A member of a congregation I once served no longer was able to attend services. From time to time I sat with her and visited with her in her 1 room accommodation in a long term continuing care facility. I had seen her though the aftermath woes of her early married life, and learned of her peculiarities. She encouraged me to tell her stories of my life, one of which follows this introduction. She told me I should make a list of such stories, which I did several years ago. There are some 230 of them. She is gone now. The stories linger.
Over the last two years of his life, Duke Ellington and I met up at various venues he was playing. Among them, the Meadow Brook Amphitheatre, a private club in Michigan, and the Shamrock Hilton in Texas. Few people knew how ill Duke was, or how close he was to the end of his life. I marveled at his ability to perform while keeping his commitments, honoring his contracts, respecting his audiences, and employing his orchestra.
Duke summoned me to sit near him during the Meadow Brook intermission. As Duke rested on the small bed backstage—belt undone and shirt untucked, to ease his pain—I wondered if he would be able to get up. On cue, he rose to the occasion, re-took the stage, and gave the audience full measure. I was surprised when Tony Watkins sang In The Beginning God, and dedicated it to me. I think that was Duke’s way of saying I was ok with him.
On another occasion Duke spotted me in the audience at a private club. Duke motioned for me to come down and sit with him on the bench at his piano. Duke knew my maternal grandfather had been a concert pianist and composer. I whispered to him that I barely knew two pieces: Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater, and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. I was not competent to play Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater, so I played Twinkle Twinkle Little Star with one hand. Duke turned it into something—as if we had rehearsed it.
There was a beverage in a glass on the piano, within reach of Duke’s left hand. Before returning to my seat, I asked Duke if he drank alcohol. Without missing a beat, Duke said, “No, I retired undefeated.” Another time I asked Duke how he sustained such a pace. He was doing 200 dates a year. He told me he stayed in good hotels, slept in, and ordered the best steak and a bowl of chili that he poured over the steak. Duke said it was his main meal and it could be his last, so he ate what he liked. He drank hot water, not coffee.
Duke told me about his early days and promotions that had elevated the careers of The Duke and The Count. I count myself lucky to have had a late dinner with Count Basie and his band several years before I knew Duke. Duke wrote most days, knowing that his audiences wanted to hear what had become his old standards. Duke figured it would be 30 years before anyone would listen to the music that occupied his prolific mind. He was writing every day.
A fond memory of Duke Ellington has to do with his kindness to my eldest sister. Upon my arrival in Texas, I asked her what she wanted to do to celebrate her wedding anniversary. She told me she had tried to get tickets for the Ellington concert and dinner at the Shamrock Hilton. They had been sold out for months. When I said let’s go, she did not know that I knew Duke and his son Mercer. Mercer saw me in the hotel lobby while I was talking with the general manager, who stood at attention as Mercer approached us.
The general manager explained to Mercer that he could not accommodate the birthday wish of my sister, then asked, “Do you understand?” to which Mercer replied, “What are you doing for entertainment tonight? Do you understand?” Without another word, a table was prepared for us in front of the others. As dessert was served a spotlight was focused on my sister. Duke beckoned her to the dance floor with her husband while Paul Gonsalvas played an extended solo of Satin Doll.
That evening was a joy for everyone, with the exception of Paul Gonsalvas. Paul had some sobering up to do and Duke was going to teach him a lesson. Each time Paul’s tenor sax was winding down, Duke spurred Paul on with shouts of praise for “The great Paul Gonsalvas.” My affection and respect for Duke Ellington is for the man as much as his music. Duke was not a disciplinarian, but he had his ways.
My memories include Mercer and I sharing a bottle of Cognac in a paper bag. I preferred Courvoisier VSOP. Mercer had a taste for Hennessy. One time we sat on the ground while Money Johnson, Cootie Williams, Paul Gonsalvas, and others passed a reefer behind a stage door. They had been with Duke Ellington since his Cotton Club days, and when Mercer was young.
Mercer and I met for lunch in a Chicago steak house a week after the funeral for his father. When Mercer greeted me he said, “Pop left me 12 million dollars. I didn’t know he even liked me.” I have learned that my friends are where I find them. I connected with Duke and Mercer at Meadow Brook when they performed for 30,000 fans, at a private club for a few hundred, and at an elegant affair for high paying guests, thankful that Mercer treated.
Mercer had a mind for math and music. He beat the odds, winning at Keno in Las Vegas. Mercer scored his own compositions, including Reflections Indeed. Throughout the course of my life and ministry—along the arc of seemingly random disjointed encounters—all sorts of memories occupy my mind. Duke, Mercer, and Julie—the woman who asked to hear my stories—are long since gone. Remembering them has led to a time of my own reflections. Indeed.
