell into line and were drilled up
to the dormitory by the band. In the dormitory we
could talk until nine o'clock when the lights were
turned out and everybody had to be quiet and go to
sleep. Nevertheless we used to whisper in low voices
taking care we did not attract the attention of the
keepers who slept downstairs near Mr. and Mrs. Jones.
Somebody would catch a licking if we talked too loud
and brought one of the keepers upstairs.

In the morning when the bugle blew / Can't Get
'Em Up we jumped out of bed and dressed as quickly
as possible because our time was limited. They knew
just how long it should take, they'd been in the business
so long. If any one was late he had to have a good ex
cuse or he would have to hold out his hand for a lashing.

It was useless to try to run away from the Waifs'

[42]

My Life in New Orleans

Home. Anyone who did was caught in less than a
week's time. One night while we were asleep a boy tied
about half a dozen sheets together. He greased his body
so that he could slip through the wooden bars around
the dormitory. He let himself down to the ground and
disappeared. None of us understood how he had suc
ceeded in doing it, and we were scared to death that we
would be whipped for having helped him. On the con
trary, nothing happened. All the keepers said after his
disappearance was:

"He'll be back soon."

They were right. He was caught and brought
back in less than a week. He was all nasty and dirty
from sleeping under old houses and wherever else he
could and eating what little he could scrounge. The
police had caught him and turned him over to the
Juvenile Court.

Not a word was said to him during the first day
he was back. We all wondered what they were going
to do to him, and we thought that perhaps they were
going to give him a break. When the day was over the
bugle boy sounded taps, and we all went up to the
dormitory. The keepers waited until we were all un
dressed and ready to put on our pajamas.

At that moment Mr. Jones shouted:

"Hold it, boys."

Then he looked at the kid who had run away.

"I want everyone to put on their pajamas except

[43]

SATCHMO

that young man. He ran away, and he has to pay for
it."

We all cried, but it was useless. Mr. Jones called
the four strongest boys in the dormitory to help him.
He made two of them hold the culprit's legs and the
other two his arms in such a way that he could only
move his buttocks. To these writhing naked buttocks
Mr. Jones gave one hundred and five lashes. All of the
boys hollered, but the more we hollered the harder he
hit. It was a terrible thing to watch the poor kid suffer.
He could not sit down for over two weeks.

I saw several fools try to run away, but after what
happened to that first boy I declined the idea.

One day we were out on the railroad tracks pick
ing up worn-out ties which the railroad company gave
to the Waifs' Home for fire wood. Two boys were
needed to carry each tie. In our bunch was a boy of
about eighteen from a little Louisiana town called
Houma. You could tell he was a real country boy by
the way he murdered the King's English. We called
him Houma after his home town.

We were on our way back to the Home, which was
about a mile down the road. Among us was a boy about
eighteen or nineteen years old named Willie Davis and
he was the fastest runner in the place. Any kid who
thought he could outrun Willie Davis was crazy. But
the country boy did not know what a good runner
Davis was.

About a half mile from the Home we heard one

[44]

My Life in New Orleans

of the ties drop. Before we realized what had happened
we saw Houma sprinting down the road, but he was
headed in the wrong direction. When he was about a
hundred yards away Mr. Alexander saw him and called
Willie Davis.

"Go get him, Willie."

Willie was after Houma like a streak of lightning
while we all stood open-mouthed, wondering if Willie
would be able to catch up. Houma speeded up a little
when he saw that Willie was after him, but he was no
match for the champ and Willie soon caught him.

Here is the pay-off.

When Willie slapped his hand on Houma's shoul
der and stopped him, Willie said:

"Come on kid. You gotta go back."

"What's the matter?" Houma said. "Ah wasn't
gwine no whars."

After the five hundred lashes Houma did not try
to run away again. Finally some important white folks
for whom Houma's parents worked sent for the kid and
had him shipped back home with an honorable dis
charge. We got a good laugh out of that one. "Ah
wasn't gwine no whars."

As time went on I commenced being the most
popular boy in the Home. Seeing how much Mr. Davis
liked me and the amount of time he gave me, the boys
began to warm up to me and take me into their con
fidence.

One day the young bugler's mother and father,

[45]

SATCHMO

who had gotten his release, came to take him home.
The minute he left Mr. Davis gave me his place. I took
up the bugle at once and began to shine it up. The
other bugler had never shined the instrument and the
brass was dirty and green. The kids gave me a big hand
when they saw the gleaming bright instrument instead
of the old filthy green one.

I felt real proud of my position as bugler. I would
stand very erect as I would put the bugle nonchalantly
to my lips and blow real mellow tones. The whole
place seemed to change. Satisfied with my tone Mr.
Davis gave me a cornet and taught me how to play
Home, Sweet Home. Then I was in seventh heaven.
Unless I was dreaming, my ambition had been realized.

Every day I practiced faithfully on the lesson Mr.
Davis gave me. I became so good on the cornet that one
day Mr. Davis said to me:

"Louis, I am going to make you leader of the
band."

I jumped straight into the air, with Mr. Davis
watching me, and ran to the mess room to tell the boys
the good news. They were all rejoiced with me. Now
at last I was not only a musician but a band leader!
Now I would get a chance to go out in the streets and
see Mayann and the gang that hung around Liberty and
Perdido Streets. The band often got a chance to play
at a private picnic or join one of the frequent parades
through the streets of New Orleans covering all parts of
the city, Uptown, Back o' Town, Front o' Town, Down-

[46]

My Life in New Orleans

town. The band was even sent to play in the West End
and Spanish Fort, our popular summer resorts, and also
at Milenburg and Little Woods.

The band's uniform consisted of long white pants
turned up to look like knickers, black easy-walkers, or
sneakers as they are now called, thin blue gabardine
coats, black stockings and caps with black and white
bands which looked very good on the young musicians.
To stand out as the leader of the band I wore cream
colored pants, brown stockings, brown easy-walkers and
a cream colored cap.

In those days some of the social clubs paraded all
day long. When the big bands consisting of old-timers
complained about such a tiresome job, the club mem
bers called on us.

"Those boys," they said, "will march all day long
and won't squawk one bit."

They were right. We were so glad to get a chance
to walk in the street that we did not care how long we
paraded or how far. The day we were engaged by the
Merry-Go-Round Social Club we walked all the way to
Carrolton, a distance of about twenty-five miles. Play
ing like mad, we loved every foot of the trip.

The first day we paraded through my old neigh
borhood everybody was gathered on the sidewalks to
see us pass. All the whores, pimps, gamblers, thieves
and beggars were waiting for the band because they
knew that Dipper, Mayann's son, would be in it. But
they had never dreamed that I would be playing the

[47]

SATCHMO

cornet, blowing it as good as I did. They ran to wake
up mama, who was sleeping after a night job, so she
could see me go by. Then they asked Mr. Davis if they
could give me some money. He nodded his head with
approval, not thinking that the money would amount
to very much. But he did not know that sporting
crowd. Those sports gave me so much that I had to
borrow the hats of several other boys to hold it all. I
took in enough to buy new uniforms and new instru
ments for everybody who played in the band. The
instruments we had been using were old and badly
battered.

This increased my popularity at the Home, and
Mr. Davis gave me permission to go into town by my
self to visit Mayann. He and Mr. and Mrs. Jones prob
ably felt that this was the best way to show their
gratitude.

One day we went to play at -a white folks' picnic
at Spanish Fort near West End. There were picnics
there every Sunday for which string orchestras were
hired or occasionally a brass band. When all the bands
were busy we used to be called on.

On that day we decided to take a swim during the
intermission since the cottage at which we were playing
was on the edge of the water. We were swimming and
having a lot of fun when Jimmy's bathing trunks fell
off. While we were hurrying to fish them out of the
water a white man took a shot gun off the rack on the
porch. As Jimmy was struggling frantically to pull his

[48]

My Life in New Orleans

trunks on again the white man aimed the shot gun at
him and said:

"You black sonofabitch, cover up that black ass of
yours or I'll shoot."

We were scared stiff, but the man and his party

broke out laughing and it all turned out to be a huge

joke. We were not much good the rest of that day, but

o we weren't so scared that we could not eat all the

3 spaghetti and beer they gave us when they were through

eating. It was good.

S Among the funny incidents that happened at the
Home I will never forget the stunt Red Sun pulled off.
He had been sent to the Home for stealing. It was a
mania with him; he would steal everything which was
not nailed down. Before I ever saw the Home he had
served two or three terms there. He would be released,
and two or three months later he would be back again
to serve another term for stealing.

After serving six months while I was at the Home
he was paroled by the judge. Three months passed, and
he was still out on the streets. We took it for granted
that Red Sun had gone straight at last and we prac
tically forgot all about him.

One day while Mr. Jones was drilling us in front
of the Home we saw somebody coming down the road
riding on a real beautiful horse. We all wondered who
it could be. Mr. Jones stopped the drill and waited
with us while we watched the horse and rider come
towards us. To our amazement it was Red Sun. Above

[49]

SATCHMO

all he was riding bareback. We crowded around to tell
how glad we were to see him looking so good and to
admire his horse.

"Where did you get that fine looking horse, Red?"
Mr. Jones asked.

Red, who was very ugly, gave a very pleasant smile.

"I have been working," he said. "I had such a
good job that I was able to buy the horse. What do you
think of him?"

Mr. Jones thought he was pretty and so did all the
rest of us. Red poked his chest way out.

He spent the whole day with us, letting us all take
turns riding his horse. Oh, we had a ball! Red stayed
for supper, the same as I did in later years, and when
I blew the bugle for taps he mounted his fine horse and
bade us all good-bye.

"Ah'll see you-all soon," he said and he rode away
as good as the Lone Ranger. After he had left, Red
was the topic of conversation until the lights went out.
We all went to sleep saying how great ol f Red Sun had
become.

After dinner the next evening while we were look
ing out the windows we saw Mr. Alexander he gen
erally went to the Juvenile Court for delinquents
bring a new recruit into Mr. Jones' office. We won
dered who it could be: it was Red Sun bless my lamb
who had been arrested for stealing a horse.

I saw plenty of miserable kids brought into the
Home. One day a couple of small kids had been picked

[50]

My Life in New Orleans

up in the streets of New Orleans covered with body lice
and head lice. Out in the back yard there was an im
mense kettle which was used to boil up our dirty
clothes. Those two kids were in such a filthy condition
that we had to shave their heads and throw their clothes
into the fire underneath the kettle.

The Waifs' Home was surely a very clean place,
and we did all the work ourselves. That's where I
learned how to scrub floors, wash and iron, cook, make
up beds, do a little of everything around the house.
The first thing we did to a newcomer was to make him
take a good shower, and his head and body were care
fully examined to see that he did not bring any vermin
into the Home. Every day we had to line up for in
spection.

Anyone whose clothes were not in proper condi
tion was pulled out of line and made to fix them him
self. Once a week we were given a physic, when we
lined up in the morning, and very few of the boys were
sick. The place was more like a health center or a
boarding school than a boys 1 jail. We played all kinds
of sports, and we turned out some mighty fine baseball
players, swimmers and musicians. All in all I am proud
of the days I spent at the Colored Waifs' Home for
Boys.

[51]

I WAS FOURTEEN when I left the Home. My father
was still working in the turpentine factory and he had
his boss have a talk with Judge Wilson. I was released
on the condition that I would live with my father and
stepmother. They came to get me on a beautiful eve
ning in June when the air was heavy with the odor of
honeysuckle. How I loved that smell! On quiet Sun
day nights when I lay on my bunk listening to Freddie
Keppard and his jazz band play for some rich white
folks about half a mile away, the perfume of those
delicious flowers roamed about my nostrils.

On the day my father and stepmother were coming
[52]

My Life in New Orleans

to take me to their home I thought about what lay
ahead. The first thing that came into my mind was that
I would no longer be able to listen to Freddie Keppard.
He was a good cornet man with a beautiful tone and
marvelous endurance. He had a style of his own. Of
course Bunk Johnson had the best tone of all, but
Freddie had his own little traits which always interested
and amused me. Whenever he played in a street parade
he used to cover his fingers with a pocket handkerchief
so that the other cornet players wouldn't catch his stuff.
Silly, I thought, but that was Freddie, and everybody
ate it up. There was no doubt about it, he had talent.

Those nights when I lay on my bunk listening to
Freddie play the cornet and smelling the honeysuckles
were really heaven for a kid of my age. I hated to think
I was going to have to leave it.

I wondered what my father would say if I asked
him to let me stay in the Home. After all, I had never
lived with him, and I did not even know his wife.
What kind of a woman was she? Would we get on to
gether? What kind of a disposition did she have? Here
at the Home I'd become happy. Everybody there loved
me, and I was in love with everybody. At my father's
house would I still see Mayann and Mama Lucy who
came to see me three times a week? My father had
never paid me a single visit. What about the boys and
even the keepers? They all looked sad, their faces
drawn, to see me leave, and I felt the same way about
them.

[53]

SATCHMO

While my things were being packed the little band
played as it had never played before. I played several
numbers with them for my father's approval. He was
elated by the progress his son had made, and he said I
should keep it up.

Mrs. Jones kissed me good-bye, and I shook hands
with every kid in the place as well as with Mr. Jones,
Mr. Davis and Mr. Alexander. I was unhappy when
we left the Home and walked to City Park Avenue to
take the street car into town.

My father and stepmother lived at Miro and Poy-
dras Streets, right in the heart of The Battlefield. They
were happily married and they had two boys, Willie
and Henry. I did not have to wonder long about Ger
trude, my stepmother, because she turned out to be a
very fine woman, and she treated me just as though I
were her own child. For that alone I will always love
her. Henry was nice too. He was very kind to me at all
times and we became good friends. His older brother,
however, was about as ornery as they come. He de
liberately would do everything he could to upset every
body.

After living with them for a while, my parents,
who both had jobs, discovered that I could cook and
that I could make particularly good beans. They were
therefore glad to leave me with the two boys and to let
me cook for them. Since I was the oldest they thought
the kids would obey me. Henry did. But oh, that
Willie! He was such a terrible liar that sometimes I

[54]

My Life in New Orleans

wanted to throw a whole pot of beans at his head. He
knew that his parents would swallow half of the lies he
told them. What is more, they did not whip him much.

One day he did something so bad that nothing in
the world could have kept me from hitting him in the
face. It was a hard blow and it hurt him. I was afraid
that after he told Pa Willie and Ma Gertrude when
they came home they would send me back to the Home.
But the little brat did not even open his mouth to them.
I guess he realized he was in the wrong and that he de
served his chastising.

They used to laugh like mad when I first began to
practice my cornet. Then as the days went on they
began to listen and to make little comments, the way
kids will. Then we began to understand one another.
They were growing rapidly, and the more they grew
the more they ate. I soon learned what a capacity they
had, and I learned to take precautions. Whenever I
cooked a big pot of beans and rice and ham hocks they
would manage to eat up most of it before I could get to
the table. Willie could make a plate full of food vanish
faster than anyone I ever saw.

I soon got wise to those two boys. Whenever I
cooked I would see to it that I ate my bellyful before I
rang the bell for Willie and Henry to come in from
the yard. One day Willie asked me why I was not eat
ing with them. I told him I had to taste my cooking
while I cooked it and that after it was done I didn't

[55]

SATCHMO

have any appetite. They fell for it, hook, line and
sinker.

While I was staying with Pa Willie and Ma Ger
trude my little stepsister Gertrude was born. I left
shortly afterwards because father decided that he was
just earning enough to support his three children by
my stepmother. In those days common laborers were
badly paid, and though both Pa and Ma Gertrude were
working they could barely make both ends meet.

My real mother came out there one evening, and
she and Pa talked things over for a long time. When
Mayann got ready to leave, my father said:

"Louis, would you like to go home with your
mother?"

I was thrilled to hear this, but I didn't want him
to know it He had tried his best to make me happy
while I was living with him, Gertrude and the two boys.
I was ever so grateful for that and their kindness.

"O.K. Pa. I love both you and Mayann, and I will
come to see you often."

"He's a fine kid," he said to Mayann, smiling and
patting me on the shoulder.

"He sure is," she said. Then we went out the door
for Liberty and Perdido Streets, my old stomping
grounds.

The next morning I waked up bright and early
and went out to look for my old gang, my schoolmates,
or anyone I used to know.

The first person I ran into was Cocaine Buddy

[56]

My Life in New Orleans

Martin, whose sister Bella I used to sweetheart. He had
grown a good deal and was wearing long pants. He had
a job with Joe Segretta, who ran a combination grocery,
saloon and honky-tonk.

I slipped up behind him when he was sweeping
out the joint from the night's gappings and happenings,
and put my hands over his eyes.

"Guess who?"

He couldn't guess. When I took my hands away
he gave a big glad yell:

"Dipper! Man, you've been gone a long, long
time."

He did not know that I had been out of the Waifs'
Home for a long time and that I had been staying at
my father's house and cooking for my little step
brothers.

"Well, that's good," Cocaine Buddy said. "It
didn't look like they was ever going to turn you loose
from the Waifs' Home."

We laughed it off and then I asked Buddy what's
what.

"Oh, I almost forgot. You play the cornet don't
you? Isn't that what they call the thing you blow?"

"Yes, I play the cornet, Buddy. But I don't know
if I am good enough to play in a regular band."

"I think you are good enough to hold down this
job I'm talking about."

I asked him where.

"Right over there," he said pointing across the

[57]

SATCHMO

street to a honky-tonk. "The boss man's name is Henry
Ponce. He is one of the biggest operators in the red-
light district, and he ain't scared of nobody. He wants
a good cornet player. If you think you can handle it
I'll speak a good word for you. All you have to do is
to put on your long pants and play the blues for the
whores that hustle all night. They come in with a big
stack of money in their stockings for their pimps. When
you play the blues they will call you sweet names and
buy you drinks and give you tips."

Thinking of Mayann and Mama Lucy who badly
needed help I said: 'Try your luck, Buddy. See if you
can get that job for me."

It was a curious thing, but Buddy did not tell me
Henry Ponce and Joe Segretta were deadly enemies.
Segretta was Italian; Ponce, French; and both of them
handled a lot of money and a lot of business. They
were tough characters and one would try to outdo the
other in every respect.

Buddy got the job for me, and after I had been
working there for about six months the relationship
between the two white men got exceedingly tense. I
never knew exactly just what the cause of their quarrel
was.

Saturday the tonk stayed open all night, and on
Sunday I did not leave before ten or eleven in the
morning. The drunks would spend a lot of money and
the tips were good as tips went in those days. I saved
money all around. Mayann would fix me a big bucket

[58]

My Life in New Orleans

lunch to take to the tonk and eat in the early hours.
This saved me the expense of eating at a lunch counter
or lunch wagon. Mayann said that the meals in those
places were not worth the money they cost, and I agreed
with her.

I was young and strong and had all the ambition
in the world and I wanted to do whole lots to help
Mayann and Mama Lucy. After I got set at Henry
Ponce's place, I got another job driving a coal cart dur
ing the day. After I had finished work at four in the
morning I would run back home and grab a couple of
hours' sleep. Then I would go to the C. A. Andrews
Coal Company at Ferret and Perdido Streets two blocks
away from the honky-tonk. From seven in the morning
to five in the evening I would haul hard coal at fifteen
cents per load. And I loved it. I was fifteen years old,
and I felt like a real man when I shoveled a ton of coal
into my wagon. Being as young and small as I was I
could not make over five loads a day. But I was not
doing so bad. The seventy-five cents I made in the day
plus the dollar and a quarter plus tips I made in the
tonk added up. Then the owners of other honky-tonks
commenced bidding for my services. Gee, I really
thought I was somebody then. However, I would not
give up my mule and my coal wagon.

One reason I liked to drive the coal wagon was my
stepdaddy, Mr. Gabe. He was an old hand at the
Andrews Coal Company and he also got me my job
there; he was the stepdaddy I liked best. He drove a

[59]

SATCHMO

wagon with two mules and he got paid thirty cents a
load, three times as much as I got. He knew all the
tricks of the trade and he could deliver nine, ten and
sometimes more loads a day. He taught me the knack
of loading up a cart so I would not hurt my back so
much. In those days it was a good thing to have a
steady job because there was always the chance that the
cops might close the tonk down any minute. In case
that happened I would still have money coming in.

As a matter of fact it was not long before the tonk
where I worked was closed down. That was when I
really found out what Joe Segretta and Henry Ponce
were feuding about. It was Sunday morning and every
body had left except that good-looking Frenchman and
me. Ponce had walked to the door with me talking
about some blues our band had played that night. This
surprised me because I had no idea he was paying any
attention at all.

When I reached the sidewalk I turned around to
continue beating my chops with Ponce, who was stand
ing in the doorway. After about ten minutes I casually
noticed several colored guys, who hung around Joe
Segretta's, standing before Gasper's grocery store on
the corner opposite Segretta's and Ponce's tonks all
of them tough guys and all of them working for Joe
Segretta. They were out to get Ponce. But Ponce, who
was pretty tough himself, wasn't aware of this. Nor
was I. All of a sudden I saw one of them pull out his
gun and point it at us. He shot twice and tore off

[60]

My Life in New Orleans

toward Howard and Perdido Streets just a block away.
Then before we could dig what was going on, these
tough guys started shooting.

"Well, I'll be goddamned," Ponce said as they
emptied their guns and started to run, "those black
bastards are shooting at me."

Ponce whipped a revolver out of his bosom and
started after them. When he reached Howard and
Perdido Streets I heard six shots fired one right after
the other. While the shots were being fired at Ponce
I had not moved and the flock of bystanders who saw
me riveted to the sidewalk rushed up to me.

"Were you hit?" they asked. "Are you hurt?"

When they asked me what they did, I fainted. It
suddenly made me conscious of the danger I had been
in. I thought the first shot had hit me.

When I came to I could still hear the shots coming
from Howard and Perdido and the cries of the colored
boys. They were no match for Ponce; he was shooting
well and he wounded each of them. When he stopped
shooting he walked back to his saloon raging mad and
swearing to himself.

The three colored boys were taken off to the
Charity Hospital for treatment, and I was carried back
to Mayann. It was days before I got over the shock.

After that little scrimmage that gang never did
bother Henry Ponce again; they were all convinced he
was a real tough customer. I continued to work in his
honky-tonk, but I was always on the alert, thinking

[61]

SATCHMQ

something would jump off any minute. However noth
ing happened, and finally during one of the election
campaigns all of the honky-tonks were closed down.
Henry Ponce, like the rest of the honky-tonk owners,
had every intention of opening up again when things
blew over, but the law kept us closed so long that he
got discouraged and went into business downtown.

[62]

5

I "THINK THAT HENRY PONCE went into men's
haberdashery or some other kind of legitimate business.
At any rate he could not use me, and I never saw him
again. We all missed Henry Ponce because he was a
kind and generous man, and many a time I have seen
him stop on the street to slip a little change to any old
raggedy underdog. That was something to do in those
days in the South.

Of course I still had my job on the coal wagon

when Henry Ponce closed down. I could go home early

and get some rest at night. Many nights, however, after

eating supper and washing up I would put on the tailor-

[63]

SATCHMO

made long pants I had saved up for a long time. Then
Isaac Smooth and I would make the round of the honky-
tonks watching the people and laughing at the drunks.
The bouncers left them alone if they fell asleep
propped against the wall, but if they collapsed or started
raising hell they were thrown out pronto. We would
dig that jive and watch the whores, who would often
get into quarrels over the same pimp and fight like mad
dogs.

Isaac Smooth, or Ike as we called him, and I had
been in the Waifs' Home together and we had both
played in the band. He was a very handsome child, and
a lot of the whores would try to make him. Like me he
was afraid of those bad, strong women. Our mothers
had warned us about them, and we did not think too
much about sex. We wanted to learn all we could about
life, but mostly we were interested in music. We were
always looking for a new piano player with something
new on the ball like a rhythm that was all his own.
These fellows with real talent often came from the
levee camps. They'd sit on a piano stool and beat out
some of the damnedest blues you ever heard in your
life. And when Ike and I discovered one we were the
two happiest kids in New Orleans.

The most popular tonk was at the corner of
Gravier and Franklin, and there I saw a fight between
two whores that will never leave my memory, The
fight was over a pimp, and the two whores were Mary
Jack the Bear and a girl I'll call Deborah. Mary

164]

(V. Paddio)

Louis Armstrong, his mother Mayann (seated), his sister
Mama Lucy.

(Courtesy R. II. San-field)

'fhe site of Louis' grandmother's house, showing the Chinaball trees from
vhich Louis would cut the switches his grandmother used to punish him.

Joseph Jones, who taught Louis Armstrong to play a bugle,
holding the instrument on which Louis learned.

(Courtesy Rudi Bleshl

The Superior Brass Band, with Bunk Johnson (second from
left, standing).

Joe "King" Oliver,
about 1915.

Freddy Keppard,
about 1916.

(Courtesy Rudi Bhsh)

(Courtesy Rudi Blesh)

Tom Anderson's in Story-
ville, New Orleans, at the
corner of Sherville and
Anderson Streets.

The start of a New Orleans funeral.

(Courtesy E, H. Sanjield)'

Louis Armstrong as King of the Zulus, 1949, with his niece
(left) and his grandmother (right).

Lulu White and her
Mahogany Hall,

(Courtesy Rudi Bfe

On the river boat Sydney, 1918. Left to right: Baby
Dodds, William Ridgely, Joe Howard, Louis Armstrong,
Fate Marable, David Jones, Johnny Dodds 1 , Johnny St.
Cyr, Pops Foster.

(Paul Barbarin)

King Oliver's Creole Jazz Band, Lincoln Gardens,
Chicago, Left to ngU: Honore Dutrey, Baby Dodds, Joe
Oliver, Lil Hardin, Bill Johnson, Johnny Dodds, Louis
Armstrong (kneeling in front).

My Life in New Orleans

Jack was the toughest woman in all the tonks. Pretty
Deborah was just a plain good-looking girl right out of
high school. Where she came from, I don't know, but
she sure was attractive. She fell in love with Mary
Jack's pimp who put her on the street. Deborah did
not mind this, for she was as deeply in love with the
pimp as Mary Jack. Deborah had never heard about
her rival, and she did not know that they were both
sharing the same pimp. Mary Jack did not know either
not until that drizzling New Year's night when the
celebrating was just about over.

They were both half tipsy when they met in the
tonk where the pimp was drinking with Deborah.
Mary Jack commenced signifying with some nasty re
marks.

"Some old bitch in this bar is going with my man.
She gives him all the money she makes and he brings
it right straight to me."

Deborah wouldn't say a word after these remarks.
Mary Jack increased the dose which did not take effect.
Then she walked up to Deborah, turned her around,
looked her in the eyes and said:

"Look here, you bitch, I'm talking to you."

Deborah was a very mild young girl. "I beg your
pardon," she answered. "What were you saying?"

"You heard me. You know just what I'm saying.
If you don't leave my man alone I'm going to cut you
to ribbons. He only wants you for what you can give

[73]

SATCHMO

him. Don't let those pretty looks fool you. Ill mess
them up plenty."

"He told me he was through with you," Deborah
said tamely. "I guess it is your hustling money he gives
me."

- Everybody who was watching was tense and quiet.
As quick as a flash Mary Jack threw her drink direct
into Deborah's face, who threw hers back just as quick.
They grabbed each other and started struggling and
waltzing and tussling around the floor until they were
separated. When Mary Jack adjusted her clothes and
reached the door she stopped.

"Bitch," she said. "I'll wait for you outside."

"O.K., bitch," the timid little Deborah said.

The corner was crowded with people waiting to
see just what was going to happen. A half hour later
Deborah came out. As soon as she hit the sidewalk
Mary Jack whipped out a bylow, a big knife with a
large blade. She leapt upon Deborah and started cut
ting up and down her face. Deborah pulled the same
kind of knife and went to work on Mary Jack the Bear.
The crowd was terrified and did not dare to go near
them. Every blow was aimed for the face, and every
time one would slash the other, the crowd could go
"Huh, my gawd!" They were both streaming with
blood when they fell to the sidewalk exhausted, half an
hour later.

The ambulance finally came and brought them
both to the Charity Hospital. Mary Jack the Bear died

[74]

My Life in New Orleans

later, but Deborah is still living. But her face is
marked up so badly that it looks like a score board. The
quarter has never forgotten that fight, one of the blood
iest anyone had ever seen.

Another bad woman who used to hang around the
tonks in those days wore a full wig to hide her hair
which was shorter than a man's. She met her Waterloo
when she jumped an easy-going newcomer whom she
tried to bully. They soon got into a hair-pulling fight,
and her wig was pulled off and thrown to the floor. The
roars of laughter that greeted this were more than she
could take. She never bothered the newcomer after
wards. Several years later I learned that she had joined
the church and left all the rough life behind her.

Other characters who had me spellbound in the
third ward during those years were Black Benny, Co
caine Buddy, Nicodemus, Slippers, Red Cornelius,
Aaron Harris and George Bo'hog. They were as tough
as they come.

Nicodemus was a good gambler and one of the
best dancers the honky-tonks had ever seen. He was a
homely, liver-lipped sort of guy with a peculiar jazzy
way of dancing and mugging that would send the gang
in the tonk at Gravier and Franklin absolutely wild.
When he got tired of playing cotch in the room at the
back of the tonk he would come out on the dance floor
and tell us to strike up a tune. And he would grab the
sharpest chick standing by and would go into his two-
step routine, swinging all around the place. The court

[75]

SATCHMO

house, parish prison, police station and the morgue
were located across the street from the tonk. After mid
night judges, lawyers and cops would make a beeline
over to see Nicodemus dance. They always threw him
a lot of money. Then he would go into the back room
and gamble again.

Nicodemus had an awful temper and he would
fight at the drop of a hat. He was jet black, a good man
with the big knife called the chib, and most of the
hustlers were afraid of him except Black Benny.

Benny was really a different character from any
of the would-be bad men I knew. He was a good bass
drum beater in the brass bands, and he was very good
at the trap drums also. Trap drums was the expression
used in the early days for both the traps and the bass
drums when the drummer in the tail gate bands played
snare and bass at the same time. Benny was great, one
of the best drummers we had in New Orleans.

Benny was the musician's friend. Whenever one
of us was in hard luck Benny would help him out, and
he was always ready to come to the aid of the underdog.
Once when he was driving his coal wagon he worked
for Andrews as I did he saw some big fellows sapping
up a group of little kids. He jumped off his wagon at
once and really made a stew of the bullies. Another
time he had a fight with some firemen. He would have
cleaned them up if one of them had not sneaked up
behind him with a wagon shaft and knocked him cold.
That was the only way Benny could be subdued.

[76]

My Life in New Orleans

When I was in my teens Benny was about twenty-
six, a handsome fellow with smooth black skin, a strong
body and a warm heart. He would not bother anyone,
but God help the guy who tried to put anything over
on him. One night he went into the back room of the
honky-tonk to do a little gambling. In some way or
other he and Nicodemus got into an argument over a
bet. Nicodemus did not have his big knife, and Black
Benny did not have anything on him either. In the
heat of the argument Nicodemus jumped up from the
table and rushed out to run home for his pistol. Every
body was telling Black Benny to cut out before Nico
demus came back.

"The hell with him," Benny said. "I ain't paying
him any attention at all."

Instead of going home to get his pistol as Nicode
mus had done Benny went out in a little alley beside
the tonk to wait until Nicodemus came back with his
big gun. While he was in the alley he stumbled on a
piece of lead pipe about four feet long and as wide
around as a Bologna sausage. The minute Benny's hand
touched this pipe, he was satisfied that this was what
he needed to give Nico a big surprise. Nico rushed
down the alley and was about to enter the tonk when
Benny swung on him with the lead pipe and knocked
old Nico out cold.

There is one thing to be said about the fights
between the bad men in my days. There was no malice

[77]

SATCHMO

and there was no dirty work. Let the best man win,
that was the rule.

The gang loved both Benny and Nico. As soon
as Nico had been knocked out the boys in the back
room took the gun out of his pocket and hid it so that
the cops would not know he had had it on him when
he was hit. When the cops arrived they looked high
and low for that gun but they could not find it. That's
what I call sticking together. We did not want the cops
to mix up in our quarrels; we could settle them our
selves.

Nicodemus never could get rid of the awful scar
he received from that blasting on the side of his jaw
given with all of Black Benny's strength. It was still
with him when I saw him years later working in a well-
known tavern in Calumet City near Chicago.

Even as a kid I thought Black Benny was the best
bass drum beater I ever saw with any of the brass bands
that ever set foot on New Orleans soil. I still say that he
was one of the best all-around drummers that ever
paraded in that city.

The cops knew Benny well, and they liked him so
much they never beat him up the way they did the other
guys they arrested. When Benny was serving time in
jail the captain of the Parish Prison would let him out
to play at funerals with our brass band. When the
funeral was over he went back to prison just as though
nothing had happened. This went on for years, but
Benny never served more than thirty days at a stretch.

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My Life in New Orleans

He was never in jail for stealing. It was always for some
minor offense such as disturbing the peace, fighting or
beating the hell out of his old lady Nelly. When he was
not in jail for fighting, he would be in the hospital re
covering from a carving she had given him.

Nelly was as tough as they make them. She was a
small, good-looking, light-skinned colored girl who was
not afraid of anybody, and when she and Benny got
mixed up in a fight they were like two buzz saws. One
day Benny was playing in the brass band in a street
parade. Evidently he and Nelly had had a quarrel
before he left home in the morning. The minute the
parade swung down our street they spied each other at
once and began calling each other names. And what
names they were! I don't think they could even spell
the words they used. Black Benny stopped immediately
and took his bass drum off the strap which held it
around his neck. Nelly started to cross the stone slab
that served as a bridge across the gutter filled with
muddy rain water. As Benny ran toward Nelly to beat
her up he saw the stone slab. He picked it up and as
Nelly ducked he let it fall in the middle of her back.

No one thought Nelly would ever get up again.
They did not know Nelly. She started up at once, pull
ing her bylow knife out of her stocking and calling
Benny all the black so and so's she could think of. He
started to run, but he could not get away until she had
sliced his ass plenty. They both ended up in the hos
pital. When they were released they went home to-

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gether, smiling at each other as though nothing had
happened.

It was about that time that Mama Lucy drifted
away to some town in Florida. A large saw mill down
there was taking on a lot of hands to fill the orders that
were piling up. They were short on workers, and they
had put an ad in the New Orleans Item, a paper I used
to deliver. Workers on ordinary jobs could make a lot
more money in Florida than they could in New
Orleans, and Mama Lucy was among the hundreds of
people who went. She stayed in Florida a long time and
I began to think I would never see my dear sister again.

When Mama Lucy left, she and our cousin Flora
Miles had become large teen-agers. Since the two of
them ran around together most of the time Flora was
left pretty much alone. Then she began to go around
with another bunch of teen-agers who did not have the
experience which Flora and Mama Lucy had had. Both
of them had lived in the heart of the honky-tonk quar
ter; they knew the people who hung around them all
the time; they had seen a good deal of fast life; and
they were hard to fool. They were a little more jive
proof than the average teen-ager, and they did prac
tically everything they wanted to without their parents'
knowing anything about it.

While Flora was going around with those strange
kids she got into trouble. Through an old white fellow
who used to have those colored girls up to an old ram-

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My Life in New Orleans

shackle house of his. I do not need to tell you what he
was up to.

My cousin Flora Miles became pregnant. I was
just a youngster and neither I nor any of the rest of us
knew what to do about the problem. All I could do
was to watch Flora get larger and larger until a fine
little fat baby arrived. Flora named him Clarence.
When the girls in Flora's crowd realized what had hap
pened to her as well as to a couple of other kids, they
were scared to death and began to stay at home with
their parents.

Everybody told old man Ike Miles, Flora's father,
to have that old man arrested. But that did not make
sense. He was a white man. If we had tried to have him
arrested the judge would have had us all thrown out in
the street, including baby Clarence. We put that idea
out of our minds and did the next best thing. There
was only one thing to do and that was a job for me. I
had to take care of Clarence myself and, believe me, it
was really a struggle.

My whole family had always been poor, and when
Clarence was born I was the only one making a pretty
decent salary. That was no fortune, but I was doing
lots better than the rest of us. I was selling papers and
playing a little music on the side. When things got
rough I would go out to Front o' Town where there
were a lot of produce houses. They sorted lots of po
tatoes, onions, cabbage, chickens, turkeys in fact, all
kinds of food to be sold to the big hotels and restaurants.

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The spoiled products were thrown into big barrels
which were left on the sidewalk for the garbage wagons
to take away. Before they came I dug into the barrels
and pulled out the best things I could find, such as half-
spoiled chickens, turkeys, ducks, geese, and so on. At
home we would cut out the bad parts, boil the good
parts thoroughly, dress them nicely and put them in a
basket. They looked very tasty and we sold them to the
fine restaurants for whatever the proprietor wanted to
pay. Usually we were given a good price with a few
sandwiches and a good meal thrown in. We did the
same thing with potatoes, cutting out the bad parts
and selling the good parts for six-bits a sack. Naturally
they paid more for the fowls.

We thought we had cleaned out everything that
could possibly be used from those garbage barrels at the
produce houses, but when the garbage wagons arrived
at the Silver City dump a lot of poor colored people
were waiting for them with pokers in their hands to
pick out the good garbage from the bad. Sometimes
they would find whole pork chops, unspoiled loaves of
bread, clothing and other things that were useful.
Sometimes I followed the wagons out to the dump my
self hoping to find other things worth keeping or sell
ing. This is one of the ways I helped the family raise
the new-born baby Clarence.

As the years rolled by, I became very much at
tached to Clarence. Flora must have felt that she was
going to die for just before she passed away she made

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My Life in New Orleans

his name Clarence Armstrong and left him in my care.
Clarence became very much attached to me also. He
had a very cute smile and I would spend many hours
playing with him.

When she died Flora was living with my cousin
Sarah Ann, her sister, a very jolly young lady with a big
heart who did everything in her power to make people
happy. She and my mother were running mates, and
they would go places together, places where we kids
did not dare poke our heads.

Flora had been in trouble ever since Clarence was
born. The very day of his birth there was a terrible
storm, one of the worst New Orleans had ever had.
Houses were blown down, people and animals were
killed, and thousands were homeless.

The storm broke with great suddenness when I
was in the street on my way home. The wind blew so
hard that slates were torn off the roof tops and thrown
into the streets. I should have taken refuge, for the
slates were falling all around me and I might have been
killed as a number of other people were.

When I finally reached home I was soaking wet
and exhausted. Mayann and Sara Ann were scared to
death for fear I might have been killed in the storm.
I had been real frantic while I was struggling to get
home for fear the wind had blown my house and family
off into some strange neighborhood. When I came in
I threw my arms around mother and Sarah Ann, and
while I was hugging them I looked at our only bed, in

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which mother, sister and I slept. There I saw the baby
Clarence, and it took all the gloom out of me.

The next day the sun came out real pretty and
bright, and everyone was smiling. All over the city,
however, casualties were high, and there were lots of
funerals that week. Joe Oliver, Bunk Johnson, Freddie
Keppard and Henry Allen, all of whom played trum
pets in brass bands, made a lot of money playing at
funerals for lodge members who had been killed in the
storm.

I am sure that the birth of Clarence and the shock
of the storm had something to do with Flora's death.
In the South, especially in those days, it was not easy
to get a doctor, and it was a damn sight harder to get
the money to pay for him. We could not afford a doctor
at two dollars a visit; we needed that money to eat.
Of course we did everything we could to help Flora,
but we could not do enough. The Charity Hospital
was filled to overflowing and patients had to be left in
the yard.

Mama Lucy, who was still young, came back from
Florida to help at Flora's funeral. She did everything
she could to help us with food and other essentials, but
she had not brought much money back with her. In
Florida she was doing common labor and that does not
pay much. Nobody in my family had a trade, and we
all had to make a living as day laborers. As far back as
I can see up our family tree there isn't a soul who knew
anything that had to be learned at a school

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My Life in New Orleans

Mama Lucy and Sarah Ann both had a great sense
of humor, and I loved them both. The three of us
struggled together pretty near all our lives, but despite
our hardships I would gladly live it all over again.
With fifteen cents Mayann could make the finest dishes
you would ever want to eat. When she sent me to the
Poydras Market to get fifteen cents' worth of fish heads
she made a big pot of "cubie yon" which she served
with tomato sauce and fluffy white rice with every grain
separate. We almost made ourselves sick eating this
dish.

I thought her Creole gumbo was the finest in the
world. Her cabbage and rice was marvelous. As for
red beans and rice, well, I don't have to say anything
about that. It is my birth mark.

Mayann taught us both how to cook her best
dishes. Her jumbalaya was delicious. It is a concoction
of diced Bologna sausage, shrimp, oysters, hard-shell
crabs mixed with rice and flavored with tomato sauce.
If you ever tasted Mayann's jumbalaya and did not lick
your fingers my name is not Louis Satchmo Daniel
Armstrong.

Speaking of food reminds me of the time I worked
as a dish washer in Thompson's restaurant at Canal and
Rampart Streets. I was permitted to eat all the cream
puffs, doughnuts and ice cream I wanted. That was
fine for two weeks, but after that I became so tired of
those foods that the very sight of them nauseated me.
So I quit and went back to my old job in Andrews Coal

[85]

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Yard. That was when I wrote Coal Cart Blues, which
I recorded years later.

I was glad to get back to this job again, playing
from time to time for dances, picnics, funerals and an
occasional street parade on Sundays. My salary was
pretty good. Real good I'd say for a youngster my age.
I still got a thrill out of working in the coal yards with
the old hustlers. At lunch time I would sit with them
with my ten-cent mug of beer and my poor boy sand
wich. Most of the time I would just listen, but when I
threw in my two cents' worth the idea they would even
listen to me just thrilled me all over.

Ever since I was a small kid I have always been a
great observer. I had noticed that the boys I ran with
had prostitutes working for them. They did not get
much money from their gals, but they got a good deal
of notoriety. I wanted to be in the swim so I cut in on a
chick. She was not much to look at, but she made good
money, or what in those days I thought was big money.
I was a green inexperienced kid as far as women were
concerned, particularly when one of them was walking
the streets for me. She was short and nappy haired and
she had buck teeth. Of course I am not trying to ridi
cule her; what counts is the woman herself, not her
looks. I did not take her seriously, nor any other wom
an for that matter. I have always been wrapped up
in my music and no woman in the world can change
that. Right until this day my horn comes first.

She had the nerve to be jealous, but I did not pay

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My Life in New Orleans

any attention. One day she wanted me to go home and
spend the night with her.

"I wouldn't think of staying away from Mayann
and Mama Lucy," I said, "not even for one night. I
have never done it before and I won't do it now. May
ann and Mama Lucy are not used to that."

"Aw, hell," she said. "You are a big boy now.
Come on and stay."

"No/'

Before I realized what she was doing she pulled her
knife on me. It was not the kind of large knife Mary
Jack the Bear or Deborah carried, it was a pocket knife.
She stabbed me in the left shoulder and the blood ran
down over the back of my shirt.

I was afraid to tell Mayann about it, but she found
out about it at once when she saw the blood on my shirt.
At the sight of the blood she got mad.

"Who did it? Who did it?" she asked, shaking me.

"Er ... my chick did."

"OhlS&ediditl"

"Yes."

"What right has she cutting on you? "

With fear in my eyes, I told her the whole story.
Mayann would not stand for foolishness from me or
anybody else. The minute I told what happened she
pushed me aside and made a beeline to my chick's
house.

The girl was just about ready to go to bed when

[87]

SATCHMO

Mayann banged on her door. The minute she opened
the door Mayann grabbed her by the throat.

"What you stab my son for?"

Before she could say one word Mayann threw her
on the floor and began choking her to death. Mayann
was a big, strong woman and she would have killed her
if it had not been for Black Benny and some of the boys
who gambled and rushed the growler around Liberty
and Perdido. Benny knew Mayann well, and he and I
had played quite a few funerals together.

"Don't kill her, Mayann/' Benny shouted when he
rushed in. "She won't do it again."

Mayann kind of let up.

"Don't ever bother my boy again," she said. "You
are too old for him. He did not want to hurt your feel
ings, but he don't want no more of you."

She was right. After I discovered my chick was
just as tough as Mary Jack the Bear, I was afraid of her.

[88]

ARTHUR BROWN was one of my playmates at school.
He was a quiet good-looking youngster with nice man
ners and a way of treating the girls that made them go
wild about him. I admired the way he played it cool.
He was going with a girl who had a little brother who
was very cute. Too cute, I would say, since he was al
ways playing with a pistol or a knife. We did not pay
much attention to the kid, but one day when he was
cleaning his gun he pointed it at Arthur Brown saying
"I am going to shoot." Sure enough, he pulled the
trigger; the gun was loaded and Arthur Brown fell to
the ground with a bullet in his head.
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It was a terrible shock. We all felt so bad that
even the boys cried.

When Arthur was buried we all chipped in and
hired a brass band to play at his funeral. Beautiful
girls Arthur used to go with came to the funeral from
all over the city, from Uptown, Downtown, Front o'
Town and Back o' Town. Every one of them was weep
ing. We kids, all of us teen-agers, were pall bearers.
The band we hired was the finest I had ever heard. It
was the Onward Brass Band with Joe "King" Oliver
and Emmanuel Perez blowing the cornets. Big tall
Eddy Jackson booted the bass tuba. A bad tuba player
in a brass band can make work hard for the other musi
cians, but Eddy Jackson knew how to play that tuba
and he was the ideal man for the Onward Brass Band.
Best of all was Black Benny playing the bass drum.
The world really missed something by not digging
Black Benny on that bass drum before he was killed by
a prostitute.

It was a real sad moment when the Onward Brass
Band struck up the funeral march as Arthur Brown's
body was being brought from the church to the grave
yard. Everybody cried, including me. Black Benny
beat the bass drum with a soft touch, and Babe
Mathews put a handkerchief under his snare to deaden
the tone. Nearer My God to Thee was played as the
coffin was lowered into the grave.

As pallbearers Cocaine Buddy, Little Head Lucas,
Egg Head Papa, Harry Tennisen and myself wore the

[90]

My Life in New Orleans

darkest clothes we had, blue suits for the most part.
Later that same year Harry Tennisen was killed by a
hustling gal of the honky-tonks called Sister Pop. Her
pimp was named Pop and was well known as a good
cotch player. Pop did not know anything about the
affair until Sister Pop shot Harry in the brain with a
big forty-five gun and killed him instantly. Later on
Lucas and Cocaine Buddy died natural deaths of T.B.

The funerals in New Orleans are sad until the
body is finally lowered into the grave and the Reverend
says, "ashes to ashes and dust to dust." After the brother
was six feet under ground the band would strike up
one of those good old tunes like Didn't He Ramble,
and all the people would leave their worries behind.
Particularly when King Oliver blew that last chorus
in high register.

Once the band starts, everybody starts swaying
from one side of the street to the other, especially those
who drop in and follow the ones who have been to the
funeral. These people are known as "the second line"
and they may be anyone passing along the street who
wants to hear the music. The spirit hits them and they
follow along to see what's happening. Some follow only
a few blocks, but others follow the band until the whole
affair is over.

Wakes are usually held when the body is laid out
in the house or the funeral parlor. The family of the
deceased usually serves a lot of coffee, cheese and crack
ers all night long so that the people who come to sing

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hymns over the corpse can eat and drink to their heart's
delight. I used to go to a lot of wakes and lead off with
a hymn. After everybody had joined in the chorus I
would tiptoe on into the kitchen and load up on
crackers, cheese and coffee. That meal always tasted
specially good. Maybe it was because that meal was a
freebie and didn't cost me anything but a song or I
should say, a hymn.

There was one guy who went to every wake in
town. It did not matter whose wake it was. In some
way he would find out about it and get there, rain or
shine, and lead off with a hymn. When I got old enough
to play in the brass band with good old-timers like
Joe Oliver, Roy Palmer, Sam Dutrey and his brother
Honore, Oscar Celestin, Oak Gasper, Buddy Petit,
Kid Ory and Mutt Carey and his brother Jack I began
noticing this character more frequently. Once I saw
him in church looking very sad and as if he was going
to cry any minute. His clothes were not very good and
his pants and coat did not match. What I admired
about him was that he managed to look very present
able. His clothes were well pressed and his shoes shined.
Finally I found out the guy was called Sweet Child.

For some time funerals gave me the only chance
I had to blow my cornet. The war had started, and all
the dance halls and theaters in New Orleans had been
closed down. A draft law had been passed and every
body had to work or fight, I was perfectly willing to go
into the Army, but they were only drafting from the

[92]

My Life in New Orleans

age of twenty-one to twenty-five and I was only seven
teen. I tried to get into the Navy, but they checked up
on my birth certificate and threw me out. I kept up my
hope and at one enlistment office a soldier told me to
come back in a year. He said that if the war was still
going on I could capture the Kaiser and win a great,
big prize. "Wouldn't that be swell/' I thought. "Cap
ture the Kaiser and win the war." Believe me, I lived
to see that day.

Since I did not have a chance to play my cornet,
I did odd jobs of all kinds. For a time I worked un
loading the banana boats until a big rat jumped out of
a bunch I was carrying to the checker. I dropped that
bunch and started to run. The checker hollered at me
to come back and get my time, but I didn't stop run
ning until I got home. Since then bananas have terri
fied me. I would not eat one if I was starving. Yet I
can remember how I used to love them. I could eat a
whole small ripe bunch all by myself when the checker
could not see me.

Every time things went bad with me I had the coal
cart to fall back on, thanks to my good stepfather Gabe.
I sure did like him, and I used to tease Mayann about
it.

'"Mama, you know one thing?" I would say. "Papa
Gabe is the best step-pa I've ever had. He is the best
out of the whole lot of them."

Mayann would kind of chuckle and say:

"Aw, go on, you Fatty O'Butler."

[95]

SATCHMO

That was the time when the moving picture actor
Fatty Arbuckle was in his prime and very popular in
New Orleans. Mayann never did get his name right. It
sounded so good to me when she called me Fatty
O'Butler that I never told her different.

I would stay at the coal yard with father Gabe
until I thought I had found something better, that is
something that was easier. It was hard work shoveling
coal and sitting behind my mule all day long, and I
used to get awful pains in my back. So any time I could
find a hustle that was just a little lighter, I would run
to it like a man being chased.

The job I took with Morris Karnoffsky was easier,
and I stayed with him a long time. His wagon went
through the red-light district, or Storyville, selling stone
coal at a nickel a bucket. Stone coal was what they
called hard coal. One of the reasons I kept the job with
Morris Karnoffsky was that it gave me a chance to go
through Storyville in short pants. Since I was working
with a man, the cops did not bother me. Otherwise
they would have tanned my hide if they had caught me
rambling around that district. They were very strict
with us youngsters and I don't blame them. The temp
tation was great and weakminded kids could have sure
messed things up.

As for me I was pretty wise to things. I had been
brought up around the honky-tonks on Liberty and
Perdido where life was just about the same as it was in
Storyville except that the chippies were cheaper. The

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My Life in New Orleans

gals in my neighborhood did not stand in cribs wearing
their fine silk lingerie as they did in Storyville. They
wore the silk lingerie just the same, but under their
regular clothes. Our hustlers sat on their steps and
called to the "Johns" as they passed by. They had to
keep an eye on the cops all the time, because they
weren't allowed to call the tricks like the girls in Story
ville. That was strictly a business center. Music, food
and everything else was good there.

All of the cribs had a small fireplace. When our
wagon passed by, the girls would holler out to Morris
and tell him to have his boy bring in some coal. I
would bring them whatever they ordered, and they
would generally ask me to start a fire for them or put
some coal on the fire that was already burning. While
I was fixing the fire I couldn't help stealing a look at
them, which always sent me into a cold sweat. I did not
dare say anything, but I had eyes, and very good ones
at the time, and I used them. It seemed to me that some
of the beautiful young women I saw standing in those
doorways should have been home with their parents.

What I appreciated most about being able to go
into Storyville without being bothered by the cops, was
Pete Lala's cabaret where Joe Oliver had his band and
where he was blowing up a storm on his cornet. No
body could touch him. Harry Zeno, the best known
drummer in New Orleans, was playing with him at the
time. What I admired most about Zeno was that no
matter how hard he played the sporting racket he never

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let it interfere with his profession. And that's some
thing the modern day musician has to learn. Nothing
ever came between Harry Zeno and his drums.

There were other members of Joe Oliver's band
whose names have become legendary in music. The
world will never be able to replace them, and I say
that from the bottom of my heart. These musicians
were Buddy Christian, guitar (he doubled on piano
also); Zue Robertson, trombone; Jimmy Noone, clari
net; Bob Lyons, bass violin; and last but not least Joe
Oliver on the cornet. That was the hottest jazz band
ever heard in New Orleans between the years 1910 and
1917.

Harry Zeno died in the early part of 1917 and his
funeral was the largest ever held for any musician.
Sweet Child, by the way, was at this funeral too, singing
away as though he was a member of Zeno's lodge. The
Onward Brass Band put him away with those fine,
soothing funeral marches.

Not long after Zeno died talk started about closing
down Storyville. Some sailors on leave got mixed up
in a fight and two of them were killed. The Navy
started a war on Storyville, and even as a boy I could
see that the end was near. The police began to raid
all the houses and cabarets. All the pimps and gamblers
who hung around a place called Twenty-Five while
their chicks were working were locked up.

It sure was a sad scene to watch the law run all
those people out of Storyville. They reminded me of a

[96]

My Life in New Orleans

gang of refugees. Some of them had spent the best part
of their lives there. Others had never known any other
kind of life. I have never seen such weeping and carry
ing-on. Most of the pimps had to go to work or go to
jail, except a privileged few.

A new generation was about to take over in Story-
ville. My little crowd had begun to look forward to
other kicks, like our jazz band, our quartet and other
musical activities.

Joe Lindsey and I formed a little orchestra. Joe
was a very good drummer, and Morris French was a
good man on the trombone. He was a little shy at first,
but we soon helped him to get over that. Another shy
lad was Louis Prevost who played the clarinet, but how
he could play once he got started! We did not use a
piano in those days. There were only six pieces: cornet,
clarinet, trombone, drums, bass violin and guitar, and
when those six kids started to swing, you would swear
it was Ory and Oliver's jazz band.

Kid Ory and Joe Oliver got together and made
one of the hottest jazz bands that ever hit New Orleans.
They often played in a tail gate wagon to advertise a
ball or other entertainments. When they found them
selves on a street corner next to another band in an
other wagon, Joe and Kid Ory would shoot the works.
They would give with all that good mad music they
had under their belts and the crowd would go wild.
When the other band decided it was best to cut the
competition and start out for another corner, Kid Ory

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played a little tune on his trombone that made the
crowd go wild again. But this time they were wild with
laughter. If you ever run into Kid Ory, maybe he will
tell you the name of that tune. I don't dare write it
here. It was a cute little tune to celebrate the defeat
of the enemy. I thought it screamingly funny and I
think you would too.

Kid knew how much Joe Oliver cared for me. He
also knew that, great as he was, Joe Oliver would never
do anything that would make me look small in the eyes
of the public. Oftentimes when our band was on the
street advertising a lawn party or some other entertain
ment, our tail wagon would run into the Ory-Oliver's
band. When this happened Joe had told me to stand
up so that he would be sure to see me and not do any
carving. After he saw me he would stand up in his
wagon, play a few short pieces and set out in another
direction.

One day when we were advertising for a ball we
ran into Oliver and his band. I was not feeling very
well that day and I forgot to stand up. What a licking
those guys gave us. Sure enough when our wagon
started to leave, Kid Ory started to play that get-away
tune at us. The crowd went mad. We felt terrible
about it, but we took it like good sports because there
was not any other band that could do that to us. We
youngsters were the closest rivals the Ory band had.

I saw Joe Oliver the night of the day he had cut
in on us.

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My Life in New Orleans

"Why in hell/' he said before I could open my
mouth, "didn't you stand up?"

"Papa Joe, it was all my fault. I promise I won't
ever do that again."

We laughed it all off, and Joe brought me a bottle
of beer. This was a feather in my cap because Papa Joe
was a safe man, and he did not waste a lot of money
buying anybody drinks. But for me he would do any
thing he thought would make me happy.

At that time I did not know the other great musi
cians such as Jelly Roll Morton, Freddy Keppard,
Jimmy Powlow, Bab Frank, Bill Johnson, Sugar
Johnny, Tony Jackson, George Fields and Eddy At
kins. All of them had left New Orleans long before
the red-light district was closed by the Navy and the
law. Of course I met most of them in later years, but
Papa Joe Oliver, God bless him, was my man. I often
did errands for Stella Oliver, his wife, and Joe would
give me lessons for my pay. I could not have asked for
anything I wanted more. It was my ambition to play
as he did. I still think that if it had not been for Joe
Oliver jazz would not be what it is today. He was a
creator in his own right.

Mrs. Oliver also became attached to me, and
treated me as if I were her own son. She had a little
girl by her first marriage named Ruby, whom I knew
when she was just a little shaver. She is married now
and has a daughter who will be married soon.

One of the nicest things Joe Oliver did for me

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when I was a youngster was to give me a beat-up old
cornet of his which he had blown for years. I prized
that horn and guarded it with my life. I blew on it for
a long, long time before I was fortunate enough to get
another one.

Cornets were much cheaper then than they are
today, but at that they cost sixty-five dollars. You had
to be a big shot musician making plenty of money to
pay that price for a horn. I remember how such first
rate musicians as Hamp Benson, Kid Ory, Zoo French,
George Brashere, Joe Petit and lots of other fellows I
played with beamed all over when they got new horns.
They acted just as though they had received a brand
new Cadillac.

I got my first brand new cornet on the installment
plan with "a little bit down" and a "little bit now and
then." Whenever my collector would catch up with
me and start talking about a "little bit now" I would
tell him:

"I'll give you-all a little bit then, but I'm damned
if I can give you-all a little bit now."

Cornet players used to pawn their instruments
when there was a lull in funerals, parades, dances, gigs
and picnics. Several times I went to the pawnshop and
picked up some loot on my horn. Once it was to play
cotch and be around the good old hustlers and
gamblers.

I can never stop loving Joe Oliver. He was always
ready to come to my rescue when I needed someone to

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My Life in New Orleans

tell me about life and its little intricate things, and
help me out of difficult situations. That is what hap
pened when I met a gal named Irene, who had just
arrived from Memphis, Tennessee, and did not know
a soul in New Orleans. She got mixed up with a gam
bler in my neighborhood named Cheeky Black who
gave her a real hard time. She used to come into a
honky-tonk where I was playing with a three piece
combo. I played the cornet; Boogus, the piano; and
Sonny Garbie, the drums. After their night's work was
over, all the hustling gals used to come into the joint
around four or five o'clock in the morning. They
would ask us to beat out those fine blues for them and
buy us drinks, cigarettes, or anything we wanted.

I noticed that everyone was having a good time ex
cept Irene. One morning during an intermission I
went over to talk to her and she told me her whole
story. Cheeky Black had taken every nickel she had
earned and she had not eaten for two days. She was
as raggedy as a bowl of slaw. That is where I came in
with my soft heart. I was making a dollar and twenty-
five cents a night. That was a big salary in those days
if I got it; some nights they paid us, and some nights
they didn't. Anyway I gave Irene most of my salary
until she could get on her feet.

That went on until she and Cheeky Black came
to the parting of the ways. There was only one thing
Irene could do: take refuge under my wing. I had not

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had any experience with women, and she taught me all
I know.

We fell deeply in love. My mother did not know
this at first. When she did find out, being the great
little trouper she was, she made no objections. She
felt that I was old enough to live my own life and to
think for myself. Irene and I lived together as man and
wife. Then one fine day she was taken deathly sick.
As she had been very much weakened by the dissipated
life she had led her body could not resist the sickness
that attacked her. Poor girl! She was twenty-one, and
I was just turning seventeen. I was at a loss as to what
to do for her.

The worst was when she began to suffer from
stomach trouble. Every night she groaned so terribly
that she was nearly driving me crazy. I was desperate
when I met my fairy godfather, Joe Oliver. I ran into
him when I was on my way to Poydras Market to get
some fish heads to make a cubic yon for Irene the way
Mayann had taught me how to cook it. Papa Joe was
on his way to play for a funeral.

"Hello, kid. What's cooking?" he asked.

"Nothing," I said sadly.

Then I told him about Irene's sickness and how
much I loved her.

"You need money for a doctor? Is that it?" he said
immediately. "Go down and take my place at Pete
Lala's for two nights."

He was making top money down there a dollar

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My Life in New Orleans

and a half a night. In two nights I would make enough
money to engage a very good doctor and get Irene's
stomach straightened out. I was certainly glad to make
the money I needed so much, and I was also glad to
have a chance to blow my cornet again. It had been
some time since I had used it.

"Papa Joe," I said, "I appreciate your kindness,
but I do not think I am capable of taking your place/'

Joe thought for a moment and then he said:

"Aw, go'wan and play in my place. If Pete Lala
says anything to you tell him I sent ya."

As bad as I actually needed the money I was scared
to death. Joe was such a powerful figure in the district
that Pete Lala was not going to accept a nobody in his
place. I could imagine him telling me so in these very
words.

When I went there the next night, out of the cor
ner of my eye I could see Pete coming before I had
even opened my cornet case. I dumbed up and took
my place on the bandstand.

"Where's Joe?" Pete asked.

"He sent me to work in his place," I answered
nervously.

To my surprise Pete Lala let me play that night.
However, every five minutes he would drag his club
foot up to the bandstand in the very back of the cabaret.

"Boy," he would say, "put that bute in your horn."

I could not figure what on earth he was talking
about until the end of the evening when I realized

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he meant to keep the mute in. When the night was
over he told me that I did not need to come back.

I told Papa Joe what had happened and he paid
me for the two nights anyway. He knew how much I
needed the money, and besides that was the way he
acted with someone he really liked.

Joe quit Pete Lala's when the law began to close
down Storyville on Saturday nights, the best night in
the week. While he was looking for new fields he came
to see Irene and me, and we cooked a big pot of good
gumbo for him. Irene had gotten well, and we were
happy again.

The year 1917 was a turning point for me. Joe
Lindsey left the band. He had found a woman who
made him quit playing with us. It seemed as though
Joe did not have much to say about the matter; this
woman had made up Joe's mind for him. In any case
that little incident broke up our little band, and I
did not see any more of the fellows for a long time, ex
cept when I occasionally ran into one of them at a gig.
But my bosom pal Joe Lindsey was not among them.

When I did see Joe again he was a private chauf
feur driving a big, high-powered car. Oh, he was real
fancy! There was a good deal of talk about the way
Joe had left the band and broken up our friendship
to go off with that woman. I told them that Joe had
not broken up our friendship, that we had been real
true friends from childhood and that we would con
tinue to be as long as we lived.

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My Life in New Orleans

Everything had gone all right for Seefus, as we
called Joe, so long as he was just a poor musician like
the rest of us. But there's a good deal of truth in the
old saying about all that glitters ain't gold. Seefus
had a lot of bad luck with that woman of his. In the
first place she was too old for him, much too old. I
thought Irene was a little too old for me, but Seefus
went me one better he damn near tied up with an
old grandma. And to top it off he married the woman.
My God, did she give him a bad time! Soon after their
marriage she dropped him like a hot potato. He
suffered terribly from wounded vanity and tried to kill
himself by slashing his throat with a razor blade. See
ing what had happened to Joe, I told Irene that since
she was now going straight, she should get an older
fellow. I was so wrapped up in my horn that I would
not make a good mate for her. She liked my sincerity
and she said she would always love me.

After that I went to the little town of Houma, La.
where the kid we called Houma, at the Home, came
from to play in a little band owned by an under
taker called Bonds. He was so nice to me that I stayed
longer than I had planned. It was a long, long time
before I saw Irene or Joe Lindsey, but I often thought
about them both.

Things had not changed much when I returned
to New Orleans. In my quarter I still continued to
run across old lady Magg, who had raised almost all
the kids in the neighborhood. Both she and Mrs. Mar-

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tin, the school teacher, were old-timers in the district.
So too was Mrs. Laura we never bothered about a
person's last name whom I remember dearly. When
ever one of these three women gave any of us kids a
spanking we did not go home and tell our parents be
cause we would just get another one from them. Mrs.
Magg, I am sure, is still living.

When I returned from Houma I had to tell Mrs.
Magg everything that had happened during the few
weeks I was there. Mr. Bonds paid me a weekly salary,
and I had my meals at his home, which was his under
taking establishment. He had a nice wife and I sure
did enjoy the way she cooked those fresh butter beans,
the beans they call Lima beans up North. The most
fun we had in Houma was when we played at one of
the country dances. When the hall was only half full
I used to have to stand and play my cornet out of the
window. Then, sure enough, the crowd would come
rolling in. That is the way I let the folks know for
sure that a real dance was going on that night. Once
the crowd was in, that little old band would swing up a
breeze.

Being young and wild, whenever I got paid at the
end of a week, I would make a beeline for the gambling
house. In less than two hours I would be broker than
the Ten Commandments. When I came back to May-
ann she put one of her good meals under my belt, and
I decided never to leave home again. No matter where
I went, I always remembered Mayann's cooking.

1106]

My Life in New Orleans

One day some of the boys in the neighborhood
thought up the fantastic idea to run away from home
and hobo out to get a job on a sugar cane plantation.
We rode a freight train as far as Harrihan, not over
thirty miles from New Orleans. I began to get real
hungry, and the hungrier I got the more I thought
about those good meat balls and spaghetti Mayann was
cooking the morning we left. I decided to give the
whole thing up.

"Look here, fellows," I said. "I'm sorry, but this
don't make sense. Why leave a good home and all that
good cooking to roam around the country without
money? I am going back to my mother on the next
freight that passes."

And believe me, I did. When I got home Mayann
did not even know that I had lit out for the cane fields.

"Son," she said, "you are just in time for supper."

I gave a big sigh of relief. Then I resolved again
never to leave home unless Papa Joe Oliver sent for me.
And I didn't either,

I don't want anyone to feel I'm posing as a plaster
saint. Like everyone I have my faults, but I always have
believed in making an honest living. I was determined
to play my horn against all odds, and I had to sacrifice
a whole lot of pleasure to do so. Many a night the boys
in my neighborhood would go uptown to Mrs. Cole's
lawn, where Kid Ory used to hold sway. The other
boys were sharp as tacks in their fine suits of clothes.

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SATCHMO

I did not have the money they had and I could not dress
as they did, so I put Kid Ory out of my mind. And
Mayann, Mama Lucy and I would go to some nickel
show and have a grand time.

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cfaftten, 7

I TOOK A LOT OF ODD JOBS to keep my head above
water and to help out Mayann and Mama Lucy. For
instance, I worked on a junk wagon with a fellow
named Lorenzo. He was a very funny fellow and he
did not pay me much, but the fun we used to have
going all over the city to collect rags, bones and bottles
from the rich as well as the poor!

Lorenzo had an old tin horn which he used to
blow without the mouthpiece, and he could actually
play a tune on it, and with feeling too. It was one of
those long tin horns with a wooden mouthpiece which
people used to buy to celebrate Christmas and New
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SATCHMO

Years. It used to knock me out to hear him play a real
tune to call people out of their houses and back yards.
In the junk people discarded there were sometimes
nice things such as suits or clothes which occasionally
fitted me like a glove. Once he bought a complete suit
of clothes from some white people on Charles Street
which he let me have for what he had paid for it. That
wasn't very much and oh, was I sharp!

Satisfied that I had learned the business well, he
would occasionally let me take the day's collection to
the junk yard for the weigh-up. I liked that job. There
was one thing I could not figure out about Lorenzo.
With all the money he made he never got his teeth
fixed. Every other tooth was missing, and he looked
just like he was laughing twice as hard as anyone else
when something funny was said. But I did not dare
put him wise to this because I did not want older folks
to think me a sassy child. I thought a lot of Lorenzo,
and I would gladly live over those days with him again.
When I was with him I was in my element. The things
he said about music held me spellbound, and he blew
that old, beat-up tin horn with such warmth that I felt
as though I was sitting with a good cornet player.

A pie man named Santiago blew a bugle to attract
customers as he walked down the street with his big
basket of pies on his arm. He could swing it too, and
so could the waffle man who drove around town in a
big wagon fitted out with a kitchen. When he blew
his mess call the customers came running, and when

[110]

My Life in New Orleans

those hustling guys met him as they came home from
gambling all night, they'd all but chain his wheels to
keep him from leaving.

There were many different kinds of people and
instruments to inspire me to carry on with my music
when I was a boy. I always loved music, and it did not
matter what the instrument was or who played it so
long as the playing was good. I used to hear some of the
finest music in the world listening to the barroom quar
tets who hung around the saloons with a cold can of
beer in their hands, singing up a breeze while they
passed the can around. I thought I was really somebody
when I got so I could hang around with those fellows
sing and drink out of the can with them. When I was
a teen-ager those old-timers let me sing with them and
carry the lead, bless their hearts. Even in those days
they thought I had something on the ball as a ragtime
singer, which is what hot swing singing is today.

Black Benny used to be there on that street corner
or the saloon when he wasn't busy gambling, playing
music, or playing the girls. You should have heard his
good old barroom tenor sing Sweet Adeline or Mr.
Jefferson Lord Play that Barber-Shop Chord. But
you had to keep an eye on Benny when a can of beer
was passed around. When a bunch of fellows got to
gether the chances were that there wasn't more than a
dime in the crowd. Naturally that dime went for a big
tin bucket filled with ice cold beer. It was so cold that
no one could take more than three swallows at most,

till]

SATCHMO

Except Black Benny. If anyone made the mistake of
passing that growler to him first he would put it to his
chops and all we could see was his Adam's apple moving
up and down like a perpetual motion machine. We
heard a regular google, google, google. Then he would
take the can from his mouth with a sigh, wipe the foam
off his mouth with his shirt sleeve and pass the can
politely to the guy next to him as though it still had
plenty of beer in it. Nay, nay, Black Benny with his
asbestos throat had drunk every drop of that beer.

Black Benny had such a cute way about him that
he could get away with nearly everything he did.
Benny seldom had any money because the better gam
blers kept him broke and in pawn. When he was lucky
he would get his good clothes out of pawn and buy
everyone in sight a drink. Then he would really rush
the can. But everyone else drank first. We weren't
taking any chances even if Benny had bought the beer.
We figured Benny might act like the guy who brought
a bag of oranges to a sick friend in the hospital and ate
them all himself while he sat by the bedside.

When I came back from Houma things were much
tougher. The Kaiser's monkey business was getting
worse, and, what is more, a serious flu epidemic had
hit New Orleans. Everybody was down with it, except
me. That was because I was physic-minded. I never
missed a week without a physic, and that kept all kinds
of sickness out of me.

Just when the government was about tp let crowds

[112]

My Life in New Orleans

of people congregate again so that we could play our
horns once more the lid was clamped down tighter than
ever. That forced me to take any odd jobs I could get.
With everybody suffering from the flu, I had to work
and play the doctor to everyone in my family as well as
all my friends in the neighborhood. If I do say so, I
did a good job curing them.

Finally I got work playing in a honky-tonk run
by a white Italian guy named Henry Matranga. The
law had not shut him down, as it had the places in
Storyville, because his joint was third rate. There I
could play a lot of blues for cheap prostitutes and hust
lers. At least for a time, for eventually Matranga had
to close down too.

Henry Matranga was as sharp as a tack and a play
boy in his own right. He treated everybody fine, and
the colored people who patronized his tonk loved him
very much. My mother used to work at his home, just
a few blocks away from his saloon, and I used to go to
see her there. If I came at mealtime they would make
me sit down in the kitchen to eat a plate of their good
Italian spaghetti. That family always enjoyed seeing
me eat.

Matranga did not bother much with his customers.
Knowing how sensitive my people are when white folks
shout orders at them and try to boss them around, he
left it to Slippers, the bouncer, to keep order.

While I was there I saw some serious fights, such
as the Saturday night gun battle between Slippers and

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SATCHMO

a guy from the swamps near the levee. Those workers
were paid on Saturday night, got drunk and headed
straight for town and the honky-tonk where I was play
ing. Slippers was a good man with his dukes. He did
not bother anybody, but God help any guy who started
anything with him or raised a row in Matranga's joint.

The night the fellow from the levee camp came in
he lost all his money gambling in the back room.
Slippers was watching him when he tried to stick every
body up and get his money back from the game keeper.
Slippers tried to reason with him, but the guy kept on
bellyaching. Finally Slippers picked him up by the
seat of the pants and threw him out on the sidewalk.
The fellows around the gambling table had forgotten
to tell Slippers that the guy had a gun. While the door
was being closed the guy pulled out a big .45 and fired
three shots, but these shots went wild. Slippers was a
fast man on the draw. He winged the guy in the leg,
and he was carried off to the hospital and then to jail.

When this happened the three musicians in our
band were scared to death. Our stand was near the
door. When the trouble started Boogus, the pianist,
turned white as a sheet, and Garbee, the drummer,
with his thick lips, started to stammer.

"Wha, wha, wha . . . what's that?"

"Nothing/' I said, though I was just as scared as
he was.

As a matter of fact, nothing did happen. The
wounded man was carted off to the hospital, and about

[114]

My Life in New Orleans

four o'clock the gals started piling in from their night's
work. They bought us drinks, and we started those
good old blues. Soon everybody forgot the whole thing.

One thing I always admired about those bad men
when I was a youngster in New Orleans is that they all
liked good music. Slippers liked my way of playing so
much that he himself suggested to Henry Matranga
that I replace the cornet player who had just left. He
was a pretty good man, and Matranga was a little in
doubt about my ability to hold the job down. When I
opened up, Slippers was in my corner cheering me on.

"Listen to that kid," he said to Matranga. "Just
listen to that little son-of-a-bitch blow that quail!"

That is what Slippers called my cornet. He never
changed it as long as I played at Matranga's. Sometimes
when we would really start going to town while Slip
pers was out in the gambling room in the back, he
would run out on the dance floor saying:

"Just listen to that little son-of-bitch blow that
quail!"

Then he would look at me.

"Boy, if you keep on like that, you're gonna be the
best quail blower in the world. Mark my words."

Coming from Slippers those words made me feel
grand. He knew music and he didn't throw compli
ments around to everybody.

Slippers and Black Benny were the two best men
in the neighborhood with their dukes. They were al
ways ready for a fair fight. But if anybody tried to

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SATCHMO

sneak up behind them and do some dirty work, brother,
they would get what was coming to them. If they had
to, they could fight dirty. One thing I admired about
Slippers and Black Benny is that they never got into
a scrap with each other.

There were two other honky-tonks about a block
away from Matranga's, but we youngsters did not go
to them very often because some really bad characters
hung around them, particularly around Spanol's joint.
The ambulance was forever backing up to the door to
take some guy to the hospital. If it wasn't the ambu
lance it was the patrol wagon to haul off to the morgue
someone who had been shot or cut to death. We kids
nixed the joint. The other tonk was Savocas'. We had
to go there for our pay when we had been working on
the levee unloading banana boats. Sometimes we
worked those big ships all day, sometimes all night.
When we finished we would light out for Savocas'
honky-tonk and line up on the sidewalk to get our pay.
Afterwards many guys went inside to the gambling
room and lost every nickel they had earned. I couldn't
afford to do that because I was the sole support of May-
ann, Mama Lucy and my adopted son, Clarence. I
wanted to do my best to keep their jaws jumping.

Clarence loved buttermilk. When the buttermilk
man came around hollering "But-ter-milk. But-ter-
milk," Clarence would wake up and say: "Papa, there's
the buttermilk man!"

Clarence was going on two, and he was a cute kid.

[116]

My Life in New Orleans

He became very much attached to me, and since I was
a great admirer of kids we got on wonderfully together.
He played an important part in my life.

Mrs. Laura kept the lunch wagon in front of
Henry Matranga's honky-tonk. When the night lifers
got full of liquor, which was much stronger than the
present day juice, they would line up religiously before
her counter and stuff themselves like pigs. We musi
cians used to eat on credit and pay at the end of the
week. Mrs. Laura made a good deal of money, but her
husband, who was much younger than she, used to
waste it on other women. Mrs. Laura was not much on
looks, but she was happy and that was all that mattered.

During this period of my life I worked for a time
as a helper on a milk wagon for a driver who was a
very fine white boy. He was very kind and he made my
work as easy as possible. Our route covered the West
End and the summer resorts at Spanish Fort, and we
delivered our milk in the early hours of the morning.
The roads were made of oyster shells which were
ground down by the traffic into a firm road bed. One
Sunday morning I jumped on the wagon after it had
started. My foot missed the step and was caught under
one of the wheels, which rolled over it and ground it
into the sharp, broken bits of oyster shells. Since the
wagon was heavily loaded the top of my big toe was
torn wide open and tiny, sharp pieces of shell were
driven into the wound. The pain was terrible, and the

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boss drove me to the Charity Hospital miles away in
New Orleans.

I like to have died at the hospital when the pieces
of shell were taken out one by one. When the doctors
learned that the accident had happened on a milk wa
gon of the Cloverland Company they asked me if I
was going to sue them for damages.

"No sir/' I said. "I think too much of my boss
for that. Besides it wasn't his fault."

When I came home with my bandaged foot, May-
ann went into a natural faint. She would always pass
out cold whenever anything happened to her son Louis.
Of course everybody in the neighborhood tried to per
suade her to sue the milk company but she refused.

"If my son says no, that's that," she said.

If I had sued I could have probably gotten five
hundred dollars, but I was not thinking about money.
I was thinking about getting well, and about the fact
that it was not my boss* fault, and about how kind he
had been to me. The toe got well and the boss gave me
a present anyway.

The next week another kid who worked on an
other wagon had an accident which was not serious at
all, not nearly so serious as mine. He was the smart
aleck type, and he sued. If he got anything out of the
company at all he was lucky. The lawyers take the best
part of any settlement they get. That is typical of the
South.

The kids who worked as helpers for the milk

[118]

My Life in New Orleans

wagons used to get paid off around ten o'clock on Fri
day morning. After that we would go around the
corner from the dairy and start a big crap game. I had
not received a dime as settlement for my accident, but
I was certainly lucky in those crap games. I used to
come home with my pockets loaded with all kinds of
dough, and finally Mayann got scared.

"Boy, where in the name of the Lord did you get
all that money?" she asked.

I had to confess to keep her from thinking I had
stolen it. Then I got ready for the good whipping I
was sure she would give me for gambling.

"Son," she said instead, "be careful about your
gambling. You remember the hard time your pa and
I had getting the judge to let you out of the Waifs'
Home."

I said "yassum," and went down to Canal Street to
buy mother, sister and Clarence some real sharp clothes.
I even bought a pair of tailor-made short pants for
myself. I did not have enough money to buy shoes so
I just dressed up barefoot as usual. New pants and a
new blouse were all that counted.

For a long time after my accident I stayed with the
milk company. Finally business slowed up. My boss
was laid off and so was I. I had a hard time finding any
thing to do until the government opened up a big job
on Poland and Dauphine Streets. The government was
so short of workers that it had to have thousands
shipped in from Puerto Rico. What a sight those fel-

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SATCHMO

lows were! Most of them had scarcely any clothes, and
some of them were barefooted like the boys in my
neighborhood. We were glad enough to work with
them although they had the nerve to look down on us
because we were colored. We ignored that and man
aged to get along with them fairly well.

I was rather proud of that big yellow button I
wore for identification when I went in and out of the
yard. You can imagine how tough things were when
many well-known musicians had to work on that job.
Among them was Kid Ory, a carpenter by trade and a
good one at that. It was good to see him and a lot of
the other boys, and it made me happy to be on that
job with them. To my surprise I also ran into my teen
age pal, Joe Lindsey. We were as happy to be together
again as we were when we played in the little band
together. At lunchtime we used to sit together on the
logs they fed the pile driver, and talk endlessly. He
told me about that woman he had left our little band
to go to live with, and how she had finally left him for
an older and more experienced man. That pretty near
ruined him.

I told him all about Irene and me and about the
sensible way in which we had parted. She had gone
back to Cheeky Black and had not told me anything
about it. Joe had a good laugh when I told him how
I found it out.

After I returned from Houma I ran into Irene

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My Life in New Orleans

one day and she asked me out to her place. I was care
ful to ask her if she had anybody else.

"Oh, no. Nobody," she said.

So I felt perfectly safe to go up to her room. We
were just about to doze off to sleep when I heard the
door knob rattle. Irene nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Who is it?" she asked.

I did not pay much attention, thinking it was
merely a passing acquaintance. The door knob started
to rattle again.

"Who is there?" she asked in a louder voice.

"It's Cheeky Black."

Then I began to think fast. Cheeky was a tough
character. In those days when a chick said she had com
pany, the caller outside was supposed to go away.
Nothing of the sort happened. I had locked the door
carefully myself, but Cheeky threw himself against it
and it flew open as though there were no lock at all.

When Cheeky rushed in waving his razor Irene
jumped out of bed screaming. She dodged past Cheeky
and ran shrieking into the street with scarcely a stitch
on. Cheeky was hot on her tail swinging that razor.
Outside I could hear Irene's screams and the voices of
people trying to pacify Cheeky and crying, "Don't cut
her. Don't cut her."

While this was going on I was struggling to get
into my clothes and get out of there as fast as I could.
There was only one thought in my mind: Cheeky Black.
What would happen to me if he came back? Finally

[121]

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I managed to get enough clothes on so that I could
run all the way back home to Mayann. When I rushed
in all out of breath she said:

"Uh-huh! So you've been in another man's house
with his old lady? This will teach you a lesson, won't
it?"

"Believe me, I'll never do it again, mother."

Mayann laughed herself sick. She was not afraid
of a living soul, and she told me not to worry. She
would straighten things out with Cheeky Black. After
all, I was innocent. Irene had no business asking me to
her house while she was still living with Cheeky Black.

After Joe Lindsey had a good laugh over this
story, I told him that if I never saw Irene again it would
be too soon. As a matter of fact I never have.

When the government work was over I got a pretty
good job with a wrecking company tearing down old
houses. The amusing thing about that work is that
you always have the hope that you will find some trea
sure that was hidden in the house years ago and for
gotten. The boys I worked with told me they had had
all kinds of luck in finding money and jewels. I worked
away furiously with my crowbar hoping to be able to
shout to the gang, "Look what I found." The foreman
had told us, "Finders keepers." A lot of good my hard
work did me; I never found a thing. Wrecking is dan
gerous business, and many house wreckers have been
killed. After some of those brick walls had nearly fallen

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My Life in New Orleans

on me I decided I was not going to wait to find a hidden
treasure. I cut out.

My next job was with old man Smooth, Isaac
Smooth's daddy. For a long time Ike and I worked for
his daddy, who lived in a part of the city called the
Irish Channel. I always hated to go up to the old man's
house because I was afraid I might run into some of
those tough Irishmen who hung out in the saloons.
Old man Smooth was a whitewashes and we helped
him whitewash a huge building near those produce
houses where as kids we used to collect the "soilies."
Under old man Smooth's protection we had no more
to fear than rabbits in a briar patch.

Ike certainly had beautiful sisters. One of them,
Eva, had a very fine rooming house, and she can tell
many a story about those good old days in Storyville.
She has always been Ike's favorite sister, and her hus
band Tom was one of the best cotch players New Or
leans ever had. That is saying a good deal because
cotch is a tough game. It fascinated me so much that
every time I could scrape up a nickel I would sit in with
the four-flushing hustlers who really knew how to gam
ble. I always got washed out. Those boys could read
my face like a book, and whenever I caught a good hand
I always gave it away with a smile. Just the same the
game gassed me.

[123]

$

EARLY IN 1918 the flu began to let up, and the
United States started to get after the Kaiser and his
boys in fine fashion. The last draft call was for men
between eighteen and forty-five, so I went down to the
draft board and registered. When I could feel that draft
card in my hip pocket I sure was a proud fellow, ex
pecting to go to war any minute and fight for Uncle
Sam or blow for him.

One night during that period I was waiting for

something to happen and I dropped into Henry Ma-

tranga's place for a bottle of beer. The tonk was not

running, but the saloon was open and some of the old-

[124]

My Life in New Orleans

timers were standing around the bar running their
mouths. I had just said hello to Matranga when Cap
tain Jackson, the meanest guy on the police force,
walked in.

"Everybody line up/* he said. "We are looking
for some stick-up guys who just held up a man on Ram
part Street."

We tried to explain that we were innocent, but
he told his men to lock us all up and take us to the
Parish Prison only a block away. There I was trapped,
and I had to send a message to Mayann: "Going to jail.
Try to find somebody to get me out/'

They did not book us right away and held us for
investigation in the prison yard with the long-term
prisoners waiting to go up the river. Among them were
men with sentences of from forty to fifty years, guys
like Dirty Dog, Steel Arm Johnny, Budow Albert Mit-
chel and Channey. Most of them were Creoles from the
Seventh Ward where my clarinet man Barney Bigard
came from.

I knew those guys when they used to come up to
the Third Ward where we lived, and I remember how
Black Benny told them not to start any rough stuff or
they would get cleaned out. They took the warning all
right. They knew Black Benny meant it. Oh, that
Benny!

Among all those bad men in the prison yard I
knew that there was not one who could help me. Sore
Dick, the captain of the yard, was tougher than any of

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them. He was a short, jet-black guy, built like a brick
house, who had a way of looking the newcomer over
that let him know Sore Dick was boss and that he was
going to run the yard the way he wanted to. I found
that out soon enough. The first day we were in the
yard I went up to shake hands with one of the prisoners
I had known out on the street. All of a sudden some
body jabbed me in the back with a broom handle and
tripped me up. When I looked up I saw Sore Dick
staring at me without saying a word. It dawned on me
at once that I had better get busy with the broom he
was holding. All newcomers, I later found out, had to
sweep out the yard whether it needed it or not. That
is the way they get you in the groove before you start
serving a term.

While I was in the prison yard I did not realize
that Matranga had contacted his lawyer to have us all
let out on parole. I did not even have to appear in
court. It was part of a system that was always worked
in those days. Whenever a crowd of fellows were
rounded up in a raid on a gambling house or saloon
the proprietor knew how to "spring" them, that is, get
them out of jail.

Nevertheless, I'll never forget that experience as a
stay-a-whiler with those long termers.

It's a funny thing how life can be such a drag one
minute and a solid sender the next. The day I got out
of jail Mardi Gras was being celebrated. It is a great
day for all New Orleans, and particularly for the Zulu

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My Life in New Orleans

Aid Pleasure and Social Club. Every member of the
Club masquerades in a costume burlesquing some
famous person. The King of the Zulus, also in mas
querade costume, rides with six other Zulus on a float
giving away coconuts as souvenirs. The members
march to the good jumping music of the brass bands
while the King on his throne scrapes and bows to the
cheering crowds. Every year Mr. Jamke, the gravel and
sand dealer, invites the King and his cortege and all the
Zulus to come to his offices for champagne. He has
been doing this as long as anyone can remember, and
many of the Zulu members have been working for him
ever since I was born.

When I ran into this celebration and the good
music I forgot all about Sore Dick and the Parish
Prison. Most of the members of the Zulu Club then
lived around Liberty and Perdido Streets, but now
Mardi Gras has become so famous people come from
all over America to see its parade that it includes
doctors, lawyers and other important people from all
over the city. Later on a Lady Zulu Club was organ
ized. It had been my life-long dream to be the King of
the Zulus, as it was the dream of every kid in my neigh
borhood. A new king for the year is elected the day
after Mardi Gras.

Garfield Carter - or Papa Gar as we called him -
was the proudest stepper in the whole parade, and he
had the nerve to parody Captain Jackson. He paraded
disguised as the captain of the Zulu Police Force.

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The crowd used to go wild when Papa Gar strutted by
with his face blackened and with big white lips.

Monk Story was King of the Zulus that year, and
he was a colorful character too. He could always keep
a crowd doubled up with laughter at his stories, and he
talked very much like Mortimer Snerd. However, he
was not as good-looking. Monk was really in there that
year as King of the Zulus. I finally got my wish to be
King of the Zulus, and I can hardly wait for a chance
to be it again.

Johnny Keeling, one of the nicest boys in our
neighborhood, got into trouble with the downtown
bad boys that Mardi Gras, and as usual Black Benny
came to the rescue and sapped up those guys beauti
fully. It was better not to try to mess up the boys of
our neighborhood when Black Benny was around. Of
course, Black Benny had to go to jail for the job he did.
But that did not make much difference. As usual he
was allowed to leave the jail when he got a job to play
the bass drum. As a matter of fact, the very next day
Bunk Johnson went down to the prison and asked the
warden to loan him Benny for Frankie Dusen's Eagle
Band which was playing at a funeral. After the shindig
was over Benny returned to jail with a little extra
change in his pocket. Sore Dick did not throw any
brooms under Black Benny's legs; if he did they would
have had to build a new jail.

One time Benny had a run of luck when he was
gambling at Savocas' with George Bo'hog, Red Cor-

[128]

My Life in New Orleans

nelius, Black Mannie Hubbard, Sun Murray, Ben
Harding and Aaron Harris. George Bo'hog was run
ning the cotch game, and he was sore as hell at Benny
because he was winning all the money. But he wasn't
saying anything to Benny.

Isaiah Hubbard, Mannie's brother, was leaning on
the rail around the table watching the game. He hadn't
cared much for Benny for years and he insulted him
every chance he had. Benny, who always tried to avoid
trouble whenever possible, ignored Isaiah as much as
he could, particularly since Isaiah was a tough man
with his dukes. He was the only guy Benny allowed to
get in his hair with slurring remarks about his ragged
clothes. Isaiah himself had practically everything:
money, clothes and the women who made the most
money.

Isaiah was a real black man, with a thick mustache,
who carried a big pistol even the cops knew he had.
That day it seemed as though something had to happen.
When Benny finished playing cotch he went to cash in
his chips. The joint was as quiet as a church mouse
when Isaiah spoke.

"You black bastard," he said to Benny. "You've
won all the money, so now you can get your clothes out
of hock. Now you can quit flagging that ragged ass of
yours around the block."

Benny stopped in his tracks and walked right up
to Isaiah.

"I don't like that remark/' Benny said. "And fur-

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thermore I am tired of you slurring me. If you've got
anything against me get it off your chest right now. We
can settle the whole thing right here."

"No. I don't like you," Isaiah said, "and I never
did/'

As he said that Isaiah made a pass at Benny. Now
Benny was fast on his feet; he knew something about
ring fighting and he had been in a great many battle
royals. He ducked and came up with a right that floored
Isaiah. When this happened the crowd started to edge
toward the door getting ready to cut out any minute.
But they stayed when they saw it was going to be a fair
fist fight, which was to Benny's advantage. They fought
like two trained champions, and nobody dared to touch
them. Finally Benny feinted and hit Isaiah with every
thing he had, which was plenty. Isaiah landed on his
tail and went out like a light. Nobody said a word as
Benny put his money in his pocket with tears streaming
down his cheeks.

"Thank God," he said, "that's over. This man has
been hounding me for years. I knew this was going to
happen someday, but I never knew when. But when
it did happen I knew it was going to be he or I." And he
walked out.

No one said a word and no one followed Black
Benny as he walked down Perdido Street shouting at
the top of his voice: "Thank God, I finally got a chance
to settle with Isaiah Hubbard."

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My Life in New Orleans

As a matter of fact, Benny and Isaiah met fre
quently after that, but they never fought again.

Poor Benny was always getting into trouble. Now
that he had won enough money he went to get his
clothes out of the pawnshop where they had been for
nearly a year: a nice looking brown box-back suit with
thin white stripes, tan shoes from Edwin Clapps, a
brown Stetson hat and a real light pink shirt with a
beautiful tie. Oh, he looked very good! And we all re
joiced to see him so well dressed again. It had been rain
ing heavily and the streets were muddy, and water from
the overflowing sewers was backing up in the gutters
and smelling like hell.

In those days when kegs of beer were finished they
were rolled out on the sidewalk so that they could be
picked up by the brewers' wagons. The fellows who
hung around the neighborhood used to sit on these bar
rels and chew the rag. After he had gotten his clothes
out of pawn Benny was sitting with the gang on a barrel
he was so happy when a cop came up to him and
told him to come to the station for questioning by the
Chief of Police. The cop they had sent to bring Benny
in was one of the oldest men on the force. He inter
rupted Benny in the midst of one of his funny stories.

"Benny," the old cop said, "the Chief of Police
wants you down at the station."

"Man," Benny answered, "I haven't had these
clothes on for damn near a year. There ain't no use of
you or nobody trying to take me to jail, because I ain't

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going to jail today for nobody. Nobody. Do you get it?"

The cop insisted.

"Man, I told you/ 1 Benny repeated, "I ain't going
to jail today for nobody, no body! Understand?"

Just then the old policeman made a fast grab at
Benny's trousers and got a good hold on them. "You're
under arrest," he shouted.

Benny leapt up from the barrel like a shot and
started running directly across the street with the cop
still holding onto him. Benny ran so fast the cop
couldn't keep up with him. The policeman slipped,
lost his balance and took a header into the mud. Benny
stood on the other side of the street and watched the cop
pick himself up. His face was so spattered with mud
that he looked like a black face comedian.

"I told you I wasn't going to jail today," Benny
shouted at him, and went on about his business.

A week later Benny gave himself up. He told the
Chief what had happened and what he had said to the
cop. The Chief laughed and thought it was cute.

Black Benny gave me the first pistol I ever had in
my life. During the Christmas and New Year's holiday
season, when everybody was celebrating with pistols and
firecrackers, he and some of his friends used to make the
rounds of the neighborhood. Whenever they saw some
kid firing a gun in the street Benny went up behind him
and stuck a pistol in his back.

"I'll take this one, buddy."

The kids always forked over. I have seen Benny

My Life in New Orleans

come around with a basket full of guns of all kinds
which he would sell for any price that was offered. Oh,
what a character!

In 1918 things commenced to break for me. For
a time I took Sweet Child's job hopping bells at the
saloon on my corner in the Third Ward. I liked being
a bell boy. All I had to do was to walk up and down the
streets waiting for one of those hustling gals to stick her
head out of the window and call to me.

"Bell boy," she would shout.

"Yeah," I would answer.

"Bring me half a can."

A half can meant a nickel's worth of beer. A whole
can meant a dime's worth. When you bought a whole
can in those, days you were really celebrating. Even for
a nickel they gave so much that most of the time you
would have to call one of your neighbors to help you
drink it up.

I kind of liked hopping bells because it gave me a
chance to go into the houses and see what was going on.
Lots of times when one of the gals did not have the price
of a half can I would buy it for her out of the tips I had
made. They were always nice to me. However, it was
just my luck to have Sweet Child come back to his job.
He never did lay off again.

After that I had to go back to my job on the coal
wagon. As usual stepdaddy Gabe was glad to see me
again, and of course I was glad to see him. Many times
I tried to get Mayann to take Gabe back, but there was

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nothing doing. She just didn't like Gabe. I thought he
was the best stepfather I ever had and I still do. Any
time I wanted it I could always get a quarter out of him.
Those other stepfathers of mine seemed like a bunch
of cheap skates. But I just could not run Mayann's life
for her.

While I was working at the coal yard Sidney
Bechet, a youngster from the Creole quarter, came up
town to play at Kid Brown's, the famous parachute
jumper who ran a honky-tonk at Gravier and Franklin.
The first time I heard Sidney Bechet play that clarinet
he stood me on my ear. I realized very soon what a ver
satile player he was. Every musician in town was play
ing in one of the bands marching in the big Labor Day
parade. Somehow, though, Bechet was not working.
Henry Allen, Red Alien's daddy, had come over from
Algiers with his band to play for one of the lodges. Old
man Allen was short a cornet, and when the bands were
gathering in front of the Odd Fellow's Hall Allen spied
Bechet. Allen must have known Bechet could play a
lot of cornet, for he sent him into Jake Fink's to borrow
a cornet from Bob Lyons, the famous bass player. Bechet
joined the band and he made the whole parade, blow
ing like crazy. I marvelled at the way Bechet played the
cornet, and I followed him all that day. There was not
a cornet player in New Orleans who was like him. What
feeling! What soul! Every other player in the city had
to give it to him.

My next great thrill was when I played with Bechet

[134]

My Life in New Orleans

to advertise a prize fight I have forgotten who was
fighting, but I will never forget that I played with the
great Bechet. There were only three musicians in our
little band: clarinet, cornet and drums. Before I knew
it, Bechet had gone up North. Then he went to Paris
where he was a big hit, and still is.

[135]

ALONG ABOUT THE middle of the summer of 1918
Joe Oliver got an offer from Chicago to go there to play
for Mrs. Major, who owned the Lincoln Gardens. He
took Jimmie Noone with him to play the clarinet.

I was back on my job driving a coal cart, but I took
time off to go to the train with them. Kid Ory was at the
station, and so were the rest of the Ory-Oliver jazz band.
It was a rather sad parting. They really didn't want to
leave New Orleans, and I felt the old gang was breaking
up. But in show business you always keep thinking
something better's coming along.

The minute the train started to pull out I was on
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My Life in New Orleans

my way out of the Illinois Central Station to my cart
I had a big load of coal to deliver when Kid Ory called
to me.

"You still blowin' that cornet?" he hollered.

I ran back. He said he'd heard a lot of talk about
Little Louis. (That's what most folks called me when I
was in my teens, I was so little and so cute.)

"Hmmm ..." I pricked up my ears.

He said that when the boys in the band found out
for sure that Joe Oliver was leaving, they told him to go
get Little Louis to take Joe's place. He was a little in
doubt at first, but after he'd looked around the town he
decided I was the right one to have a try at taking that
great man's place. So he told me to go wash up and
then come play a gig with them that very same night.

, What a thrill that was! To think I was considered
up to taking Joe Oliver's place in the best band in town!
I couldn't hardly wait to get to Mayann's to tell her the
good news. I'd been having so many bad breaks, I just
had to make a beeline to Mayann's.

Mayann was the one who'd always encouraged me
to carry on with my cornet blowing because I loved it
so much.

I couldn't phone her because we didn't have
phones in our homes in those days only the filthy rich
could afford phones, and we were far from being in that
class.

I wasn't particular about telling Mama Lucy
just yet about my success, because she would always give

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me a dirty dig of some kind. Like the night I played my
first job. That was more of a hustle than anything else;
in fact, I didn't make but fifteen cents. I sure was proud
to bring that money home to my mother. Mama Lucy
heard me tell my mother:

"Mama, here's what we made last night. Satur
day night, too. We worked for tips, and fifteen cents
was all we made, each of us."

My sister raised up out of a sound sleep and said:
"Hmmm! Blow your brains out for fifteen cents!"

I wanted to kill her. Mama had to separate us to
keep us from fighting that morning.

So when I got my first big break from Kid Ory, I
looked up my mother first, instead of my sister. I just
let Lucy find it out for herself. And then when Lucy
praised me with enthusiasm, I just casually said:

"Thanks, sis/'

Cute, huh? But inwardly I was glad they were
happy for me. The first night I played with Kid Ory's
band, the boys were so surprised they could hardly play
their instruments for listening to me blow up a storm.
But I wasn't frightened one bit. I was doing everything
just exactly the way I'd heard Joe Oliver do it. At least
I tried to. I even put a big towel around my neck when
the band played a ball down at Economy Hall. That
was the first thing Joe always did he'd put a bath
towel around his neck and open up his collar under
neath so's he could blow free and easy.

And because I'd listened to Joe all the time he was

riS8]

My Life in New Orleans

with Kid Ory I knew almost everything that band
played, by ear anyway. I was pretty fast on my horn at
that time, and I had a good ear. I could catch on real
fast.

Kid Ory was so nice and kind, and he had so much
patience, that first night with them was a pleasure in
stead of a drag. There just wasn't a thing for me to do
except blow my head off. Mellow moments, I assure
you.

After that first gig with the Kid I was in. I began
to get real popular with the dance fans as well as the
musicians. All the musicians came to hear us and they'd
hire me to play in their bands on the nights I wasn't
engaged by Kid Ory.

I was doing great, till the night I got the biggest
scare of my life. I was taking the cornet player's place
in the Silver Leaf Band, a very good band too. All the
musicians in that band read the music of their parts.
The clarinet player was Sam Dutrey, the brother of
Honore Dutrey, the trombonist. Sam was one of the
best clarinetists in town. (He also cut hair on the side.)
He had an airy way about him that'd make one think
he was stuck up, but he was really just a jolly, good-
natured fellow and liked to joke a lot. But I didn't
know that!

The night I was to fill in for the clarinet player, I
went early to sort of compose myself, because since I was
playing with a strange band I didn't want anything to
go wrong if I could help it. Most of the band began

[139]

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straggling in one by one about fifteen minutes before
hitting time. Sam Dutrey was the last to arrive. I had
never seen him before in my life. So while we were
warming up and getting in tune, Sam came up on the
bandstand. He said good evening to the fellows in the
band and then he looked directly at me.

''What the hell is this?" he roared. "Get offa here,
boy!" He had a real voice.

I was real scared. "Yassuh," I said. I started to pack
up my cornet.

Then one of the men said: "Leave the boy alone,
Sam. He's working in Willie's place tonight." Then he
introduced me to Sam.

Sam laughed and said: "I was only kidding, son."

"Yassuh," I still said.

The whole night went down with us, swinging up
a mess. But still I had that funny feeling. Sometimes
now I run into Sam Dutrey, and we almost laugh our
selves sick over that incident.

Sam and Honore both were tops on their instru
ments. Honore Dutrey had one of the finest tones there
could be had out of a trombone. But he messed up his
life while he was in the Navy. One day aboard ship he
fell asleep in a powder magazine and gassed himself so
badly he suffered from asthma for years afterward. It
always bothered him something terrible blowing his
trombone.

When I had the band in Chicago in 1926, playing
for Joe Glaser, who's now my personal manager, Dutrey

[HO]

My Life in New Orleans

was the trombone player. He would do real fine on all
the tunes except the Irish Medley, in which the brass
had to stay in the upper register at the ending. That's
when Dutrey would have to go behind the curtains and
gush his atomizer into his nostrils. Then he would say,
"Take 'em on down." Well, you never heard such fine
strong trombone in all your life. Ill come back to
Honore later.

There's lots of musicians I'll be mentioning, espe
cially the ones I played with and had dealings with from
time to time. All in all, I had a wonderful life playing
with them. Lots of them were characters, and when I
say "characters" I mean characters! I've played with
some of the finest musicians in the world, jazz and
classic. God bless them, all of them!

While I was playing just gigs with Kid Ory's band
we all had jobs during the day. The war was still going
full blast and the orders were: "Work or Fight." And
since I was too young to fight, I kept on driving my coal
cart. Outside the cornet, it seemed like the coal cart was
the only job I enjoyed working. Maybe it was because
of all those fine old-timers.

Kid Ory had some of the finest gigs, especially for
the rich white folks. Whenever we'd play a swell place,
such as the Country Club, we would get more money,
and during the intermissions the people giving the
dance would see that the band had a big delicious meal,
the same as they ate. And by and by the drummer and

[141]

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I would get in with the colored waiters and have
enough food to take home to Mayann and Mama Lucy.

The music-reading musicians like those in Robe-
chaux's band thought that we in Kid Dry's band were
good, but only good together. One day those big shots
had a funeral to play, but most of them were working
during the day and couldn't make it. So they engaged
most of (Dry's boys, including me. The day of the funer
al the musicians were congregating at the hall where
the Lodge started their march, to go up to the dead
brother's house. Kid Ory and I noticed all those stuck-
up guys giving us lots of ice. They didn't feel we were
good enough to play their marches.

I nudged Ory, as if to say, "You dig what I'm
diggin'?"

Ory gave me a nod, as if to say yes, he digged.

We went up to the house playing a medium fast
march. All the music they gave us we played, and a
lot easier than they did. They still didn't say anything
to us one way or the other.

Then they brought the body out of the house and
we went on to the cemetery. We were playing those
real slow funeral marches. After we reached the ceme
tery, and they lowered the body down six feet in the
ground, and the drummer man rolled on the drums,
they struck a ragtime march which required swinging
from the band. And those old fossils just couldn't cut
it. That's when we Ory boys took over and came in
with flying colors.

[1421

My Life in New Orleans

We were having that good old experience, swing
ing that whole band! It sounded so good!

The second line the raggedy guys who follow
parades and funerals to hear the music they enjoyed
what we played so much they made us take an encore.
And that don't happen so much in street parades.

We went into the hall swinging the last number,
Panama. I remembered how Joe Oliver used to swing
that last chorus in the upper register, and I went on up
there and got those notes, and the crowd went wild.

After that incident those stuck-up guys wouldn't
let us alone. They patted us on the back and just
wouldn't let us alone. They hired us several times after
ward. After all, we'd proved to them that any learned
musician can read music, but they can't all swing. It
was a good lesson for them.

Several times later they asked us to join their band,
but I had already given Celestin (another fine cornet
player, and the leader of the Tuxedo Brass Band) my
consent to join him and replace Sidney Desvigne, an
other real good and fancy cornet man. Personally I
thought Celestin's Tuxedo Band was the hottest in town
since the days of the Onward Brass Band with Emman
uel Perez and Joe Oliver holding down the cornet sec
tion. My, my, what a band! So after Joe Oliver went
to Chicago, the Tuxedo Brass Band got all the funerals
and parades.

More about Papa Celestin later.

The last time I saw Lady, the mule I used to drive,

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was November 11, 1918, the day the Armistice was
signed, the day the United States and the rest of the
Allies cut the German Kaiser and his army a brand
'noo one. At eleven o'clock that morning I was unload
ing coal at Fabacher's restaurant on St. Charles Street,
one of the finest restaurants in town. I was carrying the
coal inside and sweating like mad when I heard several
automobiles going down St. Charles Street with great
big tin cans tied to them, dragging on the ground and
making all kinds of noise. After quite a few cars had
passed I got kind of curious and asked somebody stand
ing nearby, "What's all the fuss about?"

"They're celebratin' 'cause the war is over," he said
to me.

When he said that, it seemed as though a bolt of
lightning struck me all over.

I must have put about three more shovels of coal
into the wheelbarrow to take inside, when all of a sud
den a thought came to me. "The war is over. And here
I am monkeyin' around with this mule. Huh!"

I immediately dropped that shovel, slowly put on
my jacket, looked at Lady and said: "So long, my dear.
I don't think I'll ever see you again." And I cut out,
leaving mule cart, load of coal and everything connected
with it. I haven't seen them since.

I ran straight home. Mayann, noticing I was home
much earlier than usual, asked me what was the matter,
trouble?

"No, mother," I said. "The war is over, and I quit

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My Life in New Orleans

tile coal yard job for the last time. Now I can play my
music the way I want to. And when I want to."

; The very next day all the lights went on again. And
all the places commenced opening up in droves. Oh,
the city sure did look good again, with all those beauti
ful lights along Canal Street, and all the rest. Matranga
called me to come back to play in his honky-tonk, but he
was too late. I was looking forward to bigger things,
especially since Kid Ory had given me the chance to
play the music I really wanted to play. And that was
all kinds of music, from jazz to waltzes.

Then Kid Ory really did get a log of gigs. He even
started giving his own dances, Monday nights down
town at the Economy Hall. Monday night was a slow
night in New Orleans at that time, and we didn't get
much work other places. But Kid Ory did so well at the
Economy Hall that he kept it up for months and made
a lot of dough for himself. He paid us well too.

A lot of Saturday nights we didn't work either, so
on those nights I would play over in Gretna, across the
river, at the Brick House, another honky-tonk. This
was a little town near Algiers, Red Allen's home, which
paid pretty well, including the tips from the drunken
customers, the whores, the pimps and the gamblers.

There also were some real bad characters who hung
around the joint, and you could get your head cut off,
or blown off, if you weren't careful.

We had a three-piece band, and we had to play a

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lot of blues to satisfy those hustling women who macle
quite a bit of money selling themselves very cheap, i

The Brick House was located right by the lev$e
and the Jackson Avenue ferry. Going back home tto
New Orleans on the Jackson Avenue streetcar after we
finished work at the Brick House used to frighten me a
lot because there weren't many people out that time
of the morning. Just a few drunks, white and colored.
Lots of times the two races looked as if they were going
to get into a scrap over just nothing at all. And down
there, with something like that happening and only a
few Spades (colored folks) around, it wasn't so good.
Even if we colored ones were right, when the cops ar
rived they'd whip our heads first and ask questions later.

One night when just a few colored people, includ
ing me, were coming back from Gretna in the wee hours
of the morning, a middle-aged colored woman was sit
ting on a bench by the railing of the boat, lushed to the
gills. The deckhands were washing the floor and it was
very slippery. Just before the boat pulled off an elderly
white lady came running up the gangplank and just
managed to make the ferry. Not knowing the floor was
wet, she slipped and almost fell. Immediately the col
ored woman raised up and looked at the white one and
said; "Thank God!"

Talk about your tense moments!

My, my, the Lord was with us colored people that
night, because nothing happened. I'm still wondering

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My Life in New Orleans

why. I have seen trouble start down there from less than
that.

Louis Armstrong met his first wife at the Brick
House. But before I tell you how I got to know Daisy
Parker, I want to take one last look again at the good
old days of Storyville.

For instance, I haven't said anything yet about
Lulu White. Poor Lulu White! What a woman!

I admired her even when I was a kid, not because
of the great business she was in, but because of the great
business she made of her Mahogany Hall. That was the
name of the house she ran at Storyville. It was a pleas
ure house, where those rich ofay (white) business men
and planters would come from all over the South and
spend some awful large amounts of loot.

Lulu had some of the biggest diamonds anyone

would want to look at. Some of the finest furs And

some of the finest yellow gals working for her

Champagne would flow like water at Lulu's. If
anyone walked in and ordered a bottle of beer, why,
they'd look at him twice and then maybe they'd
serve it. And if they did, you'd be plenty sorry you
didn't order champagne.

Jelly Roll Morton made a lot of money playing
the piano for Lulu White, playing in one of her rooms.

Of course when the drop came and the Navy and
the law started clamping down on Storyville, Lulu had
to close down too. She had enough salted away to retire
for life and forget all about the business. But no, she

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was like a lot of sporting house landladies I've known
through life they were never satisfied and would not
let well enough alone, and would try to make that big
fast money regardless of the law showering down on
them.

Mayor Martin Behrman made them cut out from
Storyville within days. Lulu White moved from 325
North Basin Street to 1200 Bienville Street, and tried
her luck at another house. That's where she did the
wrong thing, to try to continue running her house with
the law on her like white on rice, taking all the loot
she'd made over the years along with her diamonds and
jewelry and all.

I remember Detective Harry Gregson gave her a
real tough time. He was a tough man, and he's still
living. All the dicks in Storyville Hessel, Fast Mail,
Gregson, the others I got to know when as a kid I de
livered hard coal to all of those cribs where the girls
used to stand in their doorways and work as the men
went by.

There were all kinds of thrills for me in Storyville.
On every corner I could hear music. And such good
music! The music I wanted to hear. It was worth my
salary the little I did get just to go into Storyville.
It seemed as though all the bands were shooting at each
other with those hot riffs. And that man Joe Oliver!
My, my, that man kept me spellbound with that horn
of his. . . .

Storyville! With all those glorious trumpets Joe

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My Life in New Orleans

Oliver, Bunk Johnson he was in his prime then
Emmanuel Perez, Buddy Petit, Joe Johnson who was
real great, and it's too bad he didn't make some rec
ords

It struck me that Joe Johnson and Buddy Petit had
the same identical styles. Which was great! In fact all
the trumpet and cornet players who were playing in my
young days in New Orleans were hellions that's the
biggest word I can say for them. They could play those
horns for hours on end.

But Joe Oliver, a fat man, was the strongest and
the most creative. And Bunk Johnson was the sweetest.
Bunk cut everybody for tone, though they all had good
tones. That was the first thing Mr. Peter Davis taught
me-out in the Colored Waifs* Home for Boys. "Tone,"
he said. "A musician with a tone can play any kind of
music, whether it's classical or ragtime.'*

It seemed like everyone was pulling for Lulu
White to give up and lead a decent life. But she just
wouldn't. She held on to her horses and her carriage
and her Negro driver as long as she could. But the law
she defied dragged her down like a dog until they broke
her completely. It was a shame the way they snatched
her mansion furniture, diamonds galore, things
worth a fortune.

Oh well, although Lulu's gone, the name of Ma
hogany Hall on Basin Street will live forever. And so
will Basin Street.

[149]

THE BRICK HOUSE, in Gretna, Louisiana . . .

In all my whole career the Brick House was one
of the toughest joints I ever played in. It was the honky-
tonk where levee workers would congregate every Sat
urday night and trade with the gals who'd stroll up and
down the floor and into the bar. Those guys would
drink and fight one another like circle saws. Bottles
would come flying over the bandstand like crazy, and
there was lots of just plain common shooting and cut
ting. But somehow all of that jive didn't faze me at all,
I was so happy to have some place to blow my horn.

For about three Saturday nights straight I kept
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My Life in New Orleans

noticing one of the gals looking at me with the stuff in
her eyes. I kept on playing, but I started giving her
that righteous look in return. That chick was Daisy
Parker.

Of course, it was strictly business with her. And to
me it was just another mash that's what we called
flirting in those days. We would use the expression,
"The lady has a mash on you," and then we would poke
our chests 'way out as if we were pretty important.

Anyhow I did not find that out on my first meeting
with Daisy, until I was in one of the rooms upstairs in
the Brick House. She stated her price, which wasn't
much in those days, so I told her I would see her after
I finished work. She agreed and away I went, thinking:
"Hmmm, but that's a good-looking Creole gal." I didn't
know what I was in for.

Sure enough, after work I made a beelme upstairs,
and Daisy excused herself from her party and met me
there. Since she was through work and I was too, we
stayed in that room from five in the morning till 'way
into the afternoon.

The first thing I noticed about Daisy that night
but I didn't say anything because I didn't want to be
lieve my eyes was that when she undressed she pulled
off a pair of "sides," artificial hips she wore to give
herself a good figure. I thought to myself: "Hmm, as
much as I've been admiring this chick and her shape,
here she comes bringing me a pair of waterwings." But
before I could think another thing, she came out with

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the explanation. She said she was too skinny and only
weighed less than a hundred pounds, The way she was
built caused her to wear them. And they did give her
a pretty fair shape. She was right, too, because along
with her good looks, she was still "reet" with me. So I
got used to it; in fact I even got used to seeing her put
them on, and loved it.

We had several meetings after that, and Daisy and
I commenced to fall deeply in love with each other.

Daisy was twenty-one years of age, and I was eight
een. I was so gone over her we never mentioned that
she had an "Old Man" the name we used to have for
a common law husband though that was the first
thing I usually asked a chick. Later on I found the
reason for Daisy not telling me about the drummer who
played in another honky-tonk in Gretna while she
worked in the Brick House; the customers who visited
the Brick House paid more money.

She and this drummer lived in Freetown, a little
village between Gretna and Algiers. Since she kept on
asking me to come over to her house and visit her some
afternoon, I had just taken it for granted that she was
living by herself, the same as a lot of other working girls
I had played around with. Their pimps would come
around and collect, do what comes naturally, and cut
out either to their bachelor's quarters or home to their
wives and kids.

Since Kid Ory had signed a contract to play at the
rich folks' New Orleans Country Club every Saturday

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My Life in New Orleans

night, I put the Brick House down quicker 'n I'd left
Lady on Armistice Day. So for a whole month I didn't
see Daisy, just talked to her on the telephone every now
and then. She didn't know how to get over to the New
Orleans side of the river because she'd spent all her life
in Gretna and other little towns in Louisiana.

I wanted to see Daisy so bad as bad as she wanted
to see me that I decided one afternoon to put on my
sharpest vine. I didn't have but one, and I treasured
it by keeping it cleaned and pressed all the time. It was
about two in the afternoon when I was ready to leave.
Mayann, with whom I was still living at that time, asked
me: "Where are you goin 1 , son? Looking so good and
dressed up ..."

I said: "Aw, nowheres in particular, mama. Just
feel like putting on my Sunday-go-to-meeting suit/'

She gave a good hearty chuckle and went into the
kitchen to stir that fine pot of red beans and rice, which
sure did smell good. I almost changed my mind when
I got a whiff of them.

It must have been around three-thirty when I
reached Freetown. The bus I'd taken from Gretna
stopped about three-quarters of a mile from where
Daisy lived. I asked someone how to get to her house,
which was easy to find as it was in the country, and
everyone knows everyone else in the country.

It was a four-room house, with the rooms one be
hind the other. You could stand at the front door and
look all the way back to the kitchen. It was an old

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house, with poorly lighted rooms and a beat-up porch.

The minute I knocked at the door, Daisy appeared,
all smiles. She led me into the parlor, and the minute
she closed the door we kissed a long one. Then she
took my hat and laid it on the old-fashioned sewing
machine she had. Then she sat on my lap and we were
really swinging with the kisses when, all of a sudden,
a rap came on the door.

"Who is it?" Daisy said, all excited.

That knocker happened to be her old man, who,
to my surprise, had been hearing about me and Daisy
canoeing from the first night we'd got together. He
pushed in the door real hard and came in. Daisy jumped
off my knee and ran into the next room, with him right
behind her.

For a moment I thought of a million things. The
first was the incident with Irene and Cheeky Black.

Just then I heard something hit the floor. Yep, it
was Daisy. He had hit her a hard blow, and without
saying a word, without even hollering, she went out
like a light.

I commenced getting real busy getting out of there.
As plainly as Daisy had put my hat on the sewing ma
chine, and as easy as it was to get to, I just couldn't seem
to find it and put it on my head fast enough. All the
time I kept imagining what was coming for me next.

I finally did get out before he came in from the
back room, but the whole time I was making it for that
bus I never did get my hat on. In fact, I didn't even

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My Life in New Orleans

think of putting it on my head until I was safely on the
ferry boat going back to New Orleans. I was, you see,
still a kid when I found out it was better to run with
your hat in your hand instead of on your head you
make better time.

When I hit that ferry boat I let out a big sigh. And
I said to myself: "Ump! Once again, never again/'

Then I thought of how I'd said the same words
when Cheeky Black caught Irene and me in the room
together, But this time I meant it.

When I got back home to Mayann I was all upset,
But I did a pretty fair job in not letting her see any
signs of trouble on my face. She worried a great deal
about Mama Lucy and me, because we used to get into
trouble on the spur of the moment. She fixed supper
beans and rice and the minute I put the first mouth
ful into my chops I forgot all about the mess.

I didn't see Daisy for almost a month after that
scrimmage. I decided to give her up as a bad job any
way. Then, too, Mayann didn't know about her. For
one reason or another I just wouldn't tell about Daisy.
And since I had decided to give her up, there just wasn't
anything to tell.

Time went by, and then one day who should come
around my neighborhood of Liberty and Perdido
Streets looking for me, but Daisy! I was really sur
prised. Because the way she lied to me about her old
man, I didn't think she really cared for me. I thought

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right away she was only using me for a playtoy or some
thing.

I was speechless when she saw me standing on the
corner with all the old-timers who'd just come from
work in the coal yards, and ran up to me and kissed me
with tears in her eyes, saying: "Darling, I've been so
lonesome, blue, and unhappy, I just couldn't stand it
any longer. I just had to see you."

All the guys were watching me and saying: "Go on,
Dipper! You with a fine looking gal like that pouring
out her heart to you! Man, you must have really laid it."

Then it dawned on me that it was kind of nice to
be able to signify in front of them for a change, with a
fine chick breaking down all over me.

Then I caught a-hold of myself and asked her:
"Er what how did you get over on this side, honey?"

Then she told me her cousin showed her the way
as he went to work at his job on Canal Street.

We went to Rampart and Lafayette Streets, to Kid
Green's Hotel, and engaged a room for the evening so
we could talk over many things.

Kid Green was an ex-prizefighter and was known
from one end of the United States to the other. He
was a good one in his day, but now he had retired on
the money he'd saved. He had a pretty fair hotel, not
the best in the world, but comfortable. He and I were
good friends, and whenever I'd go there with a chick,
he'd make room for me no matter how crowded he was.
Kid Green had a reputation for wearing those "Stock

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My Life in New Orleans

Ties" which were very popular in those days; they are
made of shirt goods, or silk, and are wrapped around
the neck and tied with a great big knot in front. He
was a master at wearing them. Every tooth in his head
was gold, and there was a big diamond inserted in one
of the front ones, the same as Jelly Roll Morton had.
Kid Green had so much gold in his mouth they called
him "Klondike," and when he smiled, you could see
gold for miles and miles.

While I was with Daisy at Kid Green's Hotel I had
a good chance to really check up on her. I wouldn't
say that she was "beautiful but dumb," because she was
pretty clever and really knew how to make money. But
she was very jealous.

I figured out that during Daisy's childhood in the
country she had evidently been spoiled by her parents
who let her have her own way and do whatever she
pleased. She would play hookey from school whenever
she wanted, and she grew up without any vocation or
learning at all, not even a middle grade learning, which
any ordinary kid would get in life. Later I found out
she couldn't even read or write. All she knew how to do
was fuss and fight.

But it's a funny thing about two people being in
love whatever little traits there are, no matter how
unpleasant they may be, love will drown them out. So
since I realized I was in love with Daisy for sure, I did
not fight with myself any longer, and I gave over to my

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lovely feeling for her. Because she really did move me
greatly. And that was that

When we left Kid Green's Hotel we went straight
down to City Hall and got hitched. And that was when
the lid blew off.

Before we got out of the City Hall, the news had
spread all over my neighborhood. The old-timers such
as Mrs. Magg, Mrs. Laura, Mrs. Martin, were sur
prised, of course, but they were the ones who were
actually glad for me. But the rest of the neighborhood,
especially those old gossipers, made a beeline for
Mayann.

They all upset Mayann by asking her: "Are you
going to let him marry that whore?"

And Mayann (bless her heart!) told them very
calmly: "Well, that's my son, and he has to live his own
life." She shrugged her shoulders. "And he loves the
woman enough to marry her, that's his business, and
they both have my blessing. And I will also try my best
to make her as happy as I can."

So the crowd, after seeing her point, agreed with
her as they walked away.

After Daisy and I came out of the City Hall she
caught a streetcar and went back to Freetown to pack
up her clothes. I went home.

On my way I ran into Black Benny, standing on the
corner in his soldier's uniform. Although the war had
ended, he was still in the Army, waiting to be dis
charged. He was a sergeant and could give orders still

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My Life in New Orleans

to the guys who were under him. At this time he had
run into another soldier who had a lower ranking than
he, and the guy in civilian life was one of those snob
bish kind of fellows who gave Black Benny a tough
time through life. So this day Benny waited until the
private almost passed him, and then Benny hollered:
"ATTENTION!!!" So the guy stood at attention,
while Benny went all around the block, leaving the guy
with his hand up, saluting. Finally Benny came back
and said, "At ease!," and the guy went away with an
awful frown. But he dared not say anything to Black
Benny about it. Because Benny was a man among men,
you can take it from me.

When I came home, Mayann and I had a real heart-
to-heart talk. First thing she asked me was: "Son, are
you sure you love this girl?"

I said: "Mother, I've never been surer of anything
in my whole life as my love for Daisy. She has convinced
me that she's the woman for me."

''Well," mother said, "I hear she hasn't got much
learning."

"Mother," I said, "what's that got to do with our
being in love with each other? You must realize that I
didn't go any further than fifth grade in school myself.
But with my good sense and mother-wit, and knowing
how to treat and respect the feelings of other people,
that's all I've needed through life. You taught me that,
mother. And I haven't done so bad at it. Ain't that
right?"

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Mayann shrugged her shoulders. "I guess you're
right, son." Then she said: "You must bring your wife
to me; I want to meet her."

With a palpitating heart I gave a big sigh of relief
and said: "Oh, thanks, mom."

Mayann was the one I wanted the o.k. from. I
didn't much care about what anybody else said.

I gave my dear mother a great big hug and a kiss,
and made a beeline to Daisy. I told her of the good
news, and she was so happy that Mayann was satisfied
with our marriage in spite of all the old gossipers in the
neighborhood.

For a month or more Daisy and I only met a dif
ferent places and hotels, because we didn't have enough
money to get a place of our own. Then one day we
found a two-room flat over an upholstering place on
Melpomene Street in uptown New Orleans. The place
we had was nothing elaborate. In order to get to where
we lived we had to go by way of some stairs on the out
side, the alley side. When it rained, it was something
awful. The garbage that had been piled there for ages
by the upholsterer-landlord and the other tenants who
lived in the back yard made it very unpleasant for me
to go home there from work every night. But it was a
place to live, and a little place of privacy, and we could
call it our own. So we gladly made the best of it.

The place we lived in had two porches, a front one,
and one in the back; but we called them "galleries," as
the word "porch" was unheard of to us then. We lived

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My Life in New Orleans

on the second floor, and our gallery was an old one; it
had begun to slant a little, and when it rained the water
would run down it like down a wall.

One day when it was raining like mad, Daisy and
I were in the front room listening to some new records
I had just bought, new releases of the original Dixieland
Jazz Band, which we were playing on an upright Vic-
trola we were very proud of. The records were Livery
Stable Blues and Tiger Rag, the first Tiger Rag to be
recorded. (Between you and me, it's still the best.)

Clarence, my cousin Flora Miles' illegitimate son,
was living with us at the time. He was about three years
old and still in dresses. Down there all kids wore dresses
until they were a real large size. Kids love to wander
around a house, and Clarence was no exception. On
this rainy day big sheets of rain were falling Clar
ence was playing with some toys I had bought for him.
He was in the rear room, which was the kitchen for us,
and we didn't notice him when he wandered out of the
kitchen on to the back porch, where it was raining ter
ribly hard.

All of a sudden, when Daisy and I were playing
records, we heard Clarence crying frantically. So we
ran to the rear door to see what was the matter. I was
real frightened when I looked on the rear porch and
couldn't see him, but I could hear him crying. Then I
looked down to the ground, and there was Clarence
coming up the steps crying and holding his head. He
had slipped off the porch, it was so wet, and fallen to

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the ground. The average child probably would have
gotten killed, but for Clarence the fall only set him back
behind the average child.

That fall hindered Clarence all through his life. I
had some of the best doctors anyone could get examine
him, and they all agreed that the fall had made him
feeble-minded. His mind is four years behind the av
erage child's.

I took him to all kinds of schools as he grew. I also
enrolled him in a Catholic school; they kept him there
several months and then sent him back to me saying the
same as the rest said. I got so disgusted with all the run
ning around they were giving Clarence I decided to
take over and teach him myself.

And since Clarence has always been a nervous sort
of fellow and was never able to work and earn his own
living, I set up a routine for him in which he'd be happy
the rest of his days. I managed to teach him the neces
sary things in life, such as being courteous, having re
spect for other people, and last but not least, having
good common sense. I always managed to have someone
look after Clarence whenever I had to travel or go to
work. The musicians, actors in fact, everybody whom
I'd ever introduced Clarence to they've all taken a
liking to him right away. As we used to say in New
Orleans, Clarence never was a "sassy child."

During those days, when I wasn't playing with Kid
Ory in a funeral or a parade or an advertising stint, I
would be at the head of the New Basin Canal, hanging

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My Life in New Orleans

around the charcoal schooners. We youngsters would
wait for them to clean the big lumps o coal, put them
in large burlap sacks, and then throw the small pieces
into a corner of the schooner. We would buy small
pieces from them. We would carry them away in big
burlap sacks, put them in water buckets and sell them
at houses for five cents a bucket. That is how I earned
my living when I married Daisy.

Handling and selling charcoal was certainly a dirty
job. My face and hands were always black, and most of
the time I looked like Al Jolson when he used to get
down on his knees and sing Mammy. But with that
job and playing music I made a good living.

Whenever Daisy and I had a fuss and how I
hated it I would put my clothes and Clarence's clothes
into my charcoal sack and the two of us would move
down to my mother's house intending to stay there for
ever. Then, two weeks later, along would come Daisy.
She would make all kinds of apologies and promise
never to upset me again and let me blow my trumpet
in peace.

One day a member of my club, The Tammany So
cial Aid and Pleasure Club, died. The funeral left from
the corner of Liberty and Perdido Streets. All the mem
bers had to wear black or real dark suits, and I had been
lucky enough to get my black broadcloth suit out of
pawn in time for the funeral. In those days we did a
good bit of pawning. As soon as a guy got broke the

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first thing he thought of was the pawn shop. All out
of pawn that day, I looked like a million dollars.

Living in our neighborhood was a gal named Rella
Martin with whom I used to sweetheart. Somehow
Daisy found out about this chick. She did not say any
thing about it to me but I suspected something was
bugging her from the way she used to give me hell
every time I came home only a half an hour late. Then
we would just about tear the roof off the place calling
each other nice names.

That day of the funeral, while the body was still in
the church, I was standing on the corner talking to Rella
and a dear friend of mine named Little Head with
whom I had gone to the Fisk School. It had been rain
ing all morning; the gutters were full of water and the
streets real muddy. I had on a brand new Stetson hat
(like the one in the song St, James Infirmary), my fine
black suit and new patent leather shoes. Believe me, I
was a sharp cat. The three of us were talking about
nothing in particular, just killing time while we waited
to walk the body to the cemetery. I was one of the pall
bearers. All of a sudden I saw Daisy coming in our di
rection. "Oh, oh, now there will be trouble," I thought.

"Folks," I said, "there's Daisy coming down the
street,"

They knew what a jealous woman she was. Rella
thought it best to leave me and Little Head standing
there alone. As Daisy came closer we did not say a
word and neither did she. Instead she whipped out her

[164}

My Life in New Orleans

razor and began cursing. I swung around and started to
run. I was fast on my feet and I made a fast start. As
I jumped over the gutter my hat fell off, my good old
John B. Stetson. That was the hat in those days, and
I had struggled and saved a long time to buy it. Little
Head was about to lean over and pick it up for me when
Daisy rushed up to him and made a long swipe at his
rear. He was off in a flash like me.-

Daisy was so furious she picked up my hat and
started cutting it to ribbons. My Gawd! Did that burn
me up! I was about to go back and have it out with her
when my club fellows grabbed me and told me I could
not win.

"Look out boy! She's got a razor. You haven't even
got a penknife."

By this time Daisy had cut my hat to pieces and
was starting back uptown. I was foaming at the mouth,
but I took the boys' advice and let her cut out. But
God knows I wasn't going to forget about what she had
done.

Just then the members started coming out of the
church to the sad boom, boom, boom of the bass drum.
Then the brass band struck up Nearer My God to Thee
and we were on our way to the cemetery. All the time
I was marching (with another boy's hat on in place of
my cut-up one) I kept thinking about what Daisy had
done to me in front of my friends, the members of the
Tammany Social Club. The cemetery was not far from
where Daisy and I lived. After the body was buried I

[165]

SATCHMO

did not wait to join the members as they marched back
to the hall. I was so angry with Daisy I cut out at once
and went straight home.

When I got home Daisy was not in. She was sitting
at the window of her friend's house with about ten
bricks sitting beside her. But I did not know this. Just
as I was about to put the key in the lock one of Daisy's
bricks hit our door. Wham! This really scared me. To
my surprise, when I turned to see where the bricks were
coming from, I saw Daisy cursing and throwing bricks
faster than Satchel Paige. There was not anything I
could do but keep on ducking bricks until her supply
ran out. And when it did she came flying downstairs
to fight it out with me. Quick as a flash I stooped down
and picked up one of the bricks she had thrown at me.
I cocked up my right leg as though I was going to pitch
a strike for the home team and let the brick fly. It hit
Daisy right in the stomach. She doubled up in a knot
screaming: "You've killed me. You've killed me."

I don't know what else she said because I was not
there to hear it. Someone had called the police station
(people will do those things) saying a man and a woman
were fighting, and they were certainly right. When I
heard the patrol bell ringing I tore out for the back
fence and sailed over it so fast I did not even touch it.
I could hear the policemen blowing their whistles and
shooting their pistols into the air to try to stop me. That
did not faze me. I was gone like the turkey through
the corn.

When the police are called to stop a fighting couple

[166]

My Life in New Orleans

and find only one of them, they take that one to prison.
That is what happened to Daisy. In spite of all her hol
lering, screaming and cursing they hauled her oft She
raised particular hell with those cops. While they were
trying to put her into the partol wagon she kicked one
of them under the chin. He was so angry he hit her cute
little Creole head with his licorice stick, making her
head bleed terribly. She did not dare report that to the
captain of the police because that same cop would have
laid for her when she got out of jail and given her an
other head whipping. That is what the New Orleans
cops did in those days.

Daisy played it smart. She went to jail crying like
an innocent babe regardless of all the hell she had just
raised. Just like a woman.

In the meantime I had run back and caught up
with my club's funeral, borrowed another good hat
from a friend of mine who was a bystander and forgot
all about the one Daisy had cut to ribbons. In those
days when a fellow wore a John B. Stetson he was really
a big shot, as big shots went at that time. We poor young
musicians would have to save for months to get the
fifteen dollars those hats cost then. We wanted them so
badly we would save every nickel we could spare, but
even at that some of the boys could not make the grade.
They would pay a deposit on one of them and would
nearly finish paying the instalments when they would
run short of money. Then the hat store would sell the
hat they had been paying for to someone else. Now you
can see why I got so angry with Daisy for cutting my

[167]

SATCHMO

hat to pieces. But as I say I forgot all about it when I
heard that brass band showering down on one of those
real fine funeral marches. Those brass bands could play
a funeral march so sweet and with so much soul you
could actually feel it inside.

While I was walking in the funeral procession a
fellow ran up to me and gave me a message from Daisy,
who was still in jail and not even booked. It must have
been one of the jail trusties because no one else could
have found that out so soon. As I explained about Black
Benny, a trustie can go out on the street whenever he
wants to, and can make money running errands for the
other prisoners. I gave the guy with the message a
couple of bucks and he told me Daisy was not even
booked. Mad at her as I had been, I softened up right
away. I told the messenger to tell Daisy not to worry,
that I still loved her and that all was forgotten.

Luckily at that time I was still working on the
boats, and my boss thought an awful lot of me. I knew
that if I asked him to get Daisy out of jail he would do
it quicker than I could say jackrabbit. As soon as the
funeral was over I gave my pal back his John B. Stetson,
thanked him, and made a beeline for the nearest grocery
in our neighborhood. We always had to go to the
grocery store to phone or receive a message.

I always kept in the good graces of the grocery
man. It is important to be able to use his phone and
to have him take messages for you, but even more im
portant is the good credit he can let you have. All my
gigs used to come in by phone, and old Tony, Mr.

[168]

(Courtesy Rudi Blesh)

Louis Armstrong, shortly after he joined King Oliver's
Creole Jazz Band in Chicago, 1923.

Louis, about 1930.

The Sydney band plays again thirty years later: Warren
"Baby" Dodds on the drums, George "Pops" Foster slap
ping bass, Louis Armstrong with his trumpet.

(Acme)

Louis Armstrong with two admirers, actor William Lang-
ford and Tallulah Bankhead (1950).

Chicago's Mayor Martin H. Kennelly officially welcomes
Louis Armstrong to his city in 1951. Louis was the first
musician to be given this honor.

(Acmi

(Wide World)

Louis meets a young fan in Switzerland on his tour of
Europe in 1952.

(Acme)

Two old masters meet: Louis Armstrong and Lionel
Hampton.

Louis Armstrong and his wife Lucille.

My Life in New Orleans

Caspar, Matranga, or Segretta never failed to let me
know. That goes to show that no matter how tough an
ofay may seem, there is always some "black son of a
bitch" he is wild about and loves to death just like one
of his own relatives.

The day I called up my boss on the boat he im
mediately phoned the police station and had Daisy
paroled. Of course I went down to the police station
and waited to take her home. I noticed she was limping
a little in her left leg when she came out. For a moment
she was glad to see me, and we kissed and made up.
Then we started to walk toward the firing line where
she had thrown all those bricks at me. (Thank God she
was such a bad shot.)

The nearer home we got the more she began to
think about our fight. I could see by the expression on
her face that she was getting more and more angry. I
still did not say a word about it. Anyhow she could not
pretend any longer. All of a sudden she turned on me
and started to curse and call me all kinds of dirty names.
She said I had crippled her and that she was going to
get revenge if it was the last thing she did. That struck
me as a very, very strange thing for her to say to me,
especially as I had begun to think that everything was
all right, and that we had thrown away the hatchet for
good! What is more, we were even. She had cut my
hat to ribbons and swung on me and my friend. When
I went home she had showered a whole flock of bricks
at me as well as everything else she could get her hands
on.

[ 177 ]

SATCHMO

So when Daisy started her angry jive at me on the
streetcar I said to myself: "Well, boy, you better get
ready for another one of Daisy's cheap scenes." For
every name she called me I called her the same, and I
hit her with a few real hard ones for lagniappe (or good
measure), which is what we kids called the tokens of
thanks the grocer gave us when we went there to pay
the bill for our parents. We would get animal crackers
or almost anything that did not cost very much for
lagniappe, and the grocer who gave the most lagniappe
would get the most trade from us kids.

When we reached Melpomene and Dryades Streets
near home we were still arguing like mad. After we
got off the car we met a policeman patrolling the beat
who happened to know me from my playing with Kid
Dry's band in a lot of benefits around town. Instead
of throwing the two of us back in jail he gave us a break.

"Dipper mouth," he said, "Why don't you take
your wife home off the street before some other cop
comes along and arrests the two of you."

That certainly made me feel good. I was recog
nized by one of the toughest policemen on the force.
Instead of giving me a head whipping as the police
usually did, he gave me advice and protected me.

When Daisy and I reached our little two-roomer
the first thing I did was to lay my cards on the table
and have a heart-to-heart talk with her.

"Daisy," I said, "listen, honey, this jive is not going
to get us any place. I am a musician and not a boxer.
Every time you get mad at me the first thing you do^is-

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My Life in New Orleans

to try your damnedest to hit me in the chops. Thank
the lord I have been able to get out of your way every
time. Now I am sick and tired of it all. The best thing
for me and you to do is call it quits."

"Oh, no. Don't leave me," Daisy said, breaking
into tears. "You know I am in love with you. That's
why I'm so jealous."

As I said before, Daisy did not have any education.
If a person is real ignorant and has no learning at all
that person is always going to be jealous, evil and hate
ful. There are always two sides to every story, but an
ignorant person just won't cope with either side. I
have seen Daisy get furious when she saw me whispering
to somebody. "I know you are talking about me be
cause you are looking at me," she would say. Frighten
ing, isn't it? However, it was because I understood
Daisy so well that I was able to take four years of torture
and bliss with her.

A man has to know something or he will always
catch hell. But Daisy did not even read a newspaper or
anything enlightening. Luckily she was a woman, and
a good-looking chick at that. Looks make all the differ
ence in the world, no matter whether a woman is dumb
or not. So we made it up and toughed it out together
a little while longer.

At that time I was playing a lot of funerals with
the Tuxedo Brass Band under the leadership of Oscar
(Zost) Celestin, a marvelous trumpeter and a very fine
musician. He was also one of the finest guys who ever

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SATCHMO

hit New Orleans, I was the second trumpet player in
his brass band. At the same time my dear friend Mau
rice Durand was playing in the Excelsior Brass Band,
another top-notch band. Old Man Mauret was the
leader and first cornet man, and he would pilot those
musicians of his just as though they were a flock of
angels. All his boys gave him wonderful support. They
weren't like present day bands, only working because
they have to, and mad because they have to take orders
from the leader.

That was not true of Maurice and those other boys
who played for Celestin and Old Man Mauret. Mau
rice and I were youngsters together. Whenever we
played at a parade or a funeral we were usually play
ing in different bands. Lots of times I would run across
Maurice and would see how wonderful Old Man Mau-
ret's discipline was and how much his musicians ap
preciated him. Celestin was equally well loved by his
musicians.

Since I am on the subject of first rate brass bands,
I want to speak about the cream of the crop, the one
that topped them all the Onward Brass Band. On
Labor Day and other holidays it was a thrilling experi
ence to see the great King Oliver from Uptown and the
past master Emmanuel Perez pass by blowing Panama.
The memory of that is so wonderful that after all these
years I would like nothing better than to be able to
talk it all over again with Maurice, who is now living
in San Francisco,

[180]

ff

BY THIS TIME I was beginning to get very popular
around that good old town of mine. I had many offers
to leave Kid Dry's band, but for some time none of
them tempted me. One day a redheaded band leader
named Fate Marable came to see me. For over sixteen
years he had been playing the excursion steamer Syd-
ney. He was a great piano man and he also played the
calliope on the top deck of the Sydney. Just before the
boat left the docks for one of its moonlight trips up the
Mississippi, Fate would sit down at this calliope and
damn near play the keys off of it. He was certainly a
grand musician.

When he asked me to join his orchestra I jumped

at the opportunity. It meant a great advancement in

my musical career because his musicians had to read

music perfectly. Ory's men did not. Later on I found

[181]

SATCHMO

out that Fate Marable had just as many jazz greats as
Kid Ory, and they were better men besides because they
could read music and they could improvise. Fate's had
a wide range and they played all the latest music be
cause they could read at sight. Kid Ory's band could,
catch on to a tune quickly, and once they had it no
one could outplay them. But I wanted to do more than
fake the music all the time because there is more to
music than just playing one style. I lost no time in join
ing the orchestra on the Sydney.

In that orchestra David Jones played the melo-
phone. He had joined us from a road show that came
to New Orleans, a fine musician with a soft mellow tone
and a great ability to improvise. I mention him par
ticularly because he took the trouble between trips to
teach me to read music. I learned very quickly. Br'er
Jones, as I later called him, taught me how to divide
the notes so that whenever Fate threw a new arrange
ment I was able to cope with it, and did not have to
sit and wait with my cornet in my hand for Joe Howard
to play the tune once and then turn it over to me. Of
course I could pick up a tune fast, for my ears were
trained, and I could spell a little too, but not enough
for Fate Marable' s band.

Fate knew all this when he hired me, but he liked
my tone and the way I could catch on. That was enough
for him. Being a grand and experienced musician he
knew that just by being around musicians who read
music I would automatically learn myself. Within no
time at all I was reading everything he put before me.

[182]

My Life in New Orleans

Fate was the kind of leader who liked to throw a hard
piece of music at his boys and catch them off their
guard. He would scan his part while the boys were out
taking a smoke. After running his part down to per
fection he would stamp his foot and say: "O.K. men.
Here's your parts."

After the parts had been passed around he would
stamp his foot again.

"Let's go/' he would say.

Then we all scrambled to read the tune at first
sight. By the time we were able to play our pans Fate
had learned to play his without the notes. I thought
that was marvelous. Fate was a very serious musician.
He defied anybody to play more difficult music than
he did. Every musician in New Orleans respected him.
He had seen the good old days in Storyville, and had
played cotch with the pimps and hustlers at the Twenty-
Five gambling house. He had had fine jam sessions
with the piano greats of those days such as Jelly Roll
Morton, Tony Jackson, Calvin Jackson, Udell Wilson,
Arthur Camel, Frankie Heinze, Boogus, Laurence Wil
liams, Buddy Christian, Wilhelmina Bart Wynn, Edna
Frances and many of the other all-time greats. He al
ways won the greatest honors with them.

He had his own way of dealing with his musicians.
If one of us made an error or played part of a piece
wrong he would not say a thing about it until everyone
thought it had been forgotten. When you came to work
the next day with a bad hangover from the night be
fore, he picked up the music you had failed with and

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SATCHMO

asked you to play it before the other members of the
band. And believe me, brother, it was no fun to be
shown up before all the other fellows if you did not
play that passage right; we used to call this experience
our Waterloo. This was Fate's way of making his men
rest properly so that they could work perfectly on the
job the next night. I learned something from that, and
to this day I still think it is good psychology.

When it was time for the steamer Sydney to leave
New Orleans Fate Marable treated me very diplomatic
ally. He knew I had never been out of the city in my
whole life except to such small Louisiana small towns
as Houma, West Wego, La Blaste (Ory's home town)
and several other similar places. He wanted me to come
with his band in the worst way. The older musicians,
who idolized "Little Louis," told Fate he would be
wasting his time even to try to get me to leave town.
But Fate had a way of his own. He could see that I was
very happy in his wonderful orchestra, playing the kind
of music I had never played before in my life and piling
up all the experiences I had dreamed of as an ambitious
kid. He made me a feature man in his orchestra. I
can still hear that fine applause I got from the cus
tomers.

What with David Jones giving me a helping hand
in reading and Fate's strictness as a leader I had no
desire by this time to leave the orchestra. Mind you,
I was only with them for a try-out, or what they call an
audition nowadays. Things were jumping so good for

[184]

My Life in New Orleans

me that the minute Fate popped the question to me
I said "yes" so fast that Fate could scarcely believe his
ears.

When the boat docked that night after the moon
light ride I made a beeline to tell Daisy all about it,
thinking she would be glad about my advancement.
Instead of that she gave me a disgusted look as though
she thought I was only leaving New Orleans to get rid
of her. My feathers fell something awful. While I con
tinued to talk about my good fortune she gave me a
sickly grin and one of those forced kisses on the cheek.

"Are you going away and leave me all alone?" she
asked.

"Well, Daisy darling/* I said, "this is my one big
chance to do the things I have been wanting to do all
my life. If I turn this offer down the way I have been
doing with others 111 be stuck here forever with
nothing happening."

Then I used that old line about "opportunity only
knocks once." With these words that chick's face
brightened right up.

"Honey, I understand."

Then she gave me a real big kiss. And everything
came out all right.

At the time I was too young to know all the ropes.
I found out when we reached Saint Louis that I could
have brought Daisy along.

Just before I left, Daisy and I went down on Canal
Street to shop with the money I had been given as an
advance on my salary. That was something that had

[185]

SATCHMO

never happened to me before. The only advance
money we musicians ever got in those days was the
deposits on the gigs we used to play. The only person
who got that money was the contractor for the job or
the leader of our little tail gate band. I never signed
contracts for any of those jobs. That was done by Joe
Lindsey, our drummer, who would keep all the de
posits. The rest of us did not know enough to pay
attention to what was going on. We were so glad to get
a chance to blow our horns that nothing else mattered.

The only times we knew that money had been
deposited in advance was when we had too many en
gagements in a night for us to be able to fill them all.
Then people would come and demand that Joe return
their money. Like fools we would back Joe up and
play the job another day. New Orleans was famous for
this sort of thing. From the big-shot band leaders such
as Buddy Bolden, Joe Oliver, Bunk Johnson, Freddie
Keppard and Emmanuel Perez, down to the kids of my
age money was handled in this way.

That is one of the reasons I never cared to become
a band leader; there was too much quarreling over
petty money matters. I just wanted to blow my horn
peacefully as I am doing now. I have always noticed
that the band leader not only had to satisfy the crowd
but that he also had to worry about the box office.

In addition to Fate, Joe Howard and myself, the
other members of Marable's band when I joined were
Baby Dodds, drums; George (Pops) Foster, bass; David
Jones, rrielophone; Johnny St. Cyr, banjo guitar; Boyd

[186]

My Life in New Orleans

Atkins, swing violin, and another man whose name 1
have forgotten. Any kid interested in music would
have appreciated playing with them, considering how
we had to struggle to pay for lessons. Most of the time
our parents could not pay fifty cents for a lesson.
Things were hard in New Orleans in those days and we
were lucky if we ate, let alone pay for lessons. In order
to carry on at all we had to have the love of music in
our bones.

The Streckfus Steam Boats were owned by four
brothers, Vern, Roy, Johnny and Joe. Captain Joe was
the oldest, and he was the big boss. There was no doubt
about that. All of the brothers were fine fellows and
they all treated me swell. At first I had the feeling that
everybody was afraid of the big chief, Captain Joe. I
had heard so much about how mean Captain Joe was
that I could hardly blow my horn the first time I played
on the steamer Sydney, but he soon put me at ease.
But he did insist that everyone attend strictly to his
business. When we heard he was coming on board
everybody including the musicians would pitch in and
make the boat spic and span. He loved our music; as
he stood behind us at the bandstand he would smile
and chuckle while he watched us swing, and he would
order special tunes from us. We almost overdid it,
trying to please him.

Captain Joe got the biggest boot out of Baby
Dodds, our drummer, who used to shimmy while he
beat the rim shots on his drum. Lots of times the whole
boat would stop to watch him. Even after I stopped

[187]

SATCHMO

working on his boat Captain Joe used to bring his wife
and family to hear me play my trumpet.

Captain Vern reminded me, smile and all, of my
favorite movie comedian, Stan Laurel. At our very first
meeting he gave me such a warm smile that I felt I had
known him all my life. That feeling lasted as long as I
was on that boat. Lots of people made a good living
working on the boats of the Streckfus Line.

My last week in New Orleans while we were get
ting ready to go up river to Saint Louis I met a fine
young white boy named Jack Teagarden. He came to
New Orleans from Houston, Texas, where he had
played in a band led by Peck Kelly. The first time I
heard Jack Teagarden on the trombone I had goose
pimples all over; in all my experience I had never heard
anything so fine. Jack met all the boys in my band. Of
course he met Captain Joe as well, for Captain Joe was
a great music lover and he wanted to meet every good
musician and have him play on one of his boats. Some
of the finest white bands anyone could ever want to hear
graced his bandstands, as well as the very best colored
musicians. I did not see Jack Teagarden for a number
of years after that first meeting, but I never ceased hear
ing about him and his horn and about the way he was
improving all the time. We have been musically
jammed buddies ever since we met.

Finally everything was set for me to leave my dear
home town and travel up and down the lazy Mississippi
River blowing my little old cornet from town to town.
Fate Marable's Band deserves credit for breaking down

[188]

My Life in New Orleans

a few barriers on the Mississippi barriers set up by
Jim Crow. We were the first colored band to play most
of the towns at which we stopped, particularly the
smaller ones. The ofays were not used to seeing col
ored boys blowing horns and making fine music for
them to dance by. At first we ran into some ugly expe
riences while we were- on the bandstand, and we had to
listen to plenty of nasty remarks. But most of us were
from the South anyway. We were used to that kind of
jive, and we would just keep on swinging as though
nothing had happened. Before the evening was over
they loved us. We couldn't turn for them singing our
praises and begging us to hurry back.

I will never forget the day I left New Orleans by
train for Saint Louis to join the steamer Saint Paul. It
was the first time in my life I had ever made a long trip
by railroad. I had no idea as to what I should take, and
my wife and mother did not either. For my lunch
Mayann went to Prat's Creole Restaurant and bought
me a great big fish sandwich and a bottle of green olives.
David Jones, the melophone player in the band, took
the same train with me. He was one of those erect guys
who thought he knew everything. He could see that I
was inexperienced, but he did not do anything to make
the trip pleasant for me. He was older than I, and he
had been traveling for years in road shows and circuses
while I was in short pants.

When we arrived at Galesburg, Illinois, to change
trains, my arms were full of all the junk I had brought
with me. In addition to my cornet I had a beat-up suit-

[189]

SATCHMO

case which looked as though it had been stored away
since Washington crossed the Delaware. In this grip
(that's what we called a suitcase in those days) Mayann
had packed all my clothes which I had kept at her house
because Daisy and I quarrelled so much. The suitcase
was so full there was not room for the big bottle of
olives. I had to carry the fish sandwich and olives in one
arm and the cornet and suitcase in the other. What a
trip that was!

The conductor came through the train hollering:
"All out for Galesburg." He followed this with a lot of
names which did not faze me a bit, but when he said,
"Change trains for Saint Louis," my ears pricked up like
a jackass.

When I grabbed all my things I was so excited that
I loosened the top of my olive bottle, but somehow I
managed to reach the platform with my arms full. The
station was crowded with people rushing in all direc
tions. David Jones had had orders to look out for me,
but he didn't. He was bored to tears. He acted as
though I was just another colored boy he did not even
know. That is the impression he tried to give people in
the station. All of a sudden a big train came around
the bend at what seemed to me a mile a minute. In the
rush to get seats somebody bumped into me and
knocked the olives out of my arm. The jar broke into
a hundred pieces and the olives rolled all over the plat
form. David Jones immediately walked away and did
not even turn around. I felt pretty bad about those
good olives, but when I finally got on the train I was

[190]

My Life in New Orleans

still holding my fish sandwich. Yes sir, I at least man
aged to keep that.

By this time I was getting kind of warm about
Br'er Jones, and I went right up to him and told him
off. I told him he put on too many airs and plenty more.
And I did not say a word to him all the way to Saint
Louis. There the laugh was on him. It was real cold
and he was wearing an overcoat and a straw hat. When
I heard the people roar with laughter as they saw David
Jones get off the train I just laid right down on the
ground and almost laughed myself to death. But his
embarrassment was far worse than mine had been, and
I finally began to feel sorry for him. He was a man of
great experience and he should have known better. He
could not get angry with me for laughing at him con
sidering how he had treated me. Later on we became
good friends, and that is when he started helping me out
reading music.

The first night I arrived I was amazed by Saint
Louis and its tall buildings. There was nothing like
that in my home town, and I could not imagine what
they were all for. I wanted to ask someone badly, but I
was afraid I would be kidded for being so dumb.
Finally, when we were going back to our hotel I got up
enough courage to question Fate Marable.

"What are all those tall buildings? Colleges?"

"Aw boy," Fate answered, "don't be so damn
dumb."

Then I realized I should have followed my first
hunch and kept my mouth shut.

U91]

J2

As THE DAYS ROLLED ON I commenced getting hep
to the jive. I learned a good deal about life and people
as I shot dice with the waiters, the deck hands, the mu
sicians and anybody else who gambled. Sometimes after
we left the bandstand we would gamble all night and
even up to the following night. Lots of times I would
win, but most of the time I lost. Those waiters were old
hustlers from 'way back, and so were the deck hands and
musicians. Like everybody else I hated to lose, but
since I was not used to having a whole lot of money
or even any money much of the time I did not take
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My Life in New Orleans

my losses so hard as some of the more experienced
fellows.

When we collected our pay I did not know what to
buy so I bought a lot of cheap jive at the five and ten
cents store to give to the kids in my neighborhood when
I got back to New Orleans. I did not have to worry
about Daisy and my mother because they both had good
jobs. My sister Beatrice was down in Florida with her
husband working on some kind of saw mill job, and I
did not have to send her anything either. So I ran from
one salary to another spending money like water. I was
the happiest kid musician in the world.

When I joined Fate's orchestra I weighed only one
hundred and forty pounds. One day after I had been
dissipating a lot I caught a cold. I asked David Jones
to recommend something to cure it.

"Just get a bottle of Scott's Emulsion, and take it
regularly until it is gone."

That is what I did, and within a week's time I had
gained a great deal. As a matter of fact, when I got back
to New Orleans I had to buy a pair of fat man's trousers.
From that time on I never got back to my old fighting
weight again. Of course, I got rid of that cold.

A funny thing happened on the steamer Saint Paul
during an all day excursion. The boat was packed and
jammed to the rafters and the band was swinging like
mad. Between Alton and Quincy a young white boy
made a bet with one of his buddies that he would jump
off. The boy jumped and the deck hands shouted: "Man

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overboard. Man overboard!" Everybody ran to the
side of the boat which suddenly began to list danger
ously. People did not quite realize what had happened
and they rushed hollering and screaming all over the
ship. It was a real panic. We musicians were on the
stand blowing our heads off when the captain rushed
up and shouted: "Keep playing. Keep playing." We
played Tiger Rag until we were blue in the face and
eventually most of the people quieted down.

The kid was a good swimmer, and he had almost
reached the other side of the river when the captain sent
a boat crew after him. He did not want to come back,
and he put up a good fight before the boat crew could
pull him in. Again the passengers rushed to the side to
watch the excitement and again the boat started to list.
"Keep on playing. Keep on playing/' the captain con
tinued to shout. Finally the kid was brought back and
locked up. The captain and some of the crew wanted to
take a poke at him, but they realized he was only a child
and had him arrested when the boat reached Saint
Louis.

There were often fights on board during those
trips, and almost everyone working on the ship would
try to stop them. But the members of the band never
did. We were colored, and we knew what that meant.
We were not allowed to mingle with the white guests
under any circumstances. We were there to play good
music for them, and that was all. However, everybody
loved us and our music and treated us royally. I and

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My Life in New Orleans

some of the other musicians in the band were from the
South and we understood, so we never had any hard
feelings. I have always loved my white folks, and they
have always proved that they loved me and my music.
I have never had anything to be depressed about in that
respect, only respect and appreciation. Many a time
white folks have invited me and my boys to the finest
meals at their homes, with the best liquor you would
want to smack your chops on liquor I could not afford
to buy.

I have been fortunate in working with musicians
who did not drink too much when they were working.
That can certainly cause a lot of trouble. I had my first
experience when I started working in big time early in
life. I had no idea how bad a guy can feel after a night
of lushing. I was seventeen years old when my comrades
carried me home to Mayann dead drunk. She was not
bored with me at all, even though I was sick. After she
had wrapped cold towels with ice in them around my
head she put me to bed. Then she gave me a good
physic and told the kids to go home.

"The physic will clean him out real good. After
he has put one of my meals under his belt in the morn
ing he'll be brand new."

Sure enough, that was just what happened.

My mother was always a quick thinker when she
had to help people who were seriously sick. She came
from a little town in Louisiana called Butte. Her par
ents had all been slaves, and she had been poor all her

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life. She had had to learn everything the hard way. My
father was a common laborer who never had anything
all his life. Mayann's parents could not afford doctors,
and when any of the kids was sick they would gather
herbs down by the railroad tracks. After these had been
boiled down, the children drank them or rubbed their
bodies with them. Believe me, the cure worked like
magic. The sick kid was well in a jiffy and ready to
start life over again.

I was so embarrassed to have Mayann see me drunk
that I apologized again and again.

"Son," she told me, "you have to live your own
life. Also you have to go out into this world all by your
lone self. You need all the experiences you can get.
Such as what's good and what's bad. I cannot tell you
these things, you've got to see them for yourself. There's
nobody in this world a better judge for what's good for
your life than you. I would not dare scold you for tak
ing a few nips. Your mother drinks all the liquor she
wants. And I get pretty tight sometimes. Only I know
how to carry my liquor to keep from getting sick."

Then she went on to explain to me what I should
do if I got the urge again. She would not make me
promise never to drink; I was too young to make such
a resolution.

"Son," she added, "you don't know yourself yet.
You don't know what you are going to want. I'll tell you
what. Suppose you and I make all the honky-tonks one

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My Life in New Orleans

night? Then I can show you how to really enjoy good
liquor."

"That would be fine, mama/' I said. "That would
be just grand, going out with my dear mother and hav
ing lots of fun together/'

I felt like a real man, escorting a lady out to the
swellest places in our neighborhood, the honky-tonks.
All that week at work I looked forward to my night off.
Then I could take Mayann out and she would show me
how to hold my liquor.

Finally the night came, and I was loaded with cash.
Those prosperous prostitutes who came to our joint
would give us lots of tips to play different tunes for
them and their "Johns." Sometimes the girls used to
make their tricks give us money on general principles.
The chicks liked to see their boys spend money since
they could not get it for themselves all at once. Besides
the chicks liked us personally.

On the night my mother and I went out cabareting
we went first to Savocas' honky-tonk at Saratoga and
Poydras Streets. This was the headquarters and also the
pay office for the men working on the banana boats
down at the levee. Lots of times I had stood in line
there after working on those boats. And many times I
went right in to the gambling table and lost my whole
pay. But I didn't care I wanted to be around the
older fellows, the good old hustlers, pimps and musi
cians. I liked their language somehow.

Savocas' was known as one of the toughest joints in

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the world, but I had been raised in the neighborhood
and its reputation did not bother me at all. Everybody
knew my mother and me. Mayann used to do washing
and ironing for the hustling gals and the hustlers, and
they paid well. On Saturday nights hustlers loved to
wear their jumpers and overalls to hustle in. The
jumper is like a blue coat; overalls were like what we
call dungarees. The hustlers thought this outfit brought
good luck to them and their whores.

When the girls were hustling they would wear real
short dresses and the very best of silk stockings to show
off their fine, big legs. They all liked me because I was
little and cute and I could play the kind of blues they
liked. Whenever the gals had done good business they
would come into the honky-tonk in the wee hours of the
morning and walk right up to the bandstand. As soon
as I saw them out of the corner of my eye I would tell
Boogus, my piano man, and Garbee, my drummer man,
to get set for a good tip. Then Boogus would go into
some good old blues and the gals would scream with
delight.

As soon as we got off the bandstand for a short in
termission the first gal I passed would say to me: "Come
here, you cute little son of a bitch, and sit on my knee."

Hmmmm! You can imagine the effect that had on
a youngster like me. I got awfully excited and hot un
der the collar. "I am too young," I said to myself, "to
even come near satisfying a hard woman like her. She
always has the best of everything. Why does she pick

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My Life in New Orleans

on me? She has the best pimps/' (I always felt inferior
to the pimps.)

I was always afraid of the hustling gals because of
my experience with the chick who pulled her bylow
knife on me and stabbed me in the shoulder. Still the
whores continued to chase me. Of course I must admit
I just couldn't resist letting some of the finer ones catch
up with me once in a while.

However, let's get back to the night Mayann and
I went out sporting 'em up. After we left Savocas' we
went to Spanol's tonk around the corner. As soon as
we entered everybody gave us a big hello.

"Where you been keeping yourself?" they all asked
Mayann. "You are a sight for sore eyes/'

Then they all shouted: "Mother and son are mak
ing the rounds tonight. We all ought to have good
luck/'

"Give me a twenty dollar card," one of the big-shot
gamblers hollored to the game keeper. "I feel very,
very lucky tonight/ 1

Mother and I did not have a chance to spend much
money that night. Everybody kept pouring whiskey
down into our stomachs. It was the first time they had
ever seen us together.

All the time Mayann kept explaining to me how
to hold my liquor. I took it all in and said "Yes,
mom's" to everything she told me. I was anxious to
learn everything I could. At my boss' joint Henry
Matranga asked us to have a drink on the house.

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"You have a fine boy," he told Mayann. "He is
well liked by everybody who comes to my place. We
all predict he will be a very fine musician some day.
His heart is in it."

Mayann poked out her chest with pride.

"Thank God for that/' she said. "I was never able
to give my son a decent education like he deserved.
I could see he had talent within him from a wee young
ster. But I could not do very much about it, except
just pray to the Lord to guide him and help him. And
the Lord has answered my prayers greatly. Am I proud
of my boy? God in heaven knows I am. And many
thanks to you, Mr. Matranga, for letting him work at
your place, knowing he did not have the experience he
needed. But you tolerated him just the same and the
Lord will bless you for it. I shall remember you every
night when I say my prayers. With all you people
pulling for Louis, the way you all are doing, he just
can't miss."

Just then Slippers, the bouncer, came into the bar
and yelled: "Hello, Mayann. What in the world are
you doing out on the stroll tonight?"

When she told him we were making the rounds he
thought it was the cutest thing he had seen in a long
time. Then he insisted that we have a drink with him.

By this time my mother and I were getting pretty
tight, and we had not visited even half of the joints.
But we were determined to make them all; that was our
agreement and we intended to stick to it. Besides we

I 2001

My Life in New Orleans

were both having a fine time meeting the people who
loved us and spoke our language. We knew we were
among our people. That was all that mattered. We
did not care about the outside world.

Slippers, who should have been in the back room
keeping an eye on the bad men, stayed on at the bar
with us. He just had to tell Mayann how good I was
on that quail.

"Mayann, that boy of yours should really go up
North and play with the good horn blowers/ 1

"Thanks, Slippers,'* Mayann said, downing an
other drink and stuttering slightly. "Thanks, Slippers.
You know . . . I'm proud of that boy. He's all I got.
He and his sister, Mama Lucy. Of course his no good
father has never done anything decent for those chil
dren. Only their stepfathers. Good thing they had
good stepfathers, or else I don't know what those two
children would have done."

Mayann downed another drink, and just as she
did somebody in the back room shouted:

"Slippers! Slippers. Come real quick. There's a
bad man from out of town who won't pay off his debts."

Slippers made one leap to the rear. In less than
no time he was running the guy to the door by the seat
of his pants. He gave him a punch on the chops, saying:
"Get the hell out of here, you black son of a bitch, and
don't come back again, ever."

That was that. Nobody dared to mess around with
Slippers. He was a good man with a pistol and he knew

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how to handle his dukes. He could fight fair and he
could fight dirty, whichever his victim preferred. But
he was as nice a fellow as God ever made. I loved him
just as though he had been my father. Whenever I was
around fellows like Slippers or Black Benny I felt
secure. Just to be in their company was like heaven to
me.

After the guy had been thrown out we finished
our drinks. 'At least we tried to finish them for they
were lined up like soldiers. We said good night to
Matranga and the crowd and were on our merry way
to Joe Segretta's at Liberty and Perdido, the street that
became so famous that Duke Ellington wrote a tune
about it.

Segretta served extract of Jamaica ginger for fifteen
cents a bottle. Everybody was buying this jive and add
ing it to half a glass of water, so Mayann and I joined in.
That drink gave you just what you would expect; it
knocked you flat on your tail. I could see that Mayann's
eyes were getting glassy but she still asked me: "Son,
are you all right?"

"Sure, mother. I'm having lots of fun."

"Whenever you get ready to go home just let me
know and we will cut out."

For some reason or other I was fresh as a daisy.
From the way I was holding up you would have sworn
I was immune to the lush. Mother and I had two of
those bottles of Jamaica ginger each, and by that time
it was getting real late. I could see that mother was

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My Life in New Orleans

getting soused, but I did not want to go home without
stopping at Henry Ponce's place across the street. He,
as you know, was the good-looking Frenchman of the
old Storyville days, and Joe Segretta's competitor. Joe
would have rather been bitten by a tiger than see
Henry Ponce walk the streets.

Henry Ponce thought a good deal of me and I ad
mired him too. I used to love to see those real beautiful
women of all colors who came to the Third Ward
especially to see him. Of course they did not like the
neighborhood he was in, after he had been run out of
Storyville, but they loved him. These women used to
tip us plenty to play the tunes they liked. There is no
doubt about it, Ponce was a mighty man. When you
are talking about real operators who really played it
cool, think of Henry Ponce.

The minute mother and I stepped into his joint he
spied me and ran out from behind the bar to greet me.
He did not know Mayann, so I introduced her.

"I am so very glad to meet you," Ponce said right
away. "You are the mother of a real good boy. He has
nice manners, he works with all his heart and he has
never given me an ounce of trouble. I am certainly glad
to meet you. Your boy is ambitious and he is anxious
to get somewhere. I watched him closely when he was
working for me from eight in the evening to four in
the morning. I knew that he used to work all day long
at the coal yard. I could not understand how he could

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keep it up. He is serious about his career, I want you
to understand that."

The bartender brought us a round of drinks and
we downed these too. Then the three pieces which had
replaced our band started jumping a tune and Mayann
and I danced. I noticed she was yawning, but I did not
say a word.

After the dance was over we went back to our table
to finish our drink. When we got up to go, Mayann
started over to say good night to Henry Ponce. She was
weaving a little and after she had taken a half dozen
steps 'she fell flat on her face. Not realizing I had had
as many as she, I went over to pick her up. As I leaned
over I fell right on top of her. Everybody in the place
broke out laughing. My mother had a good sense of
humor, drunk or sober, and she joined in with the
laughter. Everybody was in stitches, including me.

Stepfather Gabe was standing across the street at
Joe Segretta's corner. When he had gone home he had
found we were out and he was looking for us when
somebody told him to go over to Ponce's place. When
he saw what had happened he joined in the laughter
and picked us up. He straightened Mayann's hat and
hair as best he could, and led us to the door with a big
smile on his face for everybody. He stopped to shake
hands with Ponce and tell him what a swell gentleman
he was. He thanked him for giving me a chance to play
when an older musician would have given better serv
ice. Ponce told Gabe that an older musician did not

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My Life in New Orleans

have what this youngster had sincerity and a kind
of creative power which the world would eventually
recognize. Gabe did not understand all those big
words, but he thanked Ponce and went out supporting
both mother and me with his strong arms.

When we started going down the street toward
home, which was not over a block away, it was about
daybreak and there were only a few stragglers on the
street. We were weaving badly as we walked and we
pulled Mr. Gabe from one side of the sidewalk to the
other as we lurched. Any of the passers-by who saw
us must have thought Gabe was as drunk as Mayann
and me. However, he was very good natured about the
whole business.

"Son," Mayann said, "I am convinced that you
know how to hold your liquor. Judging by what hap
pened last night you can take care of yourself. I feel
that I have found out just what I wanted to know.
You can look out for yourself if anything happens to
me."

I felt very proud of myself.

I have told about this night with mother in con
nection with what I was saying about musicians who
do not get drunk while they are working. Now I want
to tell about a bad experience on the Saint Paul one
summer night in an Iowa town. We had been going
up and down the river for days giving one-nighters at
every town at which we stopped. We reached this place
in Iowa early in the day so we had a chance to go ashore

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and look around. This was unusual because we gen
erally pulled out after each moonlight excursion and
were sailing all day long.

On this particular day Baby Dodds ran into some
old pals who took him to a house where there was loads
of liquor. Baby forgot he had to work that night and
he drank a good deal too much. Everybody who knew
Baby knew that when he started drinking the best thing
to do was to clear out. That is, if you liked him too
much to want to hurt him.

That night he was not satisfied to reach the boat
late. When he got to the bandstand he reeled over to
the drums while the crowd of white folks watched. To
try to cover things up leader Fate Marable immediately
went into a number. We all of us blew like mad to try
to hide Dodd's blunders. We did the best to help our
boy out although he was dragging the tempo something
awful. The boys were all mad as hell but they tried to
make the best of a bad situation. Finally Baby got
insulted and started calling us a gang of black bastards.
This did not matter to us, but the customers heard it.
That was another matter.

Fate called intermission which we usually spent
on the power deck where you can watch the water as
the boat rolls along. Fate called Baby and tried to talk
to him. He thought it was far better for him to try to
calm Baby down than to have a white man butt in.
But he did not succeed. Baby began to get louder and
to swear more. This is where I came in. I was a very

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My Life in New Orleans

dear friend of Baby, and I had had a lot of success with
him in other scrimmages. I felt sure that as soon as
I asked him to come with me and talk it over he would
do so. Then I could at least protect him until the
night's work was over.

Baby had just said that he was going to bust some
one in the nose. I jumped in front of him.

"Look here, Baby, don't say that. You wouldn't
hit anybody."

"You're damn right I would," he said.

"You wouldn't hit me, would' j a?" I said expecting
him to say no.

Instead he said: "I'll hit you and I'll hit the boss."

Well sir, you could have bought me for a dime.
I just took my little self off and sat down in a corner
while Baby kept on raving and swearing like mad.
Suddenly Captain Johnny, one of the Streckfus brothers
and a huge brawny fellow, came over and asked Baby
nicely to stop swearing. All the women and children
aboard could hear him. To my surprise Baby told
Captain Johnny where to go and what to do. "God
help Baby!" I thought. Captain Johnny grabbed him
by the neck with his two powerful hands and began to
choke him until he was red in the face.

Baby had been bulldozing us plenty, but he was
as tame as a lamb now. It was a gruesome sight. Every
body stood around in a cold sweat, but nobody said
"Don't choke him any more" or ask for mercy. We
were too tense and too sore at Baby to say a word. Baby

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sank to his knees and Captain Johnny released him as
he passed out.

We had to go back to the bandstand and play
without Dodds. Then Fate went to Captain Johnny
and asked him to forgive the whole thing. Finally,
thank God, the night was over. It was the worst and
most painful drunken scene I had ever witnessed.
Nowadays, however, Baby and I can laugh about it
whenever we meet.

It was a useful experience for me to work on the
boat with all those big-shots in music. From some of
them I learned valuable methods of playing, from
others I learned to guard against acquiring certain
nasty traits. I was interested in their way of handling
money. David Jones, for instance, starved himself the
whole summer we worked on the Saint Paul He saved
every nickel and sent all his money to a farm down
South where employees and relatives were raising cot
ton for him and getting away with as much of his money
as they could, since he was not there to look after his
own interests. Every day he would eat an apple instead
of a good hot meal. What was the result? The boll
weevils ate all of his cotton before the season was over.
He did not even have a chance to go down and look his
farm over before a telegram came saying everything
had been shot to hell. After that David Jones used to
stand at the boat rail during every intermission looking
down at the water and thinking about all the jack he
had lost. I often said to Fate Marable:

[2081

My Life in New Orleans

"Fate, keep an eye on David Jones. He's liable to
jump in the water most any minute."

This incident taught me never to deprive my
stomach. As a kid I had never believed in "cutting
off my nose to spite my face," which is a true expression
if there ever was one. I'll probably never be rich, but
I will be a fat man. I never deprived myself of things
I thought absolutely necessary, and there are a lot of
things I never cared for, such as a flock of suits, for ex
ample. I have seen fellows with as many as twenty-five
or thirty suits at one time. And what good does that
do? The moths eat them up before they can get full
use out of them. I have just the number of suits I need,
including my uniforms. I have always believed in giv
ing a hand to the underdog whenever I could, and as a
rule I could. I will continue to do so as long as I live,
and I expect to live a long, long time. Way past the
hundred mark.

After the first trip to Saint Louis we went up
river to Davenport, Iowa, where all the Streckfus boats
put up for the winter. It was there that I met the
almighty Bix Beiderbecke, the great cornet genius.
Every musician in the world knew and admired Bix.
He made the greatest reputation possible for himself,
and we all respected him as though he had been a god.
Whenever we saw him our faces shone with joy and
happiness, but long periods would pass when we did
not see him at all.

At the end of the first season on the Saint Paul

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we played our last engagement at Saint Louis for a
moonlight excursion for colored people. The boat was
crowded to the rafters. After we were under way a
quarrel broke out and some bad men from uptown
pulled guns. Wow! I never in all my life saw so many
colored people running every which way. "This is go
ing to be worse than the scare we had when the lad
jumped overboard," I said to myself. Again the cap
tain gave orders to us to keep playing, and again I
started looking for an exit. It was real tough that night,
but the boat finally landed safely, and very few were
hurt.

After we were through playing we went uptown
to our hotels. On our way we could hear guys on every
corner bragging about the way they had raised hell on
the boat. "My goodness," I thought, "that may be their
idea of having fun, but it certainly isn't my idea of a
good time."

At the Grand Central Hotel in St. Louis I was a
very popular boy. Being the youngest fellow in Fate
Marable's band and single too, all the maids made a
lot of fuss over me. I thought I was hot stuff when the
gals argued over me, saying "I saw him first" and "He's
my man" and a lot of blah like that. I was too inter
ested in my music to pay any attention to that sort of
jive. To most of it anyway.

[210]

WHEN THE SEASON ENDED at Davenport, Iowa, Cap
tain Joe Streckfus gave each one of us his bonus, which
consisted of all the five dollars kept out of our pay each
week during the whole season. That was a nice taste'
of money, especially to a guy like me who was not used
to loot that came in big numbers. I was heavily loaded
with dough when I returned to New Orleans. The
Streckfus people had given us our fare back and money
to eat with on the trip. They were real swell people,
those Streckfus boys. Each year I worked for them I
felt more and more like a member of the family.

When I reached New Orleans I went straight away
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to Liberty and Perdido, the corner. where I used to
hang out before I was lucky enough to find the job
with Fate Marable. The first person I ran into was
Black Benny standing at the bar in Joe Segretta's
saloon with a few old-timers.

"Well I'll be damned," he said as I walked in, "if
it ain't old Dipper/'

He did not take his eyes off me as I walked up,
and he kept on loudtalking me.

"Come heah you little sonofabitch. You been up
North blowing dat horn o' your'n. I know you're
sticking/'

He meant he knew I had plenty of money. He
asked me to stand him to a drink, and who was I to
refuse the great Black Benny a drink? Nobody else
ever did. When the drinks came I noticed that every
body had ordered. I threw down a twenty dollar bill
to pay for the round which cost about six or seven
bucks. When the bartender counted out my change
Black Benny immediately reached for it saying, "I'll
take it." I smiled all over my face. What else could
I do? Benny wanted the money and that was that. Be
sides I was so fond of Benny it did not matter anyway.
I do believe, however, if he had not strong armed that
money out of me I would have given him lots more.
I had been thinking about it on the train coming home
from St, Louis. But since Benny did it the hard way
I gave the idea up. I sort of felt he should have treated
me like a man, and I did not like the way he cut under

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My Life in New Orleans

me. But I did not want to jump him up about it. That
would have been just like putting my big head in the
lion's mouth. So I disgustedly waited for an opening
to leave, and did.

When I got home Daisy was waiting for me with
a big pot of red beans and rice. She gave me a big kiss
which sure did taste good. Then I had to sit down and
tell her all about my trip how nice it was, how nice
everybody was to me and how everybody enjoyed my
music immensely. She was so happy to hear it all that
she swooned and carried on no end. All the time I was
thinking to myself: "Hmmm. If Daisy would only
always be as sweet to me as she is today. If only we
would never have another fight and try to tear down
the house we strived so hard to build, life would be oh
so sweet."

We were so glad to see each other that we kissed
and kissed and kissed some more. I had been away from
her for six months, and it was the first time I had been
so far away from home. Even when I was living with
mother I would not go that far away, even though I
received quite a few offers to go to different places to
play my trumpet. Of course in those early days we did
not know very much about trumpets. We all played
cornets. Only the big orchestras in the theaters had
trumpet players in their brass sections.

It is a funny thing, but at that time we all thought
you had to be a music conservatory man or some kind

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of a big muckity-muck to play the trumpet. For years
I would not even try to play the instrument.

After I had spent a few days at home with Daisy,
Mayann naturally insisted that I come to dinner with
her, my sister and Clarence. That dinner was a real
problem. Since she had raised all three of us, she knew
what big appetites we had. If she invited "the wrecking
crew," as she called us, she would have to put on the
big pot and the little one. She would have to go to
Rampart Street and figure out what she could get the
mostest of with the little money she had.

She went to Zatteran's grocery, and bought a
pound of red beans, a pound of rice, a big slice of fat
back and a big red onion. At Stahle's bakery she got
two loaves of stale bread for a nickel. She boiled this
jive down to a gravy, and 111 tell you that when we
came we could smell her pot almost a block away.
Mayann could really cook.

When Mama Lucy, Clarence and I sat down to the
table we needed a lot of elbow room so as not to get in
each other's way. After two encores I had to get up
from the table for fear I would hurt myself. Clarence
had one of the finest appetites I have ever seen in a
kid. When I was young I was content with bread and
butter or a slice of dry bread it did not matter much
so long as I was eating something. But Clarence was
different, and I used to have a lot of fun with him when
we sat down to table together.

"Well, son/' I said that day at Mayann's, "I am
going to eat more than you can."

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My Life in New Orleans

"It's O.K. by me, Pops."

From then on it was perpetual motion, with Clar
ence far out ahead. Mama Lucy was not doing so bad,
but in such fast company as Clarence and I she was
nowhere. My mother just stood by and watched us
with pride. She loved to see us eat a lot. That is why
she worked so hard in the white folks' yards, washing,
ironing and taking care of the white kids.

When I was not playing on the boat I used to take
odd jobs. In 1921, the last year I was on the boat, I
went to work at Tom Anderson's cabaret on Rampart
between Canal and Iberville. That was a swell job if
there ever was one. Only the richest race-horse men
came to Anderson's. They spent a lot of money, and
they gave us lots of tips to play tunes for them and
their chicks. They would order big meals and just
mince over them. Since I was a dear friend of all the
colored waiters they gave me a break. When they
would pass the bandstand on the way to the kitchen
with the dead soldiers, or leftovers, they would look
me in the eye and I would give them the well known
wink. During intermission I would head straight for
the kitchen and all the fine food that was waiting for
me. What meals those were! The best steaks, chickens,
chops, quail and many other high priced dishes. I felt
real important eating all those fine meals, meals I could
not have possibly paid for then, or even today.

The leader of our four piece combination at An
derson's was Paul Dominguez, a very fine Creole musi-

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cian. I think he stood toe to toe with the best of them
in those days. I will even go further and say that he
was a little more modern than the others. And we had
some very good musicians at the time. Among them
were A. J. Piron, Peter Bocage, John Robechaux, and
Emile Bigard, the uncle of Barney Bigard, our clarinet
man. There was also Jimmy Paalow, who left New
Orleans in 1915 when we were all in short pants with
Keppard's Creole Jazz Band. That was the first band
to leave New Orleans and make good. Of course there
were lots of other good fiddlers, but for me Paul
Dominguez was the best, and it was a pleasure to work
for him. He was a sympathetic and understanding
leader, and he was not a sore head like some of the
leaders I have worked under at various times.

At Tom Anderson's we had a big kitty in front of
the bandstand into which customers could drop "some
thing" every time they requested a tune. We made
more on tips than on our salary. Mr. Anderson was not
seen around the place much, but his manager, George
Delsa, was there every night. He reminded me of Cos-
tello of the team Abbott and Costello.

In Paul Dominguez' little four piece orchestra
Albert Frances played the drums, his wife Edna the
piano, and I the cornet. Later on Wilhelmina Bert
Wynn replaced Edna when she became pregnant. Both
of these girls were much better than a number of the
men I have heard through the years.

I might have made or lost a lot of dough if

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My Life in New Orleans

I had been interested in the horses. Several of the big-
shot jockey and race track betters used to try to stet
on the horses after I had played a request for them. But
I was too wrapped up in music to try my luck on the
race track. I would thank them very, very much and
forget the whole business in a good jam session.

Among the other cabarets in New Orleans while
I was working for Tom Anderson were The Cadillac,
The Pup and Butsy Fernandez' place. All were jump
ing good music. When Anderson closed down for re
pairs, Zutty Singleton, who worked at Butsy's with the
fine piano man Udell Wilson, hired me to play with
them. We were a red hot trio and musicians would
come in to our place every night after they had finished
work. Most of them would sit in with us.

I will never forget the night Baby Dodds dropped
in to see us after he had come off the road. We intro
duced him to our boss Butsy. Butsy, by the way, was
the sharpest dressed man in New Orleans. He was also
a great dancer. The night Rudolph Valentino was in
New Orleans during a tour of the United States Butsy
won the Rudolph Valentino prize for dancing. He was
so sharp that night that all the women made a charge
for him. I do believe Butsy was one of the nicest fel
lows alive. Except for Joe Glaser who was, and still is,
the nicest boss man I've ever worked for.

To return to Baby Dodds, he decided to sit in
with us that night and play on Zutty's drums. Zutty
had struggled hard to pay for those drums. When
Baby sat down to do his stuff he romped and played so

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loud and hard that before we realized it he had busted
a hole clean through one of the drums. I never saw
Zutty so mad in all my life. All Baby said was: "I'm
sorry."

By closing time Baby and Zutty were about to
come to blows. Much as I hate to interfere in fights,
I had to step between them. They were both my boys,
particularly Zutty, and I did not want anything to hap
pen to him. Not that he could not have taken care of
himself, but I just did not want those boys to fight.

After that night Zutty and Baby never felt the
same about each other. Zutty and all the rest of us felt
that Baby had acted badly. There was no reason why
a musician with his big reputation could not have
played the drums with a little more finesse.

Zutty and I stayed with Butsy until business be
gan to get bad. Then it was the usual thing: no biz,
no pay. We stood as many salary cuts as we could, and
then we cut out.

Things were rather slow all during the year 1921.
My last season on the excursion boats gave me a few
dollars to skate along on until something decent turned
up. What with playing parades, funerals and picnics
for white folks, I did pretty well financially.

Toward the end of 1921 I became a permanent,
full-fledged member of the Tuxedo Brass Band under
the leadership of the trumpet player Celestin. I really
felt that I was somebody. I also realized one of my
greatest ambitions: to play second cornet to the one
and only Joe Oliver, who had been named "King"

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My Life in New Orleans

Oliver after making such a wonderful reputation in
Chicago in 1918.

That Tuxedo Brass Band was really something,
both to see and to hear, and it is too bad that in those
days we did not have tape recorders and movie cameras
to record those boys in action. Still we could not have
bought those gadgets. We needed all the dough we
could get to eat with.

When I played with the Tuxedo Brass Band I
felt just as proud as though I had been hired by John
Philip Sousa or Arthur Pryor. It was a great thrill
when they passed out the brass band music on stiff
cards that could be read as you walked along. I took
great pains to play my pan right and not miss a note.
If I made a mistake I was brought down the whole day,
but Celestin quickly saw how interested I was in my
music. He appreciated that. When he thought some
thing in the music might stump me he would come
over to me and say:

"Son, are you all right? Can you manage that?"

That was a good deal of encouragement for a
young fellow without too much brass band experience,
I am still grateful to Papa Celestin as well as to all the
members of his band who were always very pleasant to
me.

The Tuxedo Brass Band had the same kind of
summer uniform as the Onward Brass Band: white
band caps with black trimmings, blue shirts, white
pants and tan shoes. Since the Onward Brass Band had

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broken up, we came into power. Fine as they were, the
other brass bands took their hats off to us.

The fact that I belonged to the best brass band in
town put me in touch with all the top musicians. One
of them was Picou, the finest clarinetist in New Orleans.
He adapted the piccolo part in High Society to the
clarinet, and whenever that piece is played the clarinet
ist uses Picou's solo. There were a number of other
masters on the clarinet such as Tio, Bechet, Sidney
Desvigne, Sam Dutrey, Wade Whaley and young Jim
Williams, Jr. Williams died young and the world really
lost a great musician. The same thing is true about
Rappolo, who also died young. Other clarinet greats
were Bill Humphrey, Johnny Dodds, Jimmy Noone
and Albert Nicholas. Barney Bigard came along later,
but he was equal to the best of them in my estimation.
Since I am talking about old-timers I must not fail to
mention Lawrence Dewey, who was a good man in his
day. He has retired to Lafayette, Louisiana, but he still
plays occasional odd jobs. He did a lot of work with the
one and only Bunk Johnson. Louis Warner and
Charlie McCurtis were also very good clarinet men.

No matter how long I live and no matter how
many other musicians I play with I won't meet any
better men than those I mention here. I had a chance
to really dig them. The older and the younger men
all put their souls into their work. The youngsters of
those days, like me, took their music far more seriously
than the present day ones. They were so superior to
the beginners now that no comparison is possible.

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My Life in New Orleans

Take for example George Backet who used to play a
little E-flat cornet in the Excelsior Brass Band. Backet
could be heard blocks away above the whole band.
When he played his soulful lead with the other cornets,
but an octave higher, he would actually bring tears
to your eyes.

There are many other good clarinet men I could
praise, but after all this time I cannot remember their
names. I was real young when I played with them, and
we did not bother much about correct names in those
days. We used such nicknames as Gate, Face and Giz
zard when we said hello or good-bye. As a rule we
would meet on a gig, or one night stand, and we would
play so well together that one would swear we had been
working in the same outfit for months.

In the same year of 1921 Daisy adopted a little girl
called Wila Mae Wilson. At this time we had moved
out to the white neighborhood at Saint Charles and
Clio Streets in the rear of the white folk's home where
Daisy worked. To get to our place we had to go through
a rear alley, and I was rather afraid when I came home
in the wee hours of the night that I might be taken for
a burglar. And as a matter of fact, that is what did
happen. I had finished working about four o'clock in
the morning. When I got off the streetcar to go
toward my alley I noticed an old white fellow coming
toward me about half a block away. He came closer to
me as I neared the alley. Something told me not to
enter. The fellow seemed suspicious of me so I waited
at the entrance to the alley. When he reached me and

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was about to pass by I spoke to him. He stopped.

"Listen here," I said, "you may think I am up to
something. But I want you to know that I live in this
alley. My wife works for some white folks and we're
staying on the premises. I thought I'd mention this
so's you won't start no stuff."

"I'm sure glad you told me," the old geezer said,
"because I am the watchman around here and I don't
recall ever seeing you. O.K., go ahead. I'll watch out
for you from now on."

He could have saved his breath. The minute I
got in the house I wakened Daisy and Wila Mae out
of a sound sleep, and told them we would have to move
away at daybreak. Then I told them what had hap
pened, and Daisy gave her notice in the morning. I
found, three rooms at Saratoga and Erato.

Cute little thirteen-year-old Wila Mae did not care
where we moved so long as we took her with us. Her
mother had brought Wila Mae and her sister Violet
from a small Louisiana town. Violet, who was four
teen, died very young. Wila Mae lived with Daisy even
after I went North to join King Oliver at the Lincoln
Gardens in Chicago in 1922. She became a very fine
young lady, and before we knew what had happened
she married a boy named Sibley and had a son she called
Archie.

The people in New Orleans knew me as Wila
Mae's godfather, and when her son grew old enough
to know what, it was all about he became as fond of me
as he was of his mother. Then I became his godfather

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My Life in New Orleans

too. He even took up the trumpet because of me and
changed his name to Archie Armstrong, a name that
will be his the rest of his life.

Daisy grew so fond of Wila Mae that I was sur
prised. Daisy never did take to anybody very much.
Lots of times she did not care very much even for me.
But she loved me and I loved her, and that was that.
I can go so far as to say that she was true to me all the
time we lived together. When I left for Chicago we
were spatting, and I was not responsible for anybody
she went with after that. Later I found out that she was
running around New Orleans with a childhood friend
of mine named Shots Madison. He also was a good
cornet player, so everybody said that Daisy only fell for
cornet players. After all, a cornet is not a bad instru
ment to fall for.

My sister Mama Lucy went back to the little saw
mill town in Florida where she lived with her old
man, her common law husband, for many years. They
ran a little gambling joint down there and made all
kinds of money. Many times I felt like asking them to
lay a little loot on me, but I never did. I have always
felt that no matter how much money your relatives
may be making they have not got any more than they
need. As the good book says, it is better to give than
to receive.' I would always delight in giving my family
as much money as I could, but I dreaded asking them
for anything. I was always the lucky one when it came
to making money. In my early music days, of course,
I did not make an awful lot, but at that I made a little

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more money than fellows who did not have any pro
fession at all.

In my neighborhood everybody was a little fright
ened when they heard Lucy was dealing cards and
running a game among bad characters. I told them
not to worry about her. Mama Lucy was not afraid of
bad men. She always kept her chib handy, and with
that wide long blade she would soon carve up anybody
who tried to get out of line.

There are two women with whom I always felt
perfectly safe when they had their chibs with them:
sister Mama Lucy and my wife Daisy. It is a funny
thing, but hot headed and quick tempered as Daisy
was, she never tried to carve me with her knife. Of
course several times we had a brick throwing contest,
but that was just part of the New Orleans tradition
which I had known since I was a kid. I knew well
enough how to keep from being hit. Daisy could give
Don Newcomb an awful race throwing a curve with a
brick. But for all that it did not stop my love for her
and for my cornet.

All the big, well known Social Aid and Pleasure
Clubs turned out for the last big parade I saw in New
Orleans. They all tried to outdo each other and they
certainly looked swell. Among the clubs represented
were The Bulls, The Hobgoblins, The Zulus, The
Tammanys, The Young Men Twenties (Zutty Single
ton's club), The Merry-Go-Rounds, The Deweys, The
Tulane Club, The Young Men Vidalias, The Money
Wasters, The Jolly Boys, The Turtles, The Original

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My Life in New Orleans

Swells, The San Jacintos, The Autocrats, The Fran*
Sa Mee Club, The Cooperatives, The Economys, The
Odd Fellows, The Masons, The Knights of Pythias
(my lodge), and The Diamond Swells from out in the
Irish Channel. The second liners were afraid to go into
the Irish Channel which was that part of the city located
uptown by the river front. It was a dangerous neigh
borhood. The Irish who lived out there were bad men,
and the colored boys were tough too. If you followed
a parade out there you might come home with your
head in your hand.

To watch those clubs parade was an irresistible
and absolutely unique experience. All the members
wore full dress uniforms and with those beautiful silk
ribbons streaming from their shoulders they were a
magnificent sight. At the head of the parade rode the
aides, in full dress suits and mounted on fine horses
with ribbons around their heads. The brass band
followed, shouting a hot swing march as everyone
jumped for joy. The members of the club marched
behind the band wearing white felt hats, white silk
shirts (the very best silk) and mohair trousers. I had
spent my life in New Orleans, but every time one of
those clubs paraded I would second-line them all day
long. By carrying the cornet for Joe Oliver or Bunk
Johnson I would get enough to eat to hold me until
the parade was over.

When a club paraded it would make several stops
called "punches" during the day at houses of the mem
bers, where there were sandwiches, cold beer and, of

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course, lots of whiskey. The whiskey did not interest
me at that time. All I wanted was to be allowed to hang
around with the fellows.

When all the clubs paraded it took nearly all day
to see them pass, but one never got tired watching.
Black Benny was always the star attraction. He was
the only man, musician or not, who dared to go any
where, whether it was the Irish Channel, Back o' Town,
the Creole section in the Seventh Ward or any other
tough place. Nobody would have the nerve to bother
him. He was just that tough and he was not afraid
of a living soul. Wherever he went outside of our ward
to beat the drums or to dance he was always treated with
the greatest respect.

By the year 1922 I had become so popular from
playing in Kid Ory's band and the Tuxedo Brass Band
that I too could go into any part of New Orleans with
out being bothered. Everybody loved me and just
wanted to hear me blow, even the tough characters
were no exception. The tougher they were the more
they would fall in love with my horn, just like those
good old hustlers during the honky-tonk days.

Joe Oliver had left New Orleans in 1918, and
was now up in Chicago doing real swell. He kept send
ing me letters and telegrams telling me to come up to
Chicago and play second cornet for him. That, I knew,
would be real heaven for me.

I had made up my mind that I would not leave
New Orleans unless the King sent for me. I would not
risk leaving for anyone else. I had seen too many of my

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My Life in New Orleans

little pals leave home and come back in bad shape.
Often their parents had to send them the money to
come back with. I had had such a wonderful three
years on the excursion boats on the Mississippi that I
did not dare cut out for some unknown character who
might leave me stranded or get me into other trouble.
Fate Marable and the Streckfus brothers had made it
impossible for me to risk spoiling everything by run
ning off on a wild goose chase.

After I had made all my arrangements I definitely
accepted Joe's offer. The day I was leaving for Chicago
I played at a funeral over in Algiers, on August 8, 1922.
The funeral was for the father of Eddie Vincent, a very
good trombone player. When the body was brought
out of the house to go to the cemetery the hymn we
played was Free as a Bird, and we played it so beauti
fully that we brought tears to everybody's eyes.

The boys in the Tuxedo Brass Band and Celestin's
band did their best to talk me out of going up to Chi
cago. They said that Joe Oliver was scabbing and that
he was on the musicians' union's unfair list. I told
them how fond I was of Joe and what confidence I had
in him. I did not care what he and his band were doing.
He had sent for me, and that was all that mattered. At
that time I did not know very much about union tactics
because we did not have a union in New Orleans, so
the stuff about the unfair list was all Greek to me.

When the funeral was over I rushed home, threw
my few glad rags together and hurried over to the

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Illinois Central Station to catch the sfcven p. m. train
for the Windy City. The whole band came to the
station to see me off and wish me luck. In a way they
were all glad to see me get a chance to go out in the
world and make good, but they did not care so much
about having me play second cornet to Joe Oliver.
They thought I was good enough to go on my own, but
I felt it was a great break for me even to sit beside a
man like Joe Oliver with all his prestige.

It seemed like all of New Orleans had gathered at
the train to give me a little luck. Even the old sisters
of my neighborhood who had practically raised me
when I was a youngster were there. When they kissed
me good-bye they had handkerchiefs at their eyes to
wipe away the tears.

When the train pulled in all the pullman porters
and waiters recognized me because they had seen me
playing on the tail gate wagons to advertise dances, or
"balls" as we used to call them. They all hollered at
me saying, "Where are you goin', Dipper?"

"You're a lucky black sommitch," one guy said,
"to be going up North to play with ol' Cocky."

This was a reference to the cataract on one of Joe's
eyes. The mean guys used to kid him about his bad
eye, and he would get fighting mad. But what was the
use? If he had messed around fighting with those guys
he would have ended up by losing his good eye.

When the conductor hollered all aboard I told
those waiters: "Yeah man, I'm going up to Chicago to
play with my idol, Papa Joel "

[228]

WHEN i GOT ON THE TRAIN I found an empty seat
next to a lady and her three children, and she was really
sticking. What I mean by "sticking" is that she had a
big basket of good old southern fried chicken which
she had fixed for the trip. She had enough to last her
and her kids not only to Chicago, but clear out to Cali
fornia if she wanted to go that far.

I hit the fish sandwich Mayann had prepared for
me, but at the same time I was trying my darnedest to
think of something to say that would make that lady
offer me some of that good and pretty fried chicken.
There was no place for colored people to eat on the
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trains in those days, especially down in Galilee (the
South). Colored persons going North crammed their
baskets full of everything but the kitchen stove.

Luckily the lady recognized me. She told me she
knew Mayann and that she was going to Chicago too.
We were both wondering about the big city, and we
soon became very good friends. I lived and ate like
a king during the whole trip.

Finally, when the conductor came through the
train hollering "Chicago next stop" at the top of his
voice, a funny feeling started running up and down my
spine. The first thing I thought was: "I wonder if
Papa Joe will be at the station waiting for me?" He
expected me to come on the early morning train, but I
had missed that because I had played at the funeral so
as to have a little extra change when I hit Chicago.

I was all eyes looking out of the window when the
train pulled into the station. Anybody watching me
closely could have easily seen that I was a country boy.
I certainly hoped Joe Oliver would be at the station.
I was not particular about anyone else being there. All
I wanted was to see Joe's face and everything would be
rosy.

When the conductor hollered "All out for Chi
cago. Last stop" it looked like everybody rose from
their seats at the same time. There was no sign of Joe
on the platform, and when I climbed the long flight of
stairs to the waiting room I still did not see any sign
of him.

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My Life in New Orleans

I had a million thoughts as I looked at all those
people waiting for taxi cabs. It was eleven-thirty at
night. All the colored people, including the lady with
the chicken, who had come up from New Orleans, were
getting into their cabs or relatives' cars. As they left
they said good-bye and wished me good luck on my stay
in Chicago. As I waved good-bye I thought to myself:
"Huh. I don't think I am going to like this old town."

Suddenly I found myself standing all alone. And
the longer I stood the more restless I got. I must have
stood there about half an hour when a policeman came
up to me. He had been watching me for a long time
and he could see that I was a stranger in town and that
I was looking worriedly for someone.

"Are you looking for someone?" he asked.

"Yes sir."

"Can I help you?"

' "I came in from New Orleans, Louisiana," I said.
"I am a cornet player, and I came up here to join Joe
Oliver's Jazz Band."

He gave me a very pleasant smile.

"Oh," he said. "You are the young man who's to
join King Oliver's band at the Lincoln Gardens."

"Yes sir," I said.

Then it struck me that he had just said King
Oliver. In New Orleans it was just plain Joe Oliver.

I was so anxious to see him that that name was
good enough for me. When I told the cop that King
Oliver was supposed to meet me here he said:

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"King Oliver was down here waiting for you to
arrive on an earlier train, but you did not show up.
He had to go to work, but he left word for us to look
out for you if you came in on this train."

Then he waved to a taxi and told the driver:
"Take this kid out to the place where King Oliver is
playing/' The driver put my bags into the cab and
away we went toward the South Side.

As I opened the door to go into the Lincoln Gar
dens I could hear Joe's band swinging out on one of
those good old Dixieland tunes. Believe me, I was
really thrilled by the way they were playing. It was
worth the price of my trip. But I was a little shaky
about going inside. For a moment I wondered if I
should. Then, too, I started wondering if I could hold
my own with such a fine band. But I went in anyway,
and the further in I got, the hotter the band got.

The Lincoln Gardens was located at Thirty-first
and Cottage Grove Avenues. It had a beautiful front
with a canopy that ran from the doorway to the street.
The lobby seemed to be a block long, so long that I
thought I was never going to reach the bandstand. The
place was jammed with people and Joe and the boys did
not see me until I was almost on the bandstand.

Then all hell seemed to break loose. All those
guys jumped up at the same time saying: "Here he is!
Here he is!" Joe Oliver took his left foot off the
cuspidor on which he usually kept it when he was

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playing his cornet. He had a private cuspidor because
he chewed tobacco all the time.

"Wait a minute, let me see him/* Joe said to the
boys, "Why I've not seen that little slow foot devil in
years." He always used to call me "slow foot" whenever
he visited me at the honky-tonk where I worked in
New Orleans.

Joe began by asking me all kind of questions about
what I had been doing since he and Jimmy Noone left
New Orleans in 1918. He was tickled to death that I
had gotten good enough to become a regular member
of the well known Tuxedo Brass Band and that I had
played on the boat.

"Gee, son, I'm really proud of you," Joe said.
"You've been in some fast company since I last saw
you."

The expression on his face proved that he was still
in a little wonderment as to whether I was good enough
to play with him and his boys. But he did not say so.
All he said was:

"Have a seat, son, we're going to do our show.
You might as well stick around and see what's happen
ing because you start work tomorrow night."

"Yes sir/' I said.

After the show was over Joe took me over to his
house which was just around the corner from the Lin
coln Gardens. Mrs. Stella Oliver, who had always been
fond of me, was as glad to see me as I was to see her.
With her was her daughter Ruby by another marriage.

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They were a happy family and I became one of them.

Mrs. Stella said that I must have a meal with them,
which was all right by me. The way Joe ate was right,
and there were no formalities and stuff. She fed us a
big dish of red beans and rice, a half loaf of bread and
a bucket of good ice cold lemonade.

It was getting late and Mrs. Stella told Joe it was
time to take me over to the room he had reserved for
me in a boarding house at 3412 South Wabash Avenue,
run by a friend of his named Filo. As we were going
there in the taxi cab Joe told me that I would have a
room and a private bath.

"Bath? Private bath? What's a private bath?" I
asked.

"Listen you little slow foot sommitch/' he said
looking at me kind of funny, "don't be so damn dumb."

He had forgotten that he must have asked the same
question when he first came up from New Orleans.
In the neighborhood where we lived we never heard
of such a thing as a bathtub, let alone a private bath.
After Joe finished giving me hell about the question,
I reminded him about the old days and how we used
to take baths in the clothes washtub in the back yard,
or else a foot tub. I can still remember when I used to
take a bath in one of those tin tubs. In order to get
real clean I would have to sit on the rim and wash
myself from my neck to my middle. After that I would
stand up and wash the rest of me. Papa Joe had to
laugh when I told him about that.

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Filo must have been waiting up for us because
she came to the door the minute we rang the bell. She
was a good-looking, middle-aged Creole gal. You could
see the kindness in her face at once, and as soon as she
spoke you felt relaxed.

"Is this my home boy?" she asked.

"Yep," Joe said, "this is old Dippermouth."

As soon as we came in Filo told me my room was
upstairs and I could hardly wait to go up and witness
that private bath of mine. However, I had to put that
off because Filo and we sat around and talked ourselves
silly about New Orleans as far back as any of us could
remember. Filo had left New Orleans almost ten years
before me, and she had come to Chicago even before
Joe Oliver.

The next morning Filo fixed breakfast for me, and
just like all Creole women she was a very good cook.
After breakfast I went up and took a good hot bath
in my private bathtub, and then I dressed to go out for
a little stroll and see what the town looked like.

I did not know where I was going and I did not
care much because everything looked so good. With
all due respect to my home town every street was much
nicer than the streets in New Orleans. In fact, there
was no comparison.

When I reached home Filo had the big table all
set up and waiting.

"Wash up," she said in her quiet voice, "and come

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and get these good victuals." Filo had about every good
Creole dish one could mention.

After the meal I went upstairs to shave, take a bath
and have a good nap. Since I was a kid the old masters
had taught me that plenty of sleep is essential for good
music. A musician cannot play his best when he is
tired and irritable.

When I woke up and was just about dressed Filo
came into my room.

"Although you have had a hearty dinner," she
said, "you have got a lot of blowing to do and you need
some more to hold you up."

I did not argue about that. Downstairs she gave
me a sandwich covered with pineapple and brown
sugar. Boy, was it good! When I finished that sand
wich I started out for the opening night at the Gardens.

I was wearing my old Roast Beef, which was what
I called my ragged tuxedo. Of course I had it pressed
and fixed up as good as possible so that no one would
notice how old it was unless they looked real close
and saw the patches here and there. Anyway I thought
I looked real sharp.

At eight-thirty on the dot a cab pulled up in front
of Filo's house. Filo had ordered it for she was as
excited as I was and she wanted everything to go right
for the night of my debut with the King. It is a funny
thing about the music fame and show business, no mat
ter how long you have been in the profession opening

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My Life in New Orleans

night always makes you feel as though little butterflies
were running around in your stomach.

Mrs. Major, the white lady who owned the Gar
dens, and Red Bud, the colored manager, were the first
people I ran into when I walked through the long
lobby. Then I ran into King Jones, a short fellow with
a loud voice you could hear over a block away when he
acted as master of ceremonies. (He acted as though he
was not a colored fellow, but his real bad English gave
him away.)

When I reached the bandstand there was King
Oliver and all his boys having a smoke before the first
set and waiting for me to show up. The place was fill
ing up with all the finest musicians from downtown
including Louis Panico, the ace white trumpeter, and
Isham Jones, who was the talk of the town in the same
band.

I was thrilled when I took my place with that
grand group of musicians: Johnny and Baby Dodds,
Honore Dutrey, Bill Johnson, Lil Hardin and the mas
ter himself. It was good to be playing with Baby Dodds
again; I was glad to learn he had stopped drinking ex
cessively and had settled down to his music. He was
still a wizard on the drums, and he certainly made me
blow my horn that night when I heard him beat those
sticks behind one of my hot choruses.

Johnny Dodds was a fine healthy boy and his varia
tions were mellow and perfect. His hobby was watch
ing the baseball scores, especially for the White Sox

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team. Johnny and I would buy the Daily News; he
would take out the baseball scores and give me the rest
of the paper.

Bill Johnson, the bass player, was the cat that in
terested me that first evening at the Gardens. He was
one of the original Creole Jazz Band boys and one of
the first to come North and make a musical hit. He
had the features and even the voice of a white boy
an ofay, or Southern, white boy at that. His sense of
humor was unlimited.

Dutrey had a wonderful sense of humor and a fine
disposition to boot. How well I remembered how I
used to follow him and Joe Oliver all day long during
the street parades when I was a boy in New Orleans.
When he was discharged from the Navy he went to
Chicago to live and he had joined Joe Oliver a few
weeks before I came to the city. He still played a beau
tiful horn, but he suffered badly from shortness of
breath. Whenever he had a hard solo to play he would
go to the back of the bandstand and spray his nose and
throat. After that the hep cats would have to look out,
for he would blow one whale of a trombone. How he
did it was beyond me.

For a woman Lil Hardin was really wonderful,
and she certainly surprised me that night with her
four beats to a bar. It was startling to find a woman
who had been valedictorian in her class at Fisk Uni
versity fall in line and play such good jazz. She had
gotten her training from Joe Oliver, Freddy Keppard,

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My Life in New Orleans

Sugar Johnny, Lawrence Dewey, Tany Johnson and
many other of the great pioneers from New Orleans.
If she had not run into those top-notchers she would
have probably married some big politician or maybe
played the classics for a living. Later I found that Lil
was doubling after hours at the Idleweise Gardens. I
wondered how she was ever able to get any sleep. I
knew those New Orleans cats could take it all right,
but it was a tough pull for a woman.

When we cracked down on the first note that night
at the Lincoln Gardens I knew that things would go
well for me. When Papa Joe began to blow that horn
of his it felt right like old times. The first number
went over so well that we had to take an encore. It
was then that Joe and I developed a little system for
the duet breaks. We did not have to write them down.
I was so wrapped up in him and lived so closely to his
music that I could follow his lead in a split second.
No one could understand how we did it, but it was
easy for us and we kept it up the whole evening.

I did not take a solo until the evening was almost
over. I did not try to go ahead of Papa Joe because I
felt that any glory that came to me must go to him.
He could blow enough horn for both of us. I was
playing second to his lead, and I never dreamed of try
ing to steal the show or any of that silly rot.

Every number on opening night was a gassuh. A
special hit was a piece called Eccentric in which Joe
took a lot of breaks. First he would take a four bar

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SATCHMO

break, then the band would play. Then he would take
another four bar break. Finally at the very last chorus
Joe and Bill Johnson would do a sort of musical act.
Joe would make his horn sound like a baby crying, and
Bill Johnson would make his horn sound as though it
was a nurse calming the baby in a high voice. While
Joe's horn was crying, Bill Johnson's horn would inter
rupt on that high note as though to say, "Don't cry,
little baby." Finally this musical horseplay broke up
in a wild squabble between nurse and child, and the
number would bring down the house with laughter
and applause.

After the floor show was over we went into some
dance tunes, and the crowd yelled, "Let the youngster
blowl" That meant me, Joe was wonderful and* he
gladly let me play my rendition of the blues. That waf
heaven.

Papa Joe was so elated that he played half an hour
over time. The boys from downtown stayed until the
last note was played and they came backstage and
talked to us while we packed our instruments. They
congratulated Joe on his music and for sending to New
Orleans to get me. I was so happy I did not know what
to do.

I had hit the big time. I was up North with the
greats. I was playing with my idol, the King, Joe
Oliver. My boyhood dream had come true at last.

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