Open Books press, 2023, 236 pp.
1979–1981
Now, I’m not saying I didn’t learn plenty during my time as a music major at DePaul University.
Music historian Dr. Brown taught me I should never again register for a lecture class scheduled for nine a.m. His was a snooze fest, except for the presence of my friend Mona, a talented, knock-down gorgeous flutist. We sat close together in the back row, which somehow gave Dr. Brown the impression that we were lovers. We weren’t, but I let him continue to think we were because it seemed to drive him insane with jealousy. He was at least twice our age, bald, frumpy, and married, so I don’t know what the hell he was thinking. And, it’s possible that Mona and I flirted a teensy bit.
I also discovered that classical music history was not my bag, especially first thing in the morning after working until 1 a.m. the previous night. Mona and I made a pact to take notes for one another on the days one of us didn’t make it to class, a common occurrence.
On the other hand, Ray Wilding-White’s Musicianship 101 classes were oddly entertaining. He was the quintessential absent-minded professor, who dressed like a hobo and chewed his tongue incessantly. Wilding-White sometimes said wildly inappropriate things to a classroom full of eighteen-year-old music nerds. I recall a moment when, apropos of nothing, he used the phrase “twenty minutes of fellatio,” inciting several moments of uncomfortable chair shuffling and furtive eye rolling.
Wilding-White also had a formidable intellect and an illustrious history in academia and media. He had earned degrees from Juilliard, the New England Conservatory, and Boston University. He had worked on air at radio stations WGBH (where he was awarded a Peabody) and WFMT. He penned numerous compositions, many influenced by Charles Ives and John Cage. Wilding-White was a pioneer of electronic music and an avid art photographer.
He was also a mess of a man who, for reasons known only to himself, wanted to be my pal. I was a few years older than most of the other students and already a working professional musician, so perhaps that gave him the mistaken impression that we were somehow peers. We’d occasionally meet for lunch at a local joint with a Tolkien-inspired menu. (Bilbo Burger, anyone?) During one of those lunch dates, Wilding-White bellyached to me about his problems with women.
“My wife told me she’s leaving me,” he said.
“Geez, Ray, that’s terrible.”
“Yeah, and my girlfriend broke up with me too.”
“Uh …”
“Yeah, I lost ’em both on the same day.”
It pains me to admit that I did little to discourage this inappropriate familiarity. I called Wilding-White “Ray” in class, as if we were buddies instead of professor and undergraduate. I made “casual” references to gigs I was doing or venues I’d played, which had to be annoying to some of my classmates. In short, I acted like a pompous ass. I wish I could have a do-over on this episode of my life.
In contrast to Brown and Wilding-White, I loved Kurt Westerberg’s ear-training sequence, without reservation. Westerberg was a genuinely decent guy, younger and hipper than most of the faculty. Sometimes he would play three notes on the piano for each student, who then had to identify the two musical intervals (or distances) between the notes. One day, when it was my turn, he played an ascending minor third followed by an ascending perfect fifth. These happen to be the first three notes of the Carpenters’ classic “Close to You,” corresponding to the lyrics “Why do birds …” Instead of providing the answer, I sang the notes to the rest of the line. It brought the house down.
Thank you very much, I’ll be here all semester.
What I am saying is that my real education during my DePaul years occurred on Monday nights at a jazz club called Orphans, up the street from DePaul, under the guiding influence of saxophonist Joe Daley.
The front section of Orphans was a nondescript bar. The back room had a stage, a mostly operational grand piano, stage lights, a sound system, the whole shebang. I hung out back there many nights, performing or listening. Orphans is where I met two of my favorite women, each of whom became my girlfriend for a minute—though not simultaneously. It’s also where I heard and met some remarkable musicians during my earliest days in Chicago.
Jazz musicians comprise a notably peculiar subculture. Quirkiness is one of the most valued personality traits; the more eccentric you are, it seems, the more you’re likely to be thought cool. No one I knew embodied this kind of idiosyncrasy better than Joe.
Daley was a stone bebopper in the 1950s. Though his playing had evolved since then, he still spoke in what I call “terse hipsterese,” a patois from that period in which “hey” could be an entire conversation. He’s the only guy I ever heard use the 1940s-era term “geeters” to mean money, as in “Lemme go get the geeters from that shyster club owner.”
Joe was one of the few players of his era in Chicago who embraced some of the musical innovations of John Coltrane and Ornette Coleman. He had remarkable technical command of the tenor saxophone and became one of the most sought-after teachers in the Midwest by the time he was in his forties.
When I met him, Joe was sixtyish, still baby-faced and handsome, with an enviable head of jet-black hair. He eschewed wearing a tuxedo on formal gigs.
“They bug me,” he’d say with a grimace.
Joe was famous for being brusque. Former sax students tell horror stories of getting sent home early from lessons, after paying the full fee, of course, if they hadn’t practiced to his satisfaction.
“Come back when you can play it,” he’d growl.
One night, a drummer Joe felt wasn’t up to snuff was sitting in. Daley stopped the band in the middle of the tune and banished the guy from the bandstand with a curt “Not makin’ it, babe.”
Around 1980, I heard through the jazz grapevine that Kelly Sill, one of Chicago’s premier bassists, was leaving Joe’s group. Whoever inherited that job would have huge shoes to fill. John Campbell, a legendary pianist who was in Joe’s band at the time, called to ask me if I’d consider taking over the bass stool. Why, yes. Yes, I would.
Having heard the stories of Joe’s bluntness, however, I was jittery the night I sat in with the band for my “audition.” John had advised me to “play your ass off like you always do,” which was supportive but did little to diminish my fears. I’d listened to the band many times before that night, so I was familiar with Joe’s repertoire.
When he called Benny Golson’s complex tune “Stablemates” for our first number together, I was ready. During my solo chorus, after he and John had already taken their swings at the chord changes, Joe indicated with a brief smile and a subtle nod that I was in.
Joe was always teaching, even when he wasn’t. The values he communicated included virtuosic mastery of one’s instrument, relying on one’s ears, having equal fluency in all twelve keys, being as expressive as possible, and playing with a good time feel (i.e., swinging). When he liked what you were doing, he’d let you know with a word or two at most. I gathered from my saxophone-playing friends who’d studied with Joe that he was more forthcoming with criticism when he thought they were doggin’ it.
Once, I executed some tricky phrase during a solo, to which Joe immediately responded, “Chops!” Another time, in the midst of one of our weekly excursions into group improvisation, something I played elicited an appreciative “Ears!”
Joe may have been parsimonious with praise, but his exemplary playing and high artistic standards, evident even when we were performing just for Claudia, the cocktail waitress, motivated me to work hard and stay focused on my musical goals—really for the first time.
Playing with Joe and the musicians he invited to the bandstand was a privilege. In addition to John Campbell and drummer Joel Spencer, I had the good fortune to perform with some of the most inspiring musicians I’ve ever heard, including drummers Rusty Jones and Paul Wertico as well as pianists Bobby Schiff and Larry Luchowski. Joe’s gigs reinforced the principle that your level of ability rises when you’re surrounded by more accomplished musicians. There’s something supernaturally satisfying about connecting musically with simpatico musicians. Some nights I believe I played better with Joe’s band than I ever did throughout the remainder of my career.
After about a year of Mondays at Orphans, I became romantically entangled with one of the aforementioned women. She was a talented bass player who was attending the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. I’d often drive the two and a half hours downstate to hang out with her after my Saturday-night gig.
Sometimes it was difficult to tear myself away early enough on Monday to make Joe’s gig. On several occasions I sent a sub to Orphans. When that happened too often, Joe replaced me with another bassist who was willing to show up consistently. I was angry about this at the time, but I now know he was right. I chose pleasure over my commitment to his band—a forgivable sin, perhaps, but one I regret. Part of me thought I’d learned all I was going to learn from Joe by then, which was both cavalier and untrue. I’d like a do-over on that one too, please.
I learned some useful stuff at DePaul. And they gave me that piece of paper showing I’d done all the schoolwork needed to earn a bachelor’s degree. But the Daley School of Jazz was where I launched into the real world of the music that mattered most to me.
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Bill Harrison is a writer and psychotherapist in Chicago. He was a professional bassist for four decades, performing with jazz luminaries Clark Terry, James Moody, Bunky Green, Max Roach, Woody Herman’s Thundering Herd, Dizzy Gillespie, and many others. His theatrical credits include Wicked, The Lion King, Always Patsy Cline, The Visit, Bounce, Turn of the Century, and Billy Elliott. Bill’s memoir, Making the Low Notes: A Life in Music, is published by Open Books Press. His work can be read in After Hours, Allium, Counseling Today, The Intermezzo, PerformInk, Sledgehammer, Under the Gum Tree and elsewhere.
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